Column

Jesus Christ Do I Miss Sports

Now more than ever, I need athletes to go places and do cool things so that I might live vicariously through them

A practice field at the Los Angeles Dodgers and Chicago White Sox spring training facility, Camelback Ranch in Glendale, Arizona, on April 7, 2020. Photo: Christian Petersen/Getty Images

There are still no sports on. I’m aware that we’re merely at the beginning of an extended sports blackout and that the lack of televised sports right now is piddly shit compared to five figure body counts, millions of lost jobs, and watching the economy burn to a crisp in real time.

But, holy fuck, if sports don’t come back soon I will take a header off the American Legion Bridge. The NCAA tourney final was supposed to be April 6. Obviously I’m relieved that I don’t have to see Duke win anything for any reason, but the first weekend of the tourney is the best weekend in sports every year and also doubles as an unofficial welcome to spring. I didn’t get any of that. Is it spring yet? No one is drinking beer on a bar rooftop—I can’t fucking tell!

The Masters was supposed to start tomorrow, with Tiger Woods defending his title after staging one of the greatest existential comebacks in sports history a year ago. But Augusta National — whose leaders would normally rather watch their own grandchildren die in front of them than alter any of their hallowed traditions — postponed the tournament. Of all the sports that could potentially stage live events without crowds or physical contact, golf would probably have the easiest go of it. Shit, avoiding other people is why men golf to begin with. But the Masters decided to exercise a shocking (for them) bit of caution and put everything on hold.

They are not alone. The NBA and NHL are also on hold. And, really, these postponements are mere prelude to cancellation. The commissioners of those leagues, who met with Donald Trump over the weekend for an excursion through the reality-averse mind of our current president, almost certainly know their seasons are lost. They simply aren’t prepared to announce it.

And I’m not ready for them to. I’m fucking dying here. When I sit in my chair after a hard day’s blogging, I still flip right to ESPN, expecting to see either some basketball or at least Stephen A. Smith explaining why the Knicks belong in hell. I still have all my dad reflexes intact in that way. Instead, I see…