Men with Balls: The Professional Athlete's Handbook
9. PERSONAL ASSISTANT. The most important role in your entourage is that of personal assistant. You need one person who is willing to do important things like file your taxes, pay your bills, arrange your schedule, and pick up your dry cleaning. You must trust this person implicitly. Hire someone even the least bit disloyal and you’ll get screwed over just like Sigourney Weaver did in Working Girl. Fucking Melanie Griffith. Your wife or mother can assume this role. This is the ideal situation, since it does the most to hinder you from acting like a grown man. But, if your wife or mother balks at the idea, you need to find a qualified, trusted assistant. I suggest hiring a pathetic lackey who worships you and, despite knowing you will treat him like complete shit, will happily settle for just being near you on a daily basis. I hear Ahmad Rashad is available.
10. PATSY. If you get in trouble, it’s good to have someone in your inner circle who’s willing to take the fall for you. Anyone in your entourage can be a useful patsy, but you should always choose someone who you never really liked to begin with. Every athlete has a friend like this. If you’re a female athlete, you have nothing but friends like this. Singling out your one annoying friend for blame is a win-win. You’ll get off scot-free, and you’ll rid yourself of the jackass once and for all. The look on his face when you throw him under the bus, having realized that all those years of friendship meant less than nothing to you? Priceless.
Together, the above employees form your inner circle, a group so tightly knit as to be all but impenetrable, unless you happen to come across a real smooth talker. Remember, you can boot anyone out of your circle at any time: for talking to the media or for generally displeasing you. It’s always good to remind them once in a while that none of them is safe. It helps reinforce your control over all of them, which is what healthy relationships are all about.
Deeply Penetrating the Numbers
76
The average athlete discovers 76 “new” relatives upon turning pro. Damn you, classmates.com!
Friend and criminal since childhood: bad influences.
No matter where you grew up, you probably have a couple childhood friends who turned out to be bad seeds. Shit, I grew up in the lily-white, upper-middle upper-class enclave of Wayzata, Minnesota. Didn’t stop me from making friends with miscreants who liked egging sailboats, deliberately smashing bottles of black cherry New York Seltzer, and making crazy secret trips to Dunkin’ Donuts at 5:00 a.m. Rebellion knows no tax bracket, I tell you!
Here’s why folks like you and me are so prone to hanging around with bad influences: because having an evil friend is a really good time. No matter how many people he shoots, or how many dancers he assaults, he’ll always have a good story to tell. You can’t put a price on that. Your sociopath friend will also let you share in the sordid thrill of his wild, out-of-control behavior. He’ll say all the things you can’t say. He’ll punch all the people you can’t punch. He’ll snort all the things you can’t snort. In fact, you could argue that without him around you’d have to do all those things yourself just to make up for it. Why do you think players from the Portland Trail Blazers used to commit so many crimes? Think about it. The only way you can find any danger in that fucking town is by eating a bad oyster. Sometimes, you gotta make your own adventure.
But times change. You’re a grown-up now. You have to be responsible. And being responsible means cutting off all contact with any childhood friend who threatens your earning potential. Real men don’t remain loyal to old friends in trouble. Real men turn their back on them forever in a heartbeat and seek out newer, cooler friends to hang out with. Your childhood friend and you may share a special bond, forged in the emotional crucible of adolescence, that cannot possibly be duplicated during the course of adulthood. But is that as cool as hitting the go-kart track with Tim McGraw? Pfft. Hardly.
You can’t afford to hang out with any bad influences. If your friend gets busted selling rocks on the corner to make ends meet, fans and the media will immediately project that behavior onto you, and assume that you have the potential to commit similar horrifying acts. That could, in turn, jeopardize your deal with Vitamin Water. Would your old chum want that to happen? Of course not. That’s why you have to drop him like a fucking stone. You can’t help him. That takes time and effort, time and effort your coaches will want you to put into improving your defensive footwork.
How do you handle the breakup? Easy. All you need is his number and a Dictaphone. Give him a call. Be sure to turn the Dictaphone on before you do so!
