Ladies in the Lane

In 1973, Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs in what was dubbed “The Battle of the Sexes” in straight sets. Since then, several women have attempted to make the jump to compete with the men in their leagues.

Anne Meyers Drysdale, after 3 All-America seasons at UCLA, became the first, and only, woman to sign an NBA contract when she joined the Indiana Pacers in the summer of 1979; however, she did not make the roster and was released before the beginning of the season.

Annika Sorestam and young Michelle Wie both struggled on the men’s tour, failing to qualify for the weekend in each of their attempts.

And now comes the news that David Stern believes a woman will be employed in his league to compete with the boys before the 2020 calendars are printed.

In a recent interview with Sports Illustrated, Stern was quoted as saying he believed women would be competing in the NBA within the next ten years, arguing that the strides made from Title IX have increased the softer sex’s athleticism to the point they could physically compete with men. LeBron James, among others, would not go so far as to say women could not ever play with men, but doubted that he would play against a woman before his career is up.

Stern is a brilliant man and one of the finest commissioners to have ever served any of the four major sports. He took a dying league with a huge drug problem and made it a global power - more so than football, baseball or hockey. He recognized basketball’s individual star power, perhaps greater than any other sport, and has made the names Magic, Bird, Jordan, Yao and LeBron household fodder from the glaciers of Alaska to the streets of Nairobi.

Having said all that, his recent comments smack as politically correct at best, and horribly desperate at worst. As commissioner of the NBA he also runs the WNBA, and to publicly state that women could not succeed against the men would tarnish his flailing female product. But to suggest that a woman could compete in the NBA in the next ten years truly is preposterous and is purely a cash grab for Stern and his league.

This is not a chauvinistic attack on female athletes in any way; as an undergrad, the only championship I enjoyed from my alma mater was by the women’s basketball team (don’t throw soccer or ping pong or something else stupid at me that we probably won). There are a number of fine female basketball players, including Candace Parker, Sue Bird and Diana Taurasi that have undeniable skill and flair for the game. But can they compete against men, in one of the most demanding physical sports, when other women have failed at gentler ones?

The NBA is in trouble, and if there was ever any doubt, Stern proved it last week with his comments. Stern has failed to change the image of the NBA as a league filled with thugs, despite his best efforts (like instituting a mandatory dress code). Players like Jordan, Bird and Magic were revered, but they were taken as the exception to the rule. For example, a few days before this story broke, I was talking about the NBA with a few friends, and Greg Oden’s injury came up.

“Jesus, Greg Oden done for the year again. The Trail Blazers will be haunted by yet another draft backfiring,” I mentioned as news of Oden’s season-ending injury scrolled the bottom of the screen.

“The Jail Blazers - biggest thug team of all-time,” came the response to my right.

I turned and asked the commenter if he could name one player, aside from Oden, who was currently employed by the Trail Blazers. He could not. Then, I asked him to name such a “thug” that once played for them, something he should be certain of since he so confidently made the aforementioned statement. He failed in that regard as well.

But therein lies the NBA’s problem: a huge portion of its would be market, the white, suburban, 18-35 year-old market, has members who carry stereotypes, yet can’t name one player on a team that won 50+ games last year, or a player that helped forge said stereotype, which is dated by several years. The NFL’s Cincinnati Bengals struggled with off-the-field issues for years, yet they are no longer referred to as “thugs,” despite retaining the same head coach who over saw that era. The Dallas Cowboys were known as “America’s Team” during a decade that saw star players be busted for cocaine and guns numerous times. Donte’ Stallworth served time for manslaughter, Mike Vick for dog fighting, Rae Carruth for murder and Jamaal Lewis for drug trafficking, but nary a whisper of the “T” word in NFL circles.

Stern is pedaling a black league in a white world, and apparently, there are not enough fedoras or tailored suits to cover the tattoos that the white boys can’t get past. The NFL has Tom Brady’s chiseled jaw and Peyton Manning’s goofy yet entertaining advertisements to win the hearts of Honkeyville, but Joe The Plumber sees a Newport News boy and not the scrappy guard returning to his NBA home tonight. Stern has been reduced to pilfering Europe and now even gimmicks to get his league exposure, a league with an even bigger labor headache upcoming than the NFL, one that many believe will lead to yet another lockout, a la 1999.

