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Who needs acid?
by TERRY HAIG
Hallucinogens? Nah, I've got sports. You would not believe baseball last week. The owner of the Texas Rangers pays Alex Rodriquez 383-million beans Canadian to play shortstop for the next 10 years.
Eighty-six the acid and think about that. Then think about this: the owner says he's still going to make money. Got a big contract with one of Rupert Murdoch's TV networks. You want far out? You got it, bro.
There's no business like show business. And guess what? Anybody can buy in.
Simply head to the nearest bank, float a short-term loan to buy a ticket to watch your local Big- Time Professional Sports Franchise, enter the arena, find your seat and presto! You are now a full-fledged television extra!
This entitles to you to watch an event where every three minutes or so of playing time--no matter what's going on in the game--the whole show grinds to an abrupt halt. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you the television timeout. The backbone of Big-Time Professional Sports, the engine that fills the pockets of the broadcaster, who fill the pockets of the team's owners, who fill the pockets of the team's players.
During the TV timeout, you, the TV extras--the paying customers--will be entertained with moving pictures on the giant Jumbotron of other spectators doing wild and crazy things like waving their arms wildly in the air as they dance at their seats to the latest in techno or some weather-beaten tune from the '60s. At the Molson Centre a couple of years ago, a buxom woman stole the show by lifting her blouse skyward numerous times in perfect time with the music. Now, that's entertainment. Woodstock lives. Thanks to television.
While the tube remains Big-Time Sports' drug of choice, it no longer lives as the only financial game in town. Coming on strong: the Internet. As owners madly work out mega-deals for Internet broadcasting rights, enterprising athletes--perhaps inspired by all those millionaire dot-com weasels or perhaps by the hustlers who this time last year were issuing dire warnings about the ill-effects of Y2K--are jumping on the gravy train.
On the cutting edge are people like Maple Leaf goon Tie Domi. For 195 bucks U.S., Domi will sell you a three-picture sequence showing him knocking out the Rangers' Ulf Samuelsson with a sucker-punch that got Domi an eight-game suspension in 1995. This generous offer is available on Domi's Web site, www.tiedomi.com.
No, I don't need your mescaline to get crazy. I got the last year in sports.
Bet you didn't know that China's leaders have announced the venue for beach volleyball if Beijing hosts the 2008 Summer Olympics. It's Tiananmen Square. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Bet you didn't hear about the Nike workers who handled American sprinter Michael Johnson's custom-made 24-karat gold-encrusted shoes. Got an order to wear white gloves so they wouldn't dull the shine. Dig that!
How about skateboarder Ryan Sheckler. Scored himself 12-grand from sponsors last year. Should this appear a pittance, keep in mind Ryan is 10.
Whoa! Thinking about this stuff gets me crazy. Anybody got a downer? The Expos, maybe? A Canadien? How about that new book allegedly proving Joe DiMaggio was a jerk? Now, there's an author with timing.
Hold on. What I really need is the video of that dumb football movie Oliver Stone made with Al Pacino. No, get me The Replacements, the flick about the coach, the felon, the minister, the sumo wrestler and the chain-smoking Welsh place kicker, among others. A disparate group, to be sure, but possessors of a common trait. They all relished being professional football scabs.
Or better yet, get me Rae Carruth or Darryl Strawberry or Todd Marinovich. No, wait. What I really need is Allen Iverson.
It's all kicking in now. Hold on guys, I got it! The truth!
It's the punters who have this whole sports thing figured out. I'm not talking Lui Passaglia or Eddie Murray here. I'm talking the guys trying to make a buck out of sports--just like all those agents, owners and athletes.
The punters understand money is the real deal. The punters understand that when all is said and done, it doesn't really matter who wins or loses. What really counts is the spread. You never see punters hooking themselves up emotionally to one team. They get to be free agents every weekend. Just like the athletes do every year. You ever see a punter rooting on a team for its own sake? That's strictly for gulls, babe.
No, wait a minute. I just got another flash. Managed to rap my mind around Lance Armstrong, who wrote in his autobiography with Sally Jenkins: "We can take responsibility and be brave." Other people in sports--Doug Flutie, Mike Pringle, Anne Montminy, Marquis Grissom, Felipe Alou, Jerry Manuel and Wallace Johnson and a whole bunch more--would, I am sure, concur.
I'm feeling better already. I'll be okay. I think. But this year was one tough trip.
Comments? terryhaig@hotmail.com.