Your BFF: Hello?
You: Hey, it’s me.
Your BFF: What’s up?
You: Listen, we need to talk. Remember how you shot that livery cab driver to death last week?
Your BFF: Oh, yeah. That was funny.
You: Yeah. Listen, I was thinking that, in retrospect, that wasn’t a very cool thing to do. Like, maybe you should go apologize.
Your BFF: What are you saying? You saying I should fucking snitch on myself?
You: Does confessing count as snitching? I was unaware of that.
Your BFF: Not happening. That guy deserved it. Livery cab drivers are assholes. Everyone knows that.
You: Look, I’m gonna come clean. I just don’t think we should be friends anymore.
Your Former BFF: What are you talking about?
You: I just . . . I just can’t have you setting such a bad example. It’s hurting my image, and I just don’t think being around you is a good thing for me. I think we’re just in different places, you know? We’ve had some laughs, but I think it’s time you grew up and took some responsibility for your actions. I’ll always love you like a brother, but you know . . . I think I just have to move on.
(two minutes of silence)
Your Former BFF: I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU. I’M GONNA GRAB A RUSTY BREAD KNIFE, COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE, AND GUT YOU LIKE A WILD BOAR. AND WHEN I’M DONE DOING THAT, I’M GONNA KILL YOUR FAMILY, AND YOUR FRIENDS, AND ALL YOUR PETS, EVEN THAT PUNKASS COCKATOO YOU GOT. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO ABANDON ME, BITCH? THINK I DON’T KNOW A THING OR TWO ABOUT YOUR PAST THAT THE COPS MIGHT LIKE TO—
(Hang up now! Hang up now!)
Did you get all that? Excellent. The FBI will handle the rest of this messy breakup for you. You won’t have to worry about your old friend for at least eight years. Out of sight. Out of mind. Chances are, you’ll forget about him entirely. Until he shows up in your hedge one day to brutally avenge himself.
* * *
DID YOU KNOW?
The most infamous bad influence in the history of professional sports was former Yankee manager Billy Martin. Martin alone was responsible for more than 782 cases of relapsed alcoholism, 189 drunk-driving deaths, 57 group stabbings, and 20 farts in church.
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HEAR IT FROM AN ATHLETE!
I am not a role model, because I am too fat to be a role model
by Charles Barkley
I am not a role model.
Now that you’re famous, lots of people will tell you you’re a role model whether you like it or not, but that is some heavy bullshit. People that say you’re a role model are people who are too damn lazy to raise their own kids. It’s a free country, and if you want to be someone who no one in their right mind would consider a good example for children to follow, that’s your right. That’s what I did. I’m no role model. Shit, I’m too fat to be a role model.
Imagine if some kid decided to follow my dietary habits. Jesus, they’d need daily insulin shots by age four if they saw the shit I stuff in my enormous piehole. Every morning I eat a pound of bacon and tuck six extra slices into my back pocket for snacking on the go. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything with any sort of nutritional value since age six, and that’s because my gramma slipped a leaf of romaine into my cheeseburger without me looking. Sometimes I drink Wesson right out of the bottle. When I eat apple pie, I don’t even eat the apples. I just eat the crust and the sticky, cinnamony syrup surrounding the apples. I don’t have no time in my l
ife for apples. I’m rich. If I have a heart attack, I can just pay some surgeon to unclog my shit. So don’t tell me I need apples. I’m not a role model, and I don’t like fruit. Fuck fruit.
And there are so many other reasons that I’m a poor role model. For example, my gambling habits. When I hit the roulette table, I never bet on red or black or anything sensible like that. That’s for poor assholes. I bet $5,000 on #32. Every single time. I don’t think I’ve hit it even once. But I don’t give a shit, because I am not a role model. Role models are people who care about math. I went to Auburn. You think I know math from the hole in my ass?