The United States is still crippled with instituted racism, and it is easy to see its effects on the NBA. Without a bona-fide media superstar, the NBA has struggled. Jordan’s greatest asset wasn’t his tongue-wagging dunks or incredulous shrugs after a three-point onslaught, it was his ability to get the suburban kids pumping Green Day through their Walkmans to buy his shoes. LeBron can’t even get other NBA players to wear his shoes without controversy.

The NBA has as fine an athletic product as any major sports league the world over. Claims of players “not trying” or “only worried about the offensive end” are trite and indicative not merely of the cultural ignorance toward professional basketball, but a severe case of denial with regards to athletes in other leagues. College players don’t play better defense, they just suck something awful at shooting; that’s why they are amateurs and not professionals. College kids don’t care more than the NBA, they just don’t have to play 82 games in half-empty arenas possessing no energy. And the notion that the March Madness Tournament, which routinely sees more 40 point wins then barn-burners, is more entertaining than watching Kobe march to a fourth title, LeBron attempt to join the elite and Paul Pierce boldly try to defend a title is ludicrous.

Stern’s problems stretch beyond what an undersized, female three-point specialist can solve, but perhaps he merely has a crystal ball that foresees the end of his league before another decade passes, forcing his boys to run coed pick-up games down at the Y just like everyone else.

Life with Lassie

If you want to watch football all day Sunday, she’s cool with it, and often will lay right by your side. She never scolds you at the dinner table, and actually encourages sloppy eating habits. And instead of turning her back when you are upset with her, she comes right over and nuzzles until you break into a smile.

Teddie hasn’t completely replaced Audrey since she moved down to Florida, but she has eased the lonely days between our visits. Audrey was always sad to see me go and excited when I returned to her, but Teddie’s eyes suggest her heart breaks every time I pull out of the driveway, and she risks stroke from excitement once I return. Sometimes I can’t figure out why she follows me everywhere I go, until she jumps up and grabs the straggling Cheeto clinging to my clothes.

A puppy dog is truly one of life’s pleasures, and she has made the often perilous transition back home with the parents nice and easy for me. She’s my buddy when I’m bored, a smile waiting to happen when I’m sad, and a constant source of entertainment as she does one funny thing after another. With fall whipping through the trees, there were downed limbs everywhere today, and of course, Teddie had to sniff each one. As we rounded the corner for home, there was a relatively delicate branch that she easily could hold in her mouth if not for its great length, which was nearly three times hers. Undeterred, she gripped it in her mouth and lugged it the block all the way home, before securing it in the front yard for her next walk. While it was frustrating to have to stop every six feet so she could readjust the behemoth in order to keep toting it, I could not help but laugh at the determination and utter joy that was clear on her scruffy face.

Ah, but her walks are fret with peril, for man’s best friend really becomes friend’s best man as she hops from tree to tree, sniffing each passing leaf and standing at attention with any passing sound. The world is her toilet, and she seems determined to mark every square inch. No spot is good enough for her excrement until she has thoroughly inspected the rest of the neighborhood, and even when she finds a stretch she likes, she paces back and forth for minutes on end before squatting, and giving me the dubious duty of cleaning up after her. And humans are the superior race.

She is a daily reminder of that age old economics lesson learned some six years ago; “No such thing as a free lunch.” That smiling face with the eyes that could stop a murdering rampage and a tongue to tickle the coldest of hearts makes you work for each of her bowel movements. And when she’s done, she gives you a look as if to say, “Don’t forget to get that, and make it snappy, I want to get home to eat.”

My girl has gone so that I may only see her once a month, the rejections roll in faster than I can often stand and I’m back under my parents’ roof and rules. Many have wondered why I wasn’t outraged when Audrey moved south for her job rather than taking one closer to me; the pity-filled glances and gentle reassurances of “you’ll find something” are frequent companions to my conversations, and my Cinderella act of washing the floors, painting the walls and preparing dinner each night will soon get old.

