The world of sports talk has officially gotten out of control. Whether it is TV, radio, chat rooms or internet blogs, you are guaranteed to find someone somewhere rambling about subjects from the size of Barry Bonds’ head to Freddy Adu’s birth certificate. Sports talk has become so hyped in the last few years that ESPN is able to run what is basically the same show at three different points during the day. They then feed the identical content to the starving public, only changing the hosts and the backdrops. How do they get away with this?
Well, sports talk is fun. Most fans can’t escape it. Meals at Leo’s are consumed only half as fast as the arguments made by wannabe analysts about how Andre Iguodala was a victim of conspiracy. A Sunday afternoon study session can quickly transition to the holes in the Hoyas’ transition defense.
Countless roommates have formed friendships through what seems to be their only common interest: sports. Talking to a stranger becomes no more awkward than chatting with a lifelong friend when sports is on the burner.
For me, yapping about sports helped to bridge a generational gap that at times seemed larger than centerfield at the Polo Grounds.
Dan O’Leary and I first spoke in sixth grade during my walks home from the middle school bus stop. The scaly cap-wearing veteran extended his daily hellos to the hiking brood with a kind word and the shake of his cane.
Eventually these cordial greetings turned into daily conversations. He wondered about school and inquired about the saxophone case dangling from my sixth-grade arm. But no matter the season, there was one subject that never escaped our opinion: the Red Sox.
Being so young, I would simply stand and nod in concurrence with Dan about Manny’s antics or Pedro’s fastball. As I got older I was able to commiserate over Grady’s blunder and wonder about Nomar’s fate away from Boston.
In high school, our visits were less frequent, but he didn’t hesitate to ask about high school ball. The inevitable Red Sox quip was always looming.
We were just two die-hards, separated by a mere 65 years. Sox talk was something we couldn’t escape.
Dan passed away last weekend, just as Varitek, Schilling and the Boys of Summer got to spring training, two years removed from a championship. No doubt Dan was pleased that our last sports talk was about The Rocket’s return to Beantown, and not whether this year would finally be the year. We had bridged the gap and we were left with a friendship that threw decades of difference by the wayside.
Our sports talks were fun. The way sports talk should be.
So pull yourself away from the Kornheiser and Wilbon, get out there and chat it up about Shani Davis or why the U.S. won’t win the World Baseball Classic. Who knows? If you’re lucky you may even come away with a friend from the deal.
