There’s no limit to the atrocities I’m willing to commit on your behalf. If getting you that extra incentive clause means I have to create some kind of superpoison that taints the world’s water supply, killing all who come into contact with it, I will do it. In fact, I even had a lab built in case such a scenario is necessary. Just say the word. Go on. Say it. Now.
Listen, any agent can get you a deal. That’s easy. What you need is an agent who will go the extra mile, who will burn down cities and rend the earth asunder to get you that mandatory suite on road trips. Will your current agent do that? No. He’s a pussy. In fact, I will kill your current agent for you. I will cut his throat slowly with a bowie knife and then embed the video on YouTube, to show other agents and teams that you and I, together, are not to be fucked with. That’s how much I care.
Of course, this extra caring will cost you more than the standard 4 percent. Perhaps also a large portion of your afterlife. But it’s totally worth it, I assure you. Just let me kill again. Please.
“Kansas City? Shit.” Where you’ll be playing.
There are forty-four North American cities (or, in the case of Green Bay, quaint little burgs) that are home to professional sports teams. And while all of these cities have ready access to alcohol and vaginally advantaged persons, some are obviously more desirable than others. That’s why I’ve decided to chart them for you in order of superiority. Except the Canadian cities. I removed them from consideration because Canada, as you know, is not a real country.
I took in many factors while determining these rankings, such as weather, marketing opportunities, abundance of gated communities to protect you from the poor and destitute, real estate prices, tax breaks, social scene, fan base, media glare, leftover racial tensions that could boil over at any moment, air quality, women, cuisine, entertainment, diversity (of women), parks, traffic, lack of a gay community to threaten you, crime, and laxness of drug and prostitution laws. Now, you may disagree with these rankings, and to that I say tough shit. Write your own goddamn book.
Tear out the chart on the opposite page and keep it in your wallet or money clip. It’s a handy reference guide you’ll need in the course of free agency. Is it really worth the extra $100,000 a year to stay in Buffalo rather than move to San Diego? You can go a whole year in Buffalo without seeing a single partially exposed tit. Think about it.
Deeply Penetrating the Numbers
53
Pro athletes living in Green Bay are 53 percent more likely to die in accidents involving autoerotic asphyxiation.
Kneel before your master: knowing your league.
There are three major professional sports leagues in North America: the NFL, MLB, and the NBA. There is also the NHL, which may or may not still exist as of this printing. Notice that each league has given itself a three-letter acronym. There’s something powerful about three-letter acronyms. I can’t explain it. Would you watch a league called the NFKL? No, you would not.
THE BEST CITIES FOR PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES
OUTSTANDINGNOT BADKINDA SHITTYNTERCHANGEABLE FLY-OVER TOWNS WITH LOTS OF MALLS AND OBESE TODDLERSSHITHOLES
1. Los Angeles 9. Atlanta 18. Orlando 28. Milwaukee 38. Baltimore
2. Miami 10. New Orleans * 19. Anaheim 29. Pittsburgh 39. Memphis
3. San Diego 11. San Antonio 2. East Rutherford, NJ ** 30. Minneapolis 40. Jacksonville
4. New York 12. Denver 21. Nashville 31. Cleveland 41. Boston ***
5. Phoenix 13. Washington, DC 22. Raleigh 32. Detroit 42. Buffalo
6. Chicago 14. Philadelphia 23. Uniondale, NY (Long Island) 34. Kansas City
8. San Francisco 15. Charlotte 24. Houston 35. St. Louis
16. Seattle 25. Oakland 36. Columbus
17. Portland 26. Tampa 37. Cincinnati
27. San Jose
* Move this up nine spaces if you plan on breaking the law
** So long as you commute from Manhattan
*** Move this up thirty spaces if you’re white
These are leagues with proud histories — histories that, for our purposes, are largely irrelevant. I’m going to skip the boring crap and cut right to the vital information you need upon entering your respective league. I hope you have a highlighter on your person.
The NFL
Full Name: National Football League
Logo: A coat of arms, featuring all-American red, white, and blue colors with stars that echo the American flag. The logo was slightly modified in 2008, presumably because the serif on the end of the L on the old one was just too queer.