But through it all the puppy dog reminds me. Audrey is chasing her dream, and, if the roles were reversed, forcing me to make the difficult decision to move away, would I not have wanted her support? It makes life more difficult, but no relationship is complete without a sacrifice or two. I have taken on the role of a heavy-weight prize fighter, each rejection serving as a cross to my face and pride, but I must stand tall and wait for the ringing of the bell before I can raise my arms in victory. And thank God for my parents, who have the means to help me while I’m unemployed, after putting me through school. The least I can do is clean the cobwebs and make some chicken.

And here she comes, as if her ears were ringing, my puppy dog, life’s great metaphor: you still must walk around the block before you can reap your reward.

The Summer of George

A new September has brought a new inactivity to my life. For the first time in nearly 20 years, I am not a student, a queer and uncomfortable position to be sure. The month that was always marked by new books, teachers and lessons is now just endless hours waiting for the newest installment of offensive futility from the World Champions.

I decided to take the summer off (read: wasn’t creative enough to keep writing) from the space in an effort to refocus and get away from the self-loathing that was all I could muster. I had graduated jobless, with no honors, and my final summer was all that separated me from returning home with my parents and bidding Audrey adieu as she embarked on her new career in Florida. Broke, and with little hope for a job, I couldn’t stand to be publicly miserable any longer.

While the time away wasn’t entirely voluntary, it did allow me to reflect on the year that has past, the year you all have gotten to know me. Ironically, the year I began publicly charting my growth is probably the one in which I made the least progress. My belief was that senior year would be the torch bearer, the year I would always remember fondly when thinking back on college; however, it will probably go down as one of the worst. But pain is fleeting and often skin deep, and the sands of time have a way of smoothing even the roughest of stones into a gorgeous marble.

My year long search for employment left me chasing a proverbial shadow. I had seen many of my friends go through their last hurrahs in similar fashion, chasing a job that never came, walking across the stage to uncertain waters, and laboring under part-time work before finally landing the elusive nine-to-five. Perhaps it was Audrey’s success, perhaps my self-deprecating nature, but the inability to find work destroyed my senior year. I was morose, miserable and mean to many, most notably myself. I didn’t land a job, and I didn’t enjoy my last year, and with neither goal fulfilled, I made myself miserable.

Compounding my own demons was Audrey, although by no fault of her own. To be satisfied in a relationship with another is truly trying, but nearly impossible when not in a happy relationship with oneself. Problems originated as we got accustomed to living in close proximity once again, after she had returned from a semester working two hours away from State College Town. But things came to a boiling point when she informed me she had taken a job that would cause her to move to Jacksonville, Fla., when I had been expecting her to accept an offer here in Metropolis. The one thing I had thought I had a grip on was slipping through my fingers, and my frustrations often boiled over into ugly confrontations.

Finally, when the job search had me down and Audrey and I were at each others throats, the Fraternity abandoned me, drifting idly by as more and more members abandoned ship. Many of my friends, the ones who had attracted me to it in the first place, had graduated and were gone, and so many of my peers were like me, in relationships and inconsistently available because of them. Our time spent together was no longer reminiscing about a drunken night or debating the latest football game, but instead hashing out the latest girl problems or the lame party recently thrown attended by only a handful of sorority girls. The chapter was a sinking ship, and we seniors were too wrapped up in our own lives to come to the rescue, as those before us did so routinely.

And now September has dawned anew, a fresh senior year has commenced, and a virgin crop will suffer through the torture chamber, worrying about their futures, analyzing their present and complaining about how they wished it was freshman year all over again. But it is true what they say: those who ignore their past are destined to repeat it, and those who long for the future will never realize it. Senior year is an opportunity I squandered, and in subsequent months, I know I will remember things fondly that elude me today, but the life I feared so much is laid out before me, and all that worrying I did the past 12 months did nothing to change it.

Still Kicking

My long absence is inexcusable, but my days have been job apps and Phillies games since graduation. But thankfully for my writing and sanity, I have escaped the US and am on the road in Europe. Click here to follow along with my travels

That's Camping

My resume is a perplexing piece of literature. It is filled with many a job, but almost all of which require some amount of explaining as to what I actually did for eight hours a day.

