My sincerest apologies for neglecting my SportsChumpian duties lately, but if I told you that within two days time I shook hands with Reggie Bush, was fondled by an eight-foot python, hit the links with a rabbi, put on a karaoke rendition of “Sex Machine” inspirational enough to warrant a Rastafarian embrace and had a six-year old teach me how to Dougie, which one of those would you believe?
If you guessed all of the above, you’d be correct.
Let’s just say it was a wild, forty-eight hours.
Last Wednesday, I drove to Miami for the kick-off of Red Bull’s latest project: the Red Bulletin. Their magazine promises to be a huge success, one to which I’ll hopefully eventually contribute. All night, I was hobnobbing with celebrities in South Beach, munching on tasty hors d’oeuvres and knocking back unhealthy amounts of vodka and Red Bull.
On the drive down from Tampa, I listened to several local sports radio jocks fielding questions from disillusioned Heat fans who were still trying to figure out why the rest of America hated LeBron James. Obviously they don’t read SportsChump.
While shopping for something chic to wear for the evening’s events, (SportsChump does like to look his best), I stumbled upon a rack of LeBron jerseys, still going for eighty dollars a pop so, despite his Finals loss, it appears the kid is doing just fine financially. Too bad nobody likes him.
There were also plenty of jokes tossed around about the Marlins (old) new manager, Jack McKeon (80), who took over the team after Edwin Rodriguez resigned. Losing 18 of 19 ball games will do that to a guy.
The following afternoon, it was off to the links at beautiful Plantation Preserve. As most of you wannabe golfers know, cursing is an inherent part of the game, but there was something oddly liberating about playing in the same foursome as a rabbi and screaming “God Damn!” at the top my lungs every time I put my ball in the drink. It was like sinning in double-time. Even with God on his side, however, the rabbi’s game was off. In fact, I even heard him mutter an F-bomb or two, proving no one is exempt from golf’s wrath. Good times.
And then of course, there’s this… perhaps the most adorable thing you’ll ever see, my best friend’s six year old daughter teaching us how to Dougie. And a star is born.
In the end, a good time was had by all but it was good to be home. Keep your fingers crossed that the work of yours truly will find its way into the Bulletin. As always, you’ll be the first to know.