The 27 and ESPN: Past and Present


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The 27 and ESPN: Past and Present
2/25/05
by the 27

Its 1 in the morning and I’m lying on my bed and the lights are off and the white glow from the TV makes my abs look more defined than they really are. I’m 26 years old and it’s a Saturday night. A stuffed animal cat with a pink collar (A gift. Long-distance girlfriend. I hope no one reads this.) is lying ridiculously close to me. I flex my abs. Or maybe I unflex them. I can’t tell. My mouth tastes like Stouffers Pizza.

I once ran a 5 minute mile.

The top right part of my forehead is itching, so I scratch it. Some would call this shiny area the “scalp”, but then they would be faced with the prospects of fisticuffs (I would lead with my good shoulder - "good" defined as the shoulder that wasn't operated on last). Regardless of the great expanse between this particular patch of skin and the front, or “fore”, of my head, it runs directly into my forehead – undeterred by any of those pesky, dandruff-magnet “hairs” (overrated!). Therefore, disbelievers amongst you, it is my forehead. And I have just scratched it.

I once could bench 260 lbs.

On the tube is ESPN – also a victim of negative metamorphosis. At this moment, Sean Salisbury is scolding (inadequacy issues: second string quarterback on a second rate team) a little guy with glasses. Dan Patrick is postured behind the desk, believing in his head (I know he is) that his nimble wordplay and vocal inflections are the real reason I watch SportsCenter instead of interviews, scores, or highlights which are merely appreciated, yet unnecessary, frills. Later, the reverent Chris Berman will hypothesize for the tenth straight week that, “Maybe, just maybe, Tommy [makes melodramatic hand gesture], these [insert NFL team name] are starting to figure out a little bit of what it takes to be successful in this league.” Brilliance, Boomer, sheer brilliance. I’m gonna write that one down. Soon there will be a panel consisting of a man in brown double breasted suit sitting next to another man in a blue double breasted suit sitting next to another man in a black double breasted suit. They will all be wearing big rings. Their teeth will be very white. They will take turns slapping each other on the back, laughing at bad jokes, and yelling at me.

ESPN once was about sports and athletes, not journalists and their over hyped ("The BoSox say they hope they can beat the Yankees!!! Bulletin board material? We'll break it down next SportsCenter!") and corny stories. The network loses a piece of its legitimacy every time Stuart Scott tutors a “Dream Job” contestant on how to be more like him.

Of course, I understand the importance of the all-sports network and engaging personalities. Otherwise, I'd watch the local news for my sports news. But, this does not mean something has not changed, and that ESPN has not strayed from whence it came.

Once a fresh, trailblazing, revolutionary sports' Mecca, the new fat and balding version of ESPN is a gluttonous self-promoter. Pick your analogy – it’s Shawn Kemp; the Roman Empire; the once mighty Zeus. I prefer Pizza the Hut from the movie Spaceballs. Stated more clearly, ESPN loves itself so much that, if it were a mob boss made of pizza, it would eat itself.

What's worse is that ESPN has brought upon these changes itself. At least The 27 went down swinging. As I question everyday why these changes have occurred to one who was once so virile, ESPN slaps itself on its back for what has happened to it. While mine is a tragic tale of fortune lost, ESPN’s devolution is, sadly, self-inflicted. Of course, ESPN has somewhat offset any losses by creating new channels to carry out its old functions. ESPN2. ESPN News. My favorite, ESPN Classic. It would be as if I could clone myself at 17, and send The 27 Classic out to represent me on the hardwood and in the clubs, shirt button opened without the fear of creepy hairs crawling through (no shortage there). But that is not fair, so I shall not discuss that.

There are – as with every rule – exceptions to this downward spiral. Any hockey telecast, for example (the Canadian mullet would humble anyone). And Kenny Mayne. Mayne realizes the absurdity of ESPN's self-love and has has seemingly embraced it for what it is and is perfectly content mocking it, himself, and anything else that he sees fit. He does poignant pieces on the history of "raising the roof." He recently was the lead commentator for the ESPN's coverage of the Horse Racing Handicapping Championships. He also gave the pudding strike a half-hour interview.

I change the channel. ESPN Classic. '87 NBA All-Star Game. I was 9. Jordan kisses the rim. Moses Malone fails to jump yet collects his 43rd offensive rebound. McHale's shoulder pokes 'Nique in the eye. You hear that? It’s the sound of Stephen A. Smith not screaming at you.

I am content. I look upon ESPN as it once was. I wonder if ESPN is looking out at me, sprawled across the bed, as I once was – tan, a healthy head of hair, abs like a cobblestone path. It's not. That doesn't make any sense.

I close the TV and roll over. It’s not the same, you know . . . spooning a stuffed animal cat. I shut my eyes and try to remember what alcohol tastes like.

I once ran a 4.5.