“During any given week, I’d say I do about 15 minutes of real, actual work. The rest of the time is spent trying to get people I’ve never met to laugh at me through an anonymous blog I keep.”

But in all seriousness, I’ve worked at obscure magazines, publishing houses and government organizations that often cause an inquirer to dig deeper to dissect my daily itinerary. This became abundantly clear to me the other day, when forced to explain my most recent role at a summer camp.

“Oh, that sounds like fun! So, what sports are you coaching?”

Damn! Even at a summer camp, the most self-explanatory job there is, short of “I pick apple trees or haul garbage,” do I have a complicated work title.

“Well, I don’t exactly coach anything,” I tried to explain. “See, I’m the site coordinator’s assistant, so I spend my days setting up the fields, coordinating the different camp schedules and filling in any necessary gaps.” And, oh yea, I get to dress up as this:
That would be the camp mascot, Gomer. Twice a week, I get in this sweat box that smells like it hasn’t seen a cleaner since it was purchased, dance around, and four-year olds giggle until their heads explode.

Fortunately for me, that is not the saddest thing about the camp. That would be the guy I report to (perhaps working below him is the saddest thing?), a self-nicknamed, mid-30s, slightly balding, unmarried, baseball burnout known as Devo. I have held many a shitty job, and have learned one unfailing truth: your boss will be an idiot and an asshole. Why? Because they too worked said shitty job, never graduated from it, are bitter about that fact, but have been finally promoted to the head position and feel a false sense of power and accomplishment.

Upon first meeting, Devo seemed like a nice enough guy with high energy for the camp. I was excited about working a summer camp, because it allowed me to be outdoors, figured to be pretty low stress, and would give me some experience working with kids, hopefully boosting a resume that one day will land me a teaching job. But as the week progressed, I realized this guy was not terribly bright or enjoyable to work under.

The camp is fairly well-known and respected throughout Metropolis (it was rated a few years ago by Sports Illustrated as the best sports camp in the city), and this marked the first time the camp had been held at this locale, and I quickly learned this was this guy’s first week at this particular job, so I gave him a break. But I began to sour on him when he debuted a giant, oversized, red fist that he wore during morning carpool.

See, the camp developed an asinine way to give a sign of acceptance to the campers, known as the first bump. Worst of all, camp protocol is to “bust the rock” upon making contact with the receiver of said fist bump. But Devo went a step further. He used a giant red fist (seen here at a Flyers game) to give each camper a fist bump, and then, as their parents were driving away, He fist bumped the parents! While I understand using the fist bump to avoid potential hugs that could lead to sexual assault trials, or high fives that miss and slap a kid in the face, where in God’s name is the professionalism? There is no reason to be fist bumping men in suits on their way to the office when you are in a red tee-shirt and gym shorts. Making the matter even more hilarious, I decided to inspect the red fist, because it had a circular hole on top of it that oddly seemed fit to hold a beverage, adult or otherwise. Sure enough, right there on the fist, in bold letters, said:

“This is not a toy. It is a beverage holder. If consuming alcoholic beverages from this, please drink responsibly.”

You can’t make this shit up. A mid-30s aged man was using a koozy to great five- and six-year olds each morning, and in order to reassure their parents they were in good hands, used it to send them off to work for good measure. The week went on like this; the guy scammed on the women who came in to set up the cooking camp for next week, would disappear for about an hour while I went about my work, rarely ate or sat still (leading me to believe and joke with the other counselors that he was bumping lines in a middle school bathroom stall) and was adamant that we follow the schedule, even when weather or other factors suggest we amend it. For example, one day a series of thunderstorms blew through the area, and more were in the forecast. But at the first sign of sunny skies, he had me head out to the field, lug the obnoxiously heavy pieces needed to assemble a dunk tank, and begin the long and tedious task of filling it to the brim with water. Needless to say, the storm blew through, and I got to take it down in a thunderstorm before enjoying a very damp drive home.