Good kids should, ideally, end up nothing like me. They should be thin and frugal, and they should try and form coherent thoughts before attempting to speak. I don’t do any of that shit. I just say the first thing on my mind, no matter how crazy. It’s part of my charm. Did you know they made Augusta National longer because they’re racist against Tiger Woods? Sure, lengthening the course arguably favors Woods more than any other golfer, but screw that. That shit was racist.
Say, are you gonna finish that burrito? Man, don’t hog that thing like some kind of goddamn Republican. Give Chuckie a nibble, man.
(eats the rest of your burrito)
Of course, I can get away with all this, because I clearly stated up front that I am not a role model. I suggest you do the same thing as well. Not only does it provide you with a mantra to justify all sorts of ignorant behavior, it also appeals to the womenfolk. Ladies don’t like a guy who plays by the rules. That’s why they go out with me, even if I have a size 62-inch waist. That just adds to the intrigue. Where’s my penis? You’ll just have to find out for yourself, honey.
Not being a role model also freed me up to steal Kenny Smith’s chair from the TNT set. Fuck you, Kenny. You ain’t getting your Aeron back. I need the support. Quick, someone find me a production assistant who’s willing to be my footrest. I had to walk here from the elevator, and my dogs are fucking sore.
Remember: you are not paid to be a role model, just like I wasn’t paid to be a role model. You’re paid to go out and wreak havoc. I’m sure being a good role model has some sort of intangible reward. I’m sure it’s a nice feeling to get kids across America to dress, act, talk, and make love just like you. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it. You don’t have to do shit. I don’t.
Just because I dunk a basketball doesn’t mean I should raise anyone’s kids. And that’s a good thing. Because those kids would get fat as shit.
“I said I’m not a fucking role model!” Raising your kids.
Many athletes live with two or three of their closest children. As a father, I can tell you that children are a lot of hard work. But they’re worth it, especially if you aren’t the one doing all that hard work. Your “job” requires far less effort and mental strain than what goes into staying at home to raise a child. But you can’t let your wife know that. You have to get her to believe that all the time you spend clowning around with your teammates, attending team banquets, and playing games in front of an adoring crowd really takes its toll. If she finds out that your job is insanely fun, which she already suspects, you’re fucked.
To keep your wife satisfied, you only need to appear to be a great parent, rather than actually be one. Here are some tips for doing so.
SIGN WITH A TEAM IN YOUR HOMETOWN. Your family may live in a different city than the one you play for. While this gives you six months away every year to live like a free man, you will pay for it in the long run. Once you return home for the off-season, you’ll be forced to attend any number of play dates and pediatrician appointments to make up for the time you lost. The horror! Why not, instead, follow the example of Roger Clemens, who once signed with the Astros as a free agent to be “closer” to his family, then spent all of his time back home playing golf and going “fishing” with his then longtime companion, Andy Pettitte? By simply being in the same area code you’re showing more pretend devotion to your family than most athletes. And your wife will adore you for it.
TAKE YOUR CHILDREN TO PHOTO SHOOTS. Your wife will love you for being a good father. But, if that’s not possible, she’ll be more than happy to settle for you looking like a good father. It helps give her bragging rights over all the other wives in the neighborhood. So do whatever limited parenting you do out in public. Be sure to mention how much you love your kids in all interviews. Have Walter Iooss shoot you for SI at your home, in the pool, holding your child way up in the air as you both laugh gaily. That’s a money parenting shot, one Phil Mickelson uses all the time.
TAKE YOUR CHILDREN TO PRACTICES AND GAMES. Let’s be honest: you’re two steps ahead of any other dad out there simply because of who you are. Do any of the other dads at your kid’s school play for the Giants? Fuck and no. So use it to your advantage. Take your kid to practice and introduce him to all the other famous guys you play with. He’ll be the happiest, most insufferable kid in town within a week. More important, those few minutes he spends with you at the ballpark every so often will earn you his fervent worship no matter what else you do. Your kid will think you’re a god. He’ll want to be you, until he hits puberty and realizes he got too many of your wife’s useless genes. Then he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to escape your enormous shadow, cursing you to his grave. That’s A+ daddying, right there.
