|This is not me. This is Dave Winfield, |
who I did a book report on in 4th grade. I think I got a C.
Evster's note: This post was deemed TOO HOT for CSNPhilly, so I'm posting it here instead.
You know that girl in your English class with the enormous yogg yoggs?
Of course you know her. In first grade, she barfed all over her desk and tried to scoop it up with her shoe. Still, to this day, you call her Pukeahontas. Well, be nice to poor Jenny, because in three years, she’s going to be DOWN FOR WHATEVA.
Get your thrills in now, Evster, because victories in the future will be few and far between. In 1990, you will get your first taste of heartbreak when Eagles’ owner Norman Braman fires the greatest coach in Philadelphia sports history (for winning). Two years later, another punk-ass billionaire will trade away Charles Barkley—for a white guy, a bag of Fritos and this clod:
These moves will change the way you look at sports forever, Evster, introducing you to the notion that no matter how much you love Philly teams, or how many caricature tees you own, it’s the owners, and the owners only, who are in control. They will buy and sell your heroes like cattle. They will charge $12 for nachos. They will promote Rich Kotite, draft Shawn Bradley and omg wait til you see Shawn Bradley he’s like a total human suck machine.
Cherish the Gang Green defense and the Thump and Bump Sixers, because once they’re gone, sports will go limp. No longer a place where third-string linebackers are paid to injure kickers. Or heckling fans are thrown through plate glass windows. You’re entering an era that prohibits taunting (seriously!) and protects quarterbacks (ugh). In hockey, you’re not even allowed to blast a guy in the brain anymore. Sad!
In 1993, your sadness will reach a whole new level as Joe Carter will crush your soul with a bat. At first, you will blame Mitch Williams (and you should), but years later, after you’ve matured and gained perspective, married and settled down, you’ll realize that he’s just a flawed human being like anyone else, and you will forgive him. Don't. The guy is a dorf. So is Curt Schilling. And even though Darren Daulton has hair like a horse, he’s a LOON. Even Nails, good ole adorable Nails, cuckoo! cuckoo! These men are not heroes. They are simply men. Although the jury’s still out on Mickey Morandini.
Later that year, you’ll meet a tall, string bean of a kid in Lower Merion High School’s gym. You and the string bean will go on to become good friends, and you’ll hook up for alley-oops in front of packed gyms all over the state. You will soon lose your virginity (LET’S GO), not to the string bean, but to an older chick who has an affinity for no-look passes. In the years to come, the string bean will go on to achieve bonkers success (like, super duper bonks, like, I can’t even explain it) and haters (that’s a word for people who hate stuff, dumb, I know, but it kinda works) will constantly ask you annoying questions about him.
“Was he always such a prick?”
“Do you think he raped that chick in Colorado?”
“Did he ever try to rape you?”
Tell them he was your friend. And that he was always nice to you. And that he, like everyone else, is just a person. People won’t quite understand that, but it’s important to remember. Everyone is just a person. Everyone gets diarrhea. You will get it a lot. You will even start to enjoy it.
|Dorf, Dorfburger and Dorfenstein pose for a pic.|
In 2004, or 2005, I dunno, you lose track of years when you're older, and shin hair, the Eagles will light up the league—and it will be glorious. Sadly, their quarterback (a moonwalking space cadet who you will sort of love, and sort of hate) will barf during the Super Bowl™. Like, literally, during the game, onto the field. The Eagles will lose (obviously, I mean the guy friggin’ barfed all over himself) and later that night you will start experimenting with drugs. Do them. Do them all. Try every flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. There are now so many.
It won’t be until 2008 that the city tastes another championship, and even that one will feel sort of lame. It’s baseball, which is fine, whatever, but in the years to follow, you’ll meet countless Philadelphians who named their dogs Chase. These people are nutsos. Stone cold nutsos.
By 2012, you’ll be unable to focus on sports for more than eight seconds at a time, or do anything really, thanks to a virtual chat room called Twitter. I realize that none of those words mean anything to you, but let me tell you, this thing will RUN YOUR LYFE. You will spend your days typing out words on a miniature telephone/space machine for the sole purpose of getting complete strangers to tell you how funny you are. This thing will CONSUME you. And probably ruin your marriage (although right now, you are making a concerted effort to use it less, and “be present” with your wife, especially when the two of you are watching your favorite TV show, The Bachelorette). Twitter will be by far the worst thing ever created. It’s the best.
In 2016, the world will turn to shit. The Sixers, Eagles, Phillies and Flyers will all finish in last place. But then the Sixers will draft the greatest player in the history of the world. I’m telling you, Ev, wait til you see this guy pass the rock. He’s like Magic Johnson without the AIDS.
Oh, by the way, Magic Johnson gets AIDS.
And AIDS is a thing that kills people.
But not Magic. Because he really is magic.
So is Jenny Rothstein. Be nice to her, Evster. Invite her to a Dead Milkmen show. Because if you don’t, and Jason Eisenstadt does, he will never, ever shut up about it.
- The Evster