Yet, it pays pretty well ($400 tax free a week) and is all I have to get me through Europe in a few months. It is admittedly embarrassing as a college graduate, but I always liked camp as a kid, and it isn’t too bad of a way to make some spare change till I find something permanent.

Work for Hire

While enjoying a rare victory by the Phillies and an even rarer quality start by Jamie Moyer on Tuesday night, my phone rang, and by answering it, I invited a giant headache that has consumed the past two days of my life.

On the other end was Skinny, who you may remember from my Spring Break trip to New Orleans a few years ago. He last earned mention in this space for his ability to hook up with a bartender in Chattanooga, Tenn., to save us over $100 on a bar tab. Recently, he earned a position working as a personal assistant for a lawyer in downtown Metropolis, a position I too interviewed for. He was hired, and has been working for him for close to a month.

However, due to the verbose nature of this lawyer, the long hours he has been forced to work, and the mandatory dinners he attends with the lonely bachelor have put him well behind in a summer class he is making up in order to graduate. The course, Introduction to Macroeconomics, is a requirement for graduation, and he is failing after scoring a 42 out of 100 on the first exam. He called to ask if I might be willing to complete a few homework assignments for him and help him catch up.

I made a living freshman year taking exams and doing homework assignments for two kids who spent their time playing poker on line. They each paid me $250 an exam and $100 per homework (mind you, they were in the same class, so all I had to do was take one exam and I got paid double) and I helped them lift their failing averages up to Bs. I had taken a strong interest in economics after taking the AP courses in Micro and Macro in high school, and I got them through it for two semesters.

Knowing this, Skinny called me up.

“Carter, I need a favor. The Lawyer is killing me at work, I’m failing Econ and if I don’t pass they’re going to fire me from this job.” Great I was thinking, will they then hire me?

“I’ll give you $80, I need three of them done. One by tomorrow [Wednesday] and the other two by Thursday.” The price was considerably lower than what I used to command, but in true confession, I ripped those two kids off. I would log online, hack into their Blackboard accounts, do the homework, and the other kid would sign into his and copy it in. I am not working this week, and I could use any spare cash for Europe, all while helping out a friend in need. I agreed.

Skinny drove to my apartment to drop off the book so I could complete the assignment. After traipsing up the stairs, he looked like he was working for George Steinbrenner. His hair was cropped close, his baby face gleaned from the work of a razor and his shoes would have made Andy Dufresne jealous. He then launched into a long speech about how awful the job was, how The Lawyer forced him and the rest of the team to go out to dinner and drink with him and often how he did not get home till past 10 o’clock each night, all of which made me feel better that he was the poor slob that got stuck with the job, even though unemployment still sucks.

While he rambled on about how hard the class is, how he never has time to go and often is not allowed to leave work to attend class, I flipped through the book and wondered how in God’s name he had not passed intro Econ yet, and why he chose to take Macro, the harder of the two options. It wasn’t until he uttered the words “problem set” that my attention snapped back.

“Wait, these homeworks aren’t online? On blackboard?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, I’ll give you my password, you can log in and print them out,” he said as he began flipping 20s onto the table.

“Shit, these aren’t multiple choice questions, they’re like calculating GDP and unemployment and all that crap?” I moaned. “Skinny, I haven’t done this shit in years, my father has a PH.d in this shit, I don’t think even he could do this off memory.”

“They’re not that hard, I did the first one, and did pretty well,” he countered, explaining the fourth one was due as scheduled on Wednesday, and the other two were several weeks late, but he had talked his way into an extension. “I just don’t have time to do them, and if I don’t, I’m fucked.”

Guilt-ridden from his pathetic state but smiling inside from the money jangling around in my wallet, I relented. See, Skinny is a fun guy to go out with. I had a lot of fun with him in our younger days, going out and getting drunk, chasing after different groups of girls, listening to him retell his tales of conquest in the morning. But I began to realize as time went on that he was a bit of an ass, and not just to the girls he never bothered to call back. He has a horrible talent of “never having time” and often needing a favor. And after he lived in a satellite house with my former roommate BC, I learned of his spoiled inability to clean up after himself or be considerate to the needs of the others in the house.