HIRE A NANNY. Hiring a nanny gives both you and your wife enough time away from your children to properly enjoy them.
TREAT YOUR FAMILY LIKE YOU TREAT THE MEDIA. Your family has no idea what it’s like to be out on that field. Be sure to remind them of that. Let them know that there is no possible way they can understand the pressures and physical wear and tear of standing in center field for three hours. After any game, walk into your home bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders. Rub your knee and grimace. Declare to them, “I had no idea the Raptors would be so physical!” Then collapse, exhausted, on your recliner. Relax. Crack open a beer. Pat your kid on the head and tell him to have all the ice cream he wants. You, good sir, are an all-star parent. To your legitimate children.
Clippable Helpful Trick the Pros Use!
The best way to remember the names of your illegitimate children is by getting a tattoo.
Chapter 8
Favored Children of the Antichrist
The Media
The unnecessary evil: everything you wanted to know about the media, but were too much of a pussy to ask.
I have two hard-and-fast rules in life. The first is to never eat while watching pornography. I don’t think that requires any explanation. The second is to avoid the media at all costs. Given that the media has little interest in a thirty-two-year-old father of one with an ample bosom and no discernible talent, the latter has not been a difficult rule to adhere to. For you, Mr. All-Star, it’s another matter entirely. The media is like chlamydia — the longer you ignore it, the more irritating it becomes. But fear not. This handy FAQ will answer everything you need to know about the Fourth Estate.
Q: What is the media?
A: The media consists of beat writers, columnists, investigative reporters, TV reporters, TV anchors, studio hosts, play-by-play announcers, game analysts, media analysts, stat analysts, analyst analysts, talking heads, authors, talking animatronic baseballs, talk radio show hosts, talk radio sound effects operators, Internet writers, message board posters, bloggers, podcasters, animated cell phone “hosts,” photographers, producers, freelance journalists, gossip columnists, sideline reporters, team fan fiction writers, blimp operators, and weathergirls with big tits. Essentially, the media is everyone who is not you.
Q: What is their purpose?
A: As I said before, the purpose of sports is to distract fans from having to attend to matters in the real world. Well, the media serves to extend that distraction into perpetuity, and at a hefty profit. Fans will consume any sort of sports media, regardless of quality. This makes sense when you think about it. Would you rather worry about your growing tax debt,
or delay that worry by enduring an episode of Around the Horn? I don’t see any better alternative out there. Do you?
With twenty-four-hour sports networks and new blogs springing up every minute, there is now enough sports media available to consume the entirety of one’s life. In fact, that’s the goal of the media: to turn fans into constant media users by infiltrating every orifice of modern communication and trapping them inside a Matrix-like web of influence. I should know. Between watching games, watching pregame shows, watching postgame shows, reading columnists I do not enjoy, and writing a blog of my own, I see my daughter for only five minutes out of every month. She’s such a little lady now!
Q: Is it true that the Jews run the media?
A: No. The Jews run Hollywood. Between making movies and being responsible for starting all the wars in world history, their plate is pretty full.
Q: Why does my league mandate that I be available to the media for twenty minutes after the game?
A: Because no one in his right mind would talk to the media voluntarily. It’s a painful way to spend your time. Almost as bad as having to sit through a Tyler Perry film. The only way anyone would be caught dead in a room with those heartless vultures is by contractual force.
Part of your league’s broadcast deal with any network like ESPN includes mandatory interviews with players and coaches for this very reason. Why? Well, ESPN can’t be showing sports all the time. That would be weird. They need to mix it up, and they can only analyze a game so much. It’s more fun to force you, the athlete, into an uncomfortable public speaking situation where you will inevitably fuck up. That way, your comments can be taped, cut, replayed, and scrutinized for hours on end. In many ways, it’s much more enjoyable than watching you play. On the field, you are perfect, and that’s boring. Watching you, the flawless athlete, botch a simple press conference question makes everyone around you feel better about themselves, especially all the mouth-breathers asking the questions.