Founded: 1921, as the American Professional Football Association (APFA), only to have its name changed a year later (see what I mean about four-letter acronyms?)
Current Commissioner: Roger Goodell
Commissioner Fifty Years from Now: Condoleezza Rice’s cloned twin sister/daughter. As commissioner, Rice II will control all of the league’s expanded holdings, including the Ford Motor Company, half of Eastern Europe, Peyton Manning’s frozen sperm, CNN, the Ohio State University, and the entire Lutheran sect of the Christian Church.
Ball: Oblong
Annual Revenue: $6.4 billion
Average Player Salary: $1.1 million
Guaranteed Contracts? No. You should want to play for the love of the game, you selfish bastard.
Skill Set Required: Speed, lateral agility, quick recognition of formations and audibles, a deep-seated, primal urge to hurt people that can potentially spill over into civilian life should certain psychological triggers be tragically provided
Fan Demographics: Males, ages 18 to 45. Married. White. Two to three children. Needs regular doses of alcohol to cope with the cruel monotony of day-to-day living.
Chick Magnet Factor: Ten if you play quarterback. Three if you play anything else. Big men scare the ladies away.
MLB
Full Name: Major League Baseball
Logo: A silhouette of a batter poised to hit a ball that will forever remain tantalizingly just out of his reach. It’s a logo inspired by both John Keats and former Detroit Tiger Rob Deer, who sucked. Features all-American red, white, and blue colors. Baseball is often called the national pastime. The nation that moniker refers to is Cuba.
Founded: 1903
Current Commissioner: Allan H. (Bud) Selig, the first and last Jewish man to go by the name Bud
Commissioner Fifty Years from Now: Bob Costas III, who will be just as pretentious and disturbingly ageless as his grandfather. He will be hired as a cruel prank by owners, who will then gleefully stonewall him at every turn. He will accomplish nothing.
Ball: Round. Small. Hard. Stings like a bitch when you get one in the eye at age seven (thanks, Dad).
Annual Revenue: $5.2 billion
Average Player Salary: $2.5 million
Guaranteed Contracts? Yes. So chew all the Red Man you want. The cost to surgically remove a three-inch mouth tumor is relative chump change.
Skill Set Required: Quick hands, good arm, intangible feel for hitting the ball that George Will could probably drone on about for hours on end, like it’s magic or something. What a douche.
Fan Demographics: Males, ages 65 and over. Widowed. White. Four to five grandchildren, one of whom he will inevitably drag to the ballpark, hoping to generate a spark of wonderment in the child’s eyes, only to fail and become more disillusioned with the state of our nation’s youth, taking his own life shortly thereafter
Chick Magnet Factor: Seven. Change that to a negative integer if your first name is David and your last name is Wells.
The NBA
Full Name: National Basketball Association
Logo: Jerry West against an all-American red, white, and blue backdrop. Many people believe this is merely a silhouette of West. Not true. That’s an actual photograph. I’m telling you, without the spray-on tanner, the man is whiter than an albino cancer patient.
Founded: 1946, as the Basketball Association of America, or BAA. The name was changed because too many people pronounced the acron
ym phonetically, just to be wiseasses.
Current Commissioner: David Stern
Commissioner Fifty Years from Now: David Stern. Did you really think mere death could kill David Stern? Foolish mortal.
Ball: Large. Round. Shape inspired by former Jazz center Oliver Miller.
Annual Revenue: $3.2 billion
Average Player Salary: $4 million
Guaranteed Contracts? Yes. And limited marijuana testing! They want you to enjoy yourself here. Please do so.
Skill Set Required: Wide base, excellent hand-eye coordination, court vision, the ability to make even the slightest physical contact seem a violation akin to forcible rape
Fan Demographics: Males, ages 13 to 30. Single. Black. Four to five grandchildren. Steadfastly believe it could be them out on that court if their middle school coach hadn’t, like, played favorites and shit.
Chick Magnet Factor: Ten to black women. Four to white women. White women see a black man taller than 6'6" and are simultaneously curious and terrified.