Skinny asked me to complete the homework, but since he wouldn’t have time to come back to State College Town in time to collect it, copy it into his handwriting and turn it in to his teacher on time, he asked me to scan it and e-mail it to him. I recently purchased a new printer complete with scanning capability, so this would not prove to be a problem. I took his money, the book and he went on his way.

Wednesday morning dawned, I undertook my normal routine of dishwashing, breakfast, SportsCenter and news-gathering, wrote a weekly column I’ve been doing for a local state representative and then set in on the homework. The homework was as I feared, long, annoying and requiring a great deal of calculations, and I began to regret the assignment. Many of the things looked familiar, but I could not recall without a healthy reading of the text how to complete the questions. After spending three hours on the first one, I decided I would leave the next two till Thursday, since they were already late.

I booted up the printer, and placed the first page on it and prepared to scan. But, only an error message appeared, telling me to attempt to scan from the computer. Now, I’m not great with computers (it is the reason I spent all that money on a MacBook, which has proven incredibly idiot proof), so I attempted to find the instructional manual, but all the printer came with was a basics guide, requiring me to download the full manual from the printer’s Web site. It was there I learned that to take advantage of the printer’s scanning capabilities, I would have to download the software it came with. Unfortunately, the object’s resting place was a complete mystery to me. So, I called up Skinny and explained the dilemma to him. I tried the campus library, but being the summer, it’s copy shop had already closed. I was in no interest to trek to Kinko’s and pay the exorbitant price to fax everything to him, seeing as how it was unlikely I’d ever be reimbursed that sum, and I had spent enough time on the project and was frustrated over the amount of time it took me to complete it.

I had glanced at the syllabus and saw the class met on Wednesday nights, and offered to just hustle over and drop it off. But Skinny was terrified the teacher would recognize his handwriting (despite only taking one test and turning in one homework to that point, and that he has missed so much class it’s unlikely the teacher even recognizes his face) so that wasn’t an option. I told him he’d have to come out to State College Town to pick it up himself then, and to call me when he got here.

The night went on, and I soon forgot about it. At around 11, Skinny calls me.

“Carter, you got to do me another favor,” he demanded. “Jill [his ex] has a scanner, which she stupidly never told me.” - because that’s high on a dumped girl’s priority list, “I’ll give you her number, call her up and give her directions to come pick it up. Oh, by the way, she’s pissed.”

Well of course she is, asshole. After getting her on the phone, I learned she was studying for her own exam, and had been plagued by his badgering all night. She asked if I could make the trip to her, which I agreed, taking pity on her, and she huffed her way downstairs to pick up the homework and send it off. Mission accomplished.

But Lee Corso stuck his ugly catch phrase into my life about 45 minutes later.

“Carter, what is this? I can’t read any of it.” It was Skinny. He couldn’t manage to figure out what was what, likely because Jill was forced to remove the staples from the papers in order to scan it to him, and all the answers were out of order. I calmly explained to the best of my memory the labels I had used and the order it should go in, all while he whined about the horrible situation he was in and how no one had the flexibility or back strength necessary to save his ass.

With my frustration rising and Audrey trying to sleep, I again hung up the phone. But ten minutes later, my phone rang once again.

“I can’t figure this out, none of it makes sense. I’m driving over now to pick up the book so I can make some sense of it.”

In no mood at this point to deal with him, I told him I’d be in bed by then, left the book on my coffee table, told my roommate he was coming over, and bid him a good night.

But, like the Cowboys draft room, no one had cleaned the shit off the fan for day two. I was rudely awakened this morning by not one, not two but three phone calls. The reason? Skinny had inexplicably taken the book from my apartment, the one, you know, I needed to do his dastardly homework, and failed to return it to my apartment. Rather than inconvenience his self any further, he left it in the possession of Jill, instructed her to return it to me in the a.m., but could not sufficiently give her my address. So, I was awoken to learn I not only had to do more of his bidding, but I had to traipse all over campus to accomplish it. Worse, Jill had tried to drop it off, but couldn’t find where I lived, and had headed off to study, probably because he had interrupted her the night before.

