Happy Independence Day weekend!
Sorry, did I say happy? I meant unhappy, of course.
Think of me as a rain-soaked parade, a fizzled sparkler and a one-man revolution against the unfettered enjoyment of sports.
In honor of the holiday, I give you a list of all the things from which I only wish it were possible to declare independence.
Caitlin Clark haters: It’s OK to admit she’s a great player and that the WNBA is lucky to have her. It won’t detract from anybody else, nor will you spontaneously combust. Get a grip.
Caitlin Clark apologists: It’s OK to admit she isn’t perfect and that the WNBA has other players who are just as good, if not better. The world isn’t out to get her, nor does she benefit from your mean-spirited cheerleading. Have a Maid-Rite sandwich or a Hoosier Pie and chill the heck out.
“G.O.A.T.” calls: Nothing says “I have the vocabulary of a 12-year-old and the critical-thinking skills of a fire hydrant” quite like yet another superficial, stultifying argument about who’s the greatest of all time. Besides, we all know it’s Luc Longley.
Statheads: Tell you what, analytics nerds, if I ever want to know what xwOBA is, I’ll yank my underwear up and give myself an atomic wedgie.
Beer snakes: You see empty-cup monsters slithering throughout the Wrigley Field bleachers. I see untold thousands in concession sales that won’t be poured into improving the Cubs’ bullpen.
Fake news: Just because your old high school teammate Earl shared an inflammatory sports headline on Facebook from a source you’d never heard of until three seconds ago, it doesn’t mean the story is true. On the other hand, maybe Caleb Williams really is considering skipping the last two weeks of training camp to film “Love Is Blind, Season 847.”
“Hit pieces”: Believe it or not, online babies, not all stories or columns that you disagree with are direct attacks on your favorite player, your favorite team and your way of life. Most of them, sure, but not all.
Soccer dives: By the 1,500th one you’ve seen in three weeks of World Cup action, a nice, old-fashioned broken leg doesn’t sound half bad.
Serial transferers: When is enough enough, three schools? Four? Once college athletes’ academic transcripts start to look more like passports, all charm is utterly lost.
“Woah”: For the love of God, it’s “whoa.”
6-7: If you’re beyond middle school and still doing this nonsensical arm gesture, just know they’re laughing at you, not with you.
Fights in the stands: Yo, bro, if you’re so starved for connection that you’re willing to bash a stranger in the face simply to be part of a potential viral moment, now you know why so few of your fellow adults ever seem to take you seriously.
Gambling-sponsored studio-show segments: It’s bad enough that sports teams and leagues have sold their souls, but do we really have to watch the TV bobbleheads pretend to have opinions on whether or not Joe Rando is going to hit a double tonight?
Streaming NFL games: Look, if we’re going to have to keep finding our way to Amazon Prime, the least there could be when we get there is a movie about a giant anaconda hunting and eating Aaron Rodgers.
Encore broadcasts on Marquee, CHSN: I resent the implication that I’m smart enough to figure out within half an hour that the game I’m watching isn’t happening live.
“Let’s go!”: That also goes for its black-sheep cousin, “Let’s [bleeping] go!” Who’s going to be the first athlete in at least 10 years to yell something other than those words after making a big play?
Student-section oppression: Because colleges weren’t already greedy enough, now they’re jamming students into tighter spaces at games so they can add more suites for fat cats and jack up ticket prices everywhere else. Saturdays in the fall ain’t what they used to be.
The Big 250: No, not years since the Declaration of Independence was adopted. Rather, homers whalloped by Kyle Schwarber since the Cubs non-tendered him amid (ahem) “biblical” pandemic losses. God bless America, that one still stings.
“Your a hack, Greenberg”: I don’t mind you ripping me, but would it kill you to at least spell the easy words right?
Know-it-all columnists: Believe me when I tell you, they are the worst.