The NHL
Full Name: National Hockey League
Logo: Sort of looks like a police badge, which the league may have done intentionally, just for the delicious irony. The logo also features all-Americ — Wait, what’s that? Their logo is black and silver? What pathetic, twisted Third World nation is that supposed to represent? Want to know why you’re the redheaded stepchild of pro sports, NHL? Take a look at your logo, and then go get fucked.
Founded: 1917
Current Commissioner: Gary Bettman. Few people know that Gary Bettman was born without a pituitary gland and is only 3'8".
Commissioner Fifty Years from Now: No one
Ball: Round. Flat. Not actually a ball
Annual Revenue: $2 billion (Note: That’s gross revenue. Net revenue is unavailable. Literally.)
Average Player Salary: $1.5 million
Guaranteed Contracts? Shockingly, yes.
Skill Set Required: Strong legs, quick wrists, an inability to recognize that pain is the nervous system’s way of telling your brain that something is amiss with your body
Fan Demographics: Stuart Nelson of Wayzata, MN. Fourteen years old. Single
Chick Magnet Factor: A surprising eight. As an NHL player, your brain is a blank canvas women are often eager to work with.
You may also play an individual sport that has no league affiliation. Sports like golf, tennis, and boxing offer the freedom of individual play, along with sizable event purses. Even better, being an independent contractor athlete means that you are your own boss. Whew! No pesky coaching for you, just a domineering father who will push you to the very fringes of sanity before dying at the exact moment you need him most. It’s a pretty sweet deal. After all, there’s no I in team, unless there’s no team.
So those are your options. Feeling settled in now? Good. Time to work. And by work, I mean play.
Clippable Motivational Slogan!
Winning isn’t everything. Kicking your man while he’s down, watching him writhe in agony and clutch at his rib cage like a little girl while you let out a slow, demonic cackle — that’s also pretty sweet.
— VINCE LOMBARDI
Chapter 2
It’s Not Just a Sport; It’s Now a Soul-Crushing Job
On the Field
You don’t get to play those pussies from Rice anymore: what to expect on the field.
Now that you’re a pro, you’re going to have to learn to adjust to the differences inherent in the pro game. It’s a far different enterprise than the game you played at the collegiate level. For one, you will now be paid in real money, instead of being “paid” with a scholarship. As currencies go, American dollars are far more useful than any sort of forced learning. Especially if you studied sociology, the major for people who enjoy being useless. But I mainly want to drill down the differences in style of play here.
SPEED. First off, the pro game is much faster. There aren’t as many slow, white assholes clogging up the field this go-round. All that juking and jiving you did junior year? That won’t fool pros such as Brian Urlacher. In fact, it’s far more likely to piss them off, causing them to drive you into the ground, shredding vital internal tissue in the process. So get speedier. I suggest taking diuretics prior to game time. They really help dial up the urgency.
EQUIPMENT. This is most pronounced in baseball, where your aluminum bat will be replaced with a wooden bat (Note: Eighty-five percent of all incoming baseball players nickname their bat Wonderboy, until their first strikeout). The reason for this change is twofold. First off, wooden bats are less likely to injure pitchers. Given that pitchers can shatter your orbital socket with a 95-mile-per-hour heater any time they wish, this seems kind of unfair. You should be able to retaliate by nailing them dead center in the chest with a death-rope line drive. Alas, you’ll just have to settle for seeing them jut out their glove to block the ball rocketing off your bat, and cowering in fear like little pussies.
The other reason wooden bats replace aluminum in the majors is for sound design. Aluminum bats go PING! Wooden bats go CRACK! PING! is kind of a weak sound. Almost fey. CRACK! is far manlier. It connotes the breaking of things, and that is sweet. Ask any major leaguer: CRACK! beats PING! every time. Especially if you’re the late Steve Howe.
SCHEDULE. College schedules are notoriously padded with any number of cupcake opponents. Your Prairie View A&Ms, your SUNY-Buffalos, your Notre Dames, and your Lower Duluth Amateur Pornographer Film Scoring Institutes. Those were gimme games. Oh, sure, your college coach always told you, “Be careful of Vanderbilt! They’ll sneak up on you! That number sixteen is an absolute dragon!” But that was all a load of shit. He knew they sucked, and so did you. Don’t expect any opponent to come in and just lie down for you at this level. Unless, of course, you’re playing the Knicks.