Skinny continued to pester me throughout the day while I attempted to do the work as fast as I could to get on with all the things I needed to do, like, look for full-time work so I would never put myself in this position again. He would call to find out how much progress I had made, if I would be able to get it to him this time, since he was so greatly inconvenienced the night before and to ensure I was working on it

Because my scanner didn’t work, and because I had no interest in jumping through the hoops once again, I elected to do all the work on the computer, so I could easily e-mail the document to him and be done with it. Well, even that wasn’t good enough. Since the word document robbed me of the ability to draw graphs, I simply wrote out an explanation on how they should appear, giving him step-by-step directions on how to draw them, since he had to copy all my notes by hand any way.

“Carter, why didn’t you finish it?” was the rude greeting I received upon stupidly answering his phone call for the 15th time inside of three days.

“What are you talking about? I just fucking e-mailed it to you. It’s done. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“I don’t have time to draw these graphs out. I paid you $80...”

I lost it.

“Fuck you and your $80. You want to calculate that $80? Lets see. I began the assignment at 2:30 p.m. yesterday, finished it by 5:30, tried to fax it till six. So that’s three and a half hours. Then I dealt with your bullshit till midnight, so that’s another six hours on the clock. You then woke me up at nine to tell me I had to traverse the campus to track down the book I needed to finish your shit, worked on it till two. So that’s around 13 hours I’ve been on your clock. Migrant farm workers earned more than me in that time.”

“Well, I would hope as a friend...”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is your assignment, and I did it for you. You contracted me for work you can’t complete. That means you couldn’t do it. You then don’t get to tell me how the fuck to do it. It’s done. If it isn’t satisfactory, take it up with customer affairs.”

“Carter, I can’t have The Lawyer seeing me drawing graphs at my desk. I need this or I’ll fail and lose my job.”

“But I suppose he’s ok with you picking up your cell phone 12 times an hour to bug me?” I said as I hung up the phone.

The irony is that Skinny had me work on economics homework, all while failing to understand the simple theory of opportunity cost. Had I properly weighed out the costs of this job, I would easily have seen they would have exceeded the pittance $80 salary and laughed in his face. He should have thought of that before he hired me; hope my performance was better on the homework than in deciding if I should have done it in the first place.

So this is how Earnest Byner felt?

I do not like myself right now.

I have been known to have quite a quick temper, sitting quietly one minute before flying out of my chair and letting loose with a tirade at a seemingly benign individual just seconds before. I’ve been restrained on basketball courts when the trash talk gets a little too ugly. I’ve been in a scrape or two in my life. And don’t get my started on a Jimmy Rollins GIDP, Donovan McNabb overthrow, a Todd Pinkston (RIP) drop or the famed and frustrating Jose Mesa blown save (Mesa!).

But never does frustration burn in my belly like when I am upset with myself. When opportunity floats over my head but bounces off my hands like they were concrete. So you might imagine how I’m feeling today after fumbling away another opportunity at a job.

The day started so well. I was awakened by a phone call offering me some part-time work beginning next week, something I’d spent the two weeks since commencement searching for. I made myself some breakfast, watched a little television, went out for a run, and came back to shower and ponder the rest of my day. As I was finishing shaving, the phone rang. No bother, I said, I’ll call them back. But as I finished drying my face, I heard that tantalizing sound that signals I’ve received a voice message. No one under 25 leaves voice messages, so that must mean its an important call, hopefully from an employer.

“Hi, [Carter] this is [name redacted] from ESPN. I have your resume in front of me, and I wanted to discuss with you our opening for Statistics Associate. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience.”

Oh happy day! A job offer in the morning and an interested employer in the afternoon. Perhaps my long days of filling out applications would finally come to an end! I have a friend at ESPN, he put in a good word for me, and only three days after sending in the app I was getting a call. Surely, my fortunes were changing, after securing two part-time positions last week and a bounty of booty from my graduation party this weekend.

But, I am an idiot, and destined to type this blog for the rest of my days from my parents' basement. The call started innocently enough, with her wondering why I wanted to work at ESPN.

