Jocks are a strange breed. They spend tremendous amounts of time and energy using their immense physical gifts to develop highly specialized skills with little or no real world application, their main task is to humiliate others of their kind in front of large crowds, and those who succeed in this task receive money, prestige, and adulation. Make no mistake, the potential rewards are tremendous, but reaping them requires a perfect body and the right mindset, a formidable combination.
I remember someone who wrote to a sumo letter announcing his intention to try out for a stable. Physically he was fine; sturdy, well-balanced, and strong as a bull. But when it came time to get on the dohyo and actually compete, he learned that…well, he just couldn’t. He simply didn’t like smacking and grabbing other guys.
And that pretty much sums up my feelings. I don’t find it depressing that CroCop could punt me halfway to Maui or Lebron James could dunk over me, my sister, three of my nephews, and a strategically-placed recliner at the same time, but I am quite glad that I’ll never have to actually experience it. Of course, I’ve never been much of an athlete (the last game I was ever competitive in was Red Rover), so it was a lot easier for me to avoid any pretensions of grandeur than most of you, I’m sure.
I’ve been playing Virtua Tennis 3 a lot these past few days. It’s actually a pretty good reflection of what goes on during the actual tours, from the low-key Challengers events where the top players don’t give half a crap and sleepwalk through their matches, to the Grand Slam events where they play like their very souls are at stake. Now, I’m sure most of them are perfectly decent people off the court, the kind where, if I wouldn’t share a beer with, at least I wouldn’t mind holding open a door for or giving directions to the mall. But facing them, competing against them, with the only options being humiliating them or being humiliated by them, and the latter becoming more and more frequent the higher up the events went…there was some real, hard, harsh, painful resentment building. Real painful. And this is playing a character who’s their equal in terms of raw skills. If, for whatever bizarre reason, I ever had to do it for real, and every week Roger Federer or Andy Roddick or Gael Monfils had me flopping around like a fish in front of hundreds of witnesses, each failure prevening thousands of dollars from reaching my pocket, within the first month I’d probably be hatching murder plans.