In fact, you not only face tougher, faster opponents at every encounter on the pro level, but you also have to play them more times. Pro schedules are considerably longer than college schedules, and that’s not even counting the playoffs. There’s going to be a lot of wear and tear on your body, no matter how many free deep-tissue massages and scented hot tub aromatherapies you may receive. Rookies are often said to hit what is known as a “rookie wall.” This occurs when you have played the number of pro games that would constitute a full college season, only to realize you still have fifty games left to go. This is often followed by a five-minute audible groan.
The one saving grace? You don’t have to attend any college classes. Not that you did before anyway, but at least now you don’t have to keep up the facade of attending class and pretend you care about how the Revolutionary War ended. That can be pretty exhausting.
RULES. Pro sports often differ from the college game in terms of rules and / or timekeeping. There are some obvious ones. In the NBA, the three-point line is a couple extra feet from the basket. In the NFL, receivers must have both feet inbounds for a legal catch. And the PGA Tour forbids players from having any goddamn sense of humor whatsoever. Everyone knows that.
But there are some additional rule differences you may not be aware of. For instance: in Major League Baseball, it is, in fact, perfectly legal to run the base paths with the tip of your penis just barely sticking out above the waistband of your game pants. If any girls notice this, you are awarded an extra base. The NFL forbids the use of geese to distract punt returners but allows group masturbation in any bench area Cool Zone. And while hand-checking is illegal in the NBA, tickling is not. Also, were you a cross-country runner in college? You’ll notice that professional cross-country running has no rules, because there is no such thing as professional cross-country running. Next time, pick a real sport, instead of gallivanting through the woods like a goddamn idiot.
Grizzled or nongrizzled? What kind of pro athlete are you?
Not all pro athletes are created equal. Obviously, there is a big difference between, say, a Michael Jordan and, say, a Jack Haley. Jordan was a god. Haley was a towel boy who got to w
ear warm-up pants. As a pro athlete, you’re going to fit into a certain archetype, a Shakespearean stock character, if you will. Jeff Garcia will be playing the part of Desdemona. For the rest of you, you’re going to fit into one of the following categories.
SUPERSTAR. You are the absolute best among your peers. Not only are you an all-star, but you are better than your fellow all-stars, which makes you the best of the best of the best. This concept is even more mind-blowing after you’ve taken in seven bong hits. You are the rare breed of athlete that transcends your chosen sport, attracting casual fans both domestically and in important, developing foreign markets like China, India, and soon-to-be-independent-if-I-get-my-way Alsace-Lorraine. You are an icon. In fact, there’s a very good chance that you are so well known that die-hard fans of your sport now resent your omnipotence and have grown to loathe your visage whenever they encounter it, which is all the time. You are a lock to make your sport’s Hall of Fame one day, especially considering that losers like Warren Moon are already in there. Fans mob you. Commercial sponsors adore you. Refs protect you as if you were made of very fine porcelain. Groupies regularly scour your dumpster in search of freshly used condoms.
ALL-STAR. You excel among your peers and are well established enough that casual idiot fans will punch your name on the all-star ballot year after year because they’ve heard of you. You are considered an exceptional player, but you are not an ambassador for your sport the way superstars are. This is a good thing, because being an ambassador for your sport can be a real pain in the ass. Fans (especially children) will mistake you for some other all-star. Commercial sponsors like you. Refs may forgive the occasional eye gouge. Groupies will still allow anal.
SOLID PLAYER. You are a hardworking athlete who can make the occasional great play, but you lack the talent and the consistency to excel against players of an all-star level or higher. Try as you might, you have reached a plateau from which you can rise no higher. God, that is so depressing. You work all this time to get where you are, yet you’ll never be as good as the very best. Look at that LeBron James, driving past you like it’s nothing. He makes it look so easy. Christ, how you loathe him. If only there were a way to lure him into an abandoned parking garage, where you could stealthily mow him down with your Honda Accord, or with gunfire, or with both. Commercial sponsors ignore you. Refs ignore you. Thank God for groupies. They’re the only people with low enough standards to accept you and your lesser skills.