“Well, ESPN is the gold standard in sports journalism. I know, having recently graduated from State College, that so many of my peers aspired to work at the World Wide Leader in Sports. Its the culmination of a career, and to have the opportunity to start one there would be great.”

She explained the position, what it would entail, and asked me if I was still interested. Of course, lady, do you know too many kids sending out apps that aren’t interested in talking about a job? Do you read the papers?

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied cordially to the women who probably isn’t more than five years my elder.

“Ok, great, I’m just going to ask you a couple questions to test your general sports knowledge, because this position requires quite a bit of it.”

“Sure,” I said, chuckling and smiling under my breath. This will be a walk in the park, I live on ESPN.com and watch Sportscenter on loop, since I have little better to do. Bring it on, lady.

The first few questions, no sweat. But she soon tripped me up.

“Name the last five Heisman Trophy winners, and the schools they attended.”

Damn, I hate college football, mostly because our team has sucked and I haven’t attended a game since joining the fraternity and drinking as much as possible at every tailgate.

“Bradford, Oklahoma,” I began. “Tebow, Florida.” I started thinking about flipping open the MacBook and cheating, but I was afraid of taking too much time and her hearing my fingers flying across the keys as I searched out the answer.

“Sorry, I’m trying to write it out,” I said through the receiver as I began to sweat. Who the hell won the Heisman the last couple of years?. “So, the last five years, that’s 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005 and 2004,” I said, trying to stall, but she stayed cool and silent on the other line, giving me no help. “I think Reggie Bush, from USC, was 2004…is it ok if I do them out of order?”

“Sure, I just need the last five and their schools,” she deadpanned, probably wondering why she wasted her time with me.

I thought some more about the the computer, but decided against it. She won’t kill me for missing one, so what, I can’t remember Heisman Trophy winners. I could give her the NFL and MLB MVPs.

“Sorry, I’m blanking on the other two years.”

“Ok,” she said, “Name two players on the Lakers,” she asked feeling sorry for me, “other than Kobe Bryant.”

Well, make it a little difficult. Ok, Lamar Odom and Pau Gasol. There.

“What are the four major Golf Championships?”

The Masters, The U.S. Open, the British Open and the PGA Championship, I responded, nailing them in order.

“Ok, how about the winningest coach in Men’s Basketball History?”

“Oh, it’s either Sutton or Knight,” I stalled. “I’ll go with Bob Knight.”

“Ok,” quickly becoming her annoying catch phrase. “How about the leader in NFL Touchdown throws?”

“Jeez, that’s either Marino or Favre. I’ll go with Marino.” Wrong, jackass. BSB is snickering somewhere, but fuck you Favre, I just thought you had the picks record.

“Ok, well thank you [Carter], but I’m afraid we’re looking for someone with some more knowledge. Please check out ESPN.com for more job opportunities, and best of luck in the future.” Click, before I could get another word out.

Wtf? I didn’t know the Heisman winners, but where else did I go wrong? Well, I pulled out the computer, which I should have done 10 minutes before, and found out it was Favre with the TD record, and Sutton wasn’t even close to the top in Men’s wins. But Bob Knight was, just not number one. That would be some ass hat from Northern State known as Don Meyer, who has been coaching since 1972 and has run up 910.

With a golden opportunity, I choked. Bush won in 2005, his teammate and Co-ed slayer Matt Leinart in 2004 and everyone’s favorite Buckeye, Troy Smith, in 2006. I hate myself. Why I didn’t just cheat, like every other candidate probably will, I’m not sure. Why I didn’t try to fight her, and beg for some more questions to redeem myself, I’ll never know. But I shanked the kick, sliced the drive and drove the car into the ground with the finish line in sight, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever forgive myself.

The lady certainly didn’t help. She never told me if I was right or wrong, which whittled my confidence as I second-guessed each answer. I knew I remembered Favre passing Marino a few years ago, but I yipped it, going for the safe answer. And I’m fairly certain she penalized me for hesitating on the answers, not merely coming back and firing responses at her right away. This rejection stings more than all the others, because it was a job I certainly could have done and excelled at. And at ESPN nonetheless. A day that began with so much promise crashed and burned like so many more before it.