Letter to the Sports Editor
From the ghost of Hunter S Thompson
From the ghost of Hunter S Thompson
Please rush to the editor.
Baseball’s back Jack! How do you like them apples?
America’s past time has returned at exactly the time we all desperately needed it to, and why not? The US President was going to sum up, in his own words, just a singular word that sums up what it means to be an American last night, before he wandered off into a story about a hiking trip he once had, but can now “not confirm”, with Chinese President Xi Jinping in the foothills of the Himalayas. I mean, come on, you can’t write stuff this funny. I don’t know about you Jack, but these people scare the piss out of me. The guy traipsing through the fog of an addled mind has his finger on the nuclear trigger and he’s in league with the crazies who can’t seem to fathom, after thousands years of evolution apparently, how to define a woman. Baseball’s back my friend, but I have far too much existential angst with which to wrestle with before I can go a ball game. Keep an eye on the Dodgers for me, and take care of them until I return with my brand new catcher’s mitt and rally flag.
Let’s Go Dodgers!
Here in the UK we have our own political shenanigans and chicanery as usual, with the past 48 hours alone seeing the unravelling of a Chancellor of the Exchequer and a tub thumping Prime Minister banging the drums for a bloody war he’ll never see as he continues to wage a psychological war closer to home. Both these highly privileged men are in untenable positions, but retain them they shall. Remember when “dodgy dossiers” and incriminating laptops, bags of cash and insider trading, authoritarian diktats and coerced medical procedures were the domain of far away lands we all used to laugh at and call “Banana Republics”? Do you remember those days Jack?
Heady days indeed my friend.
It’s “The Masters” in Augusta and for one round of golf the Tiger may not have roared exactly, but it was rather lovely to see that majestic swing of his again. Sadly yesterday there were grimaces and snags of injuries of yore as well as the signs of being a gentleman of his 46 years. His godlike genius will always have a special place in my heart and I’ll be roaring like his namesake should he pull off a miracle this weekend, but Scottie Scheffler is the man in form and the man with the green jacket come Sunday night. Saturday is “moving day” in golfing parlance and I foresee Mr Scheffler moving further away from the field but here’s hoping for a roar from a Tiger around Amen Corner tomorrow night.
Football is my bread and circus and in truth, it always will be. I continue to look upon those lucky enough to have tickets to watch the “PlayStation Football” dished up by my Liverpool Reds or the Manchester City Blues with green eyed jealousy, but today the Blues of Everton defeated the Reds of Manchester United in a game only their Mother’s could love. Liverpool’s two historic rivals chased a bag of wind around like virginal, nervous lovers in a game that gives a new definition to the word “dreadful” and obviously I laughed and giggled at their respective plights. Football is back alright, and seemingly on every day of the week, three times in the afternoon and five times on a Sunday night from now until the Sun crashes through the earth’s upper atmosphere.
It’s a race to the finish Jack, and in every possible sense. You could argue it’s a race to the bottom too, but that would be unfair on Everton and far too politically pointed for a sports article such as this.
We’re winning Jack. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.
Selah.