For the love of god stupids, stop emailing me. I don’t want to be pen pals.
For the record, here’s the explanation for my absence. Several months ago I contracted the Covid 19 deadly Corona Virus and spent several weeks in the hospital on a ventilator and am just now starting to feel myself.
Hah! Just kidding. The deadly Corona Virus Covid 19 pandemic is a hoax perpetrated by globalists to destroy America’s economic and social fabric with the endgame of transferring wealth and power to the cabal of pedophiles who rule the world and forcing your uneducated socially malformed children to slog through rice fields meeting a rigorous daily quota imposed by some over educated art history major cum under-secretary of Rice Paddies in the newly formed Department of Homeland Rice Paddies. Anyone with half a brain can see that, which means that most of you should be able to figure it out.
What really happened was that when St John’s played Villanova at the beginning of February I couldn’t watch the game because my cable company doesn’t carry CBS Sports. In times past I’d have signed up for a free trial of something or other to watch it but this time I figured fuck it, why bother: they’ll probably lose and if they don’t a bunch of St John’s fans will be elated and their happiness will only serve to make me miserable, so instead I went to bed early, and by went to bed early I mean drank Belvedere from the bottle into the wee small hours of the morning.
I awoke bright and early the next day to a message in my inbox, which message had been sent at 11 PM ish the night before. It informed me of a comment on this blog, which at that point had been dormant for half a year – two posts since July – demanding that I “say something nice” about Coach Third Choice, which good luck with that, because he stinks. What struck me was that the commenter’s first thought immediately after his beloved St John’s Red Storm had defeated the third ranked team in the country wasn’t one of celebration or elation, it was of little old me. It turns out that this particular cunt used to send me private messages on various fan boards when I’d mock him (I’ll do him the courtesy of not calling him out by name) – and believe me he deserves mocking, he’s a fucking imbecile – telling me that the mean words I’d typed in an obscure corner of the internets had kept him awake all night tossing and turning with heart palpitations because I was such a brute, wah wah wah. What a little bitch, ammirite? Various other emails followed, as did I’m informed by some of my many moles and fans various responses to posts then weeks old in those very same obscure interweb corners. At least one guy went so far as to call my house, which I would have picked up if I was here because he’s a good guy, but still, people are calling my house. I got an email yesterday for fuck sake. Please stop it. I don’t want to be pen pals. In my entire adult life I’ve had two friends, one of whom’s dead and the other of whom I can’t stand. Please leave me alone. Except AH of the tribe, he can call whenever he likes.
The other thing I noticed other than that I live in a lot of people’s heads was that I didn’t give a shit one way or another whether St John’s won or lost. It occurred to me that: I just don’t care anymore. I don’t care if they win, I don’t care if they lose; I don’t care if they make the tournament; I don’t care if Lebron James has some eligibility left and he and Russell Westbrook decide to come to Queens to play for Coach Iron Mike Anderson. I just don’t care.
And so I resolved to stop. Which I did, cold turnkey. I haven’t watched a second of a St John’s game since January and I don’t miss it a whit. I have not posted on a fan forum. (I’ll cop to poking my head in a couple of them when St John’s got ignominiously bounced from the BET by Seton Hall but even the wailing and gnashing of teeth didn’t bring me pleasure.) The fact is that I don’t miss any of it, not any of it at all. I don’t even miss calling people cunts and giving them heart palpitations and sleepless night. I don’t miss any of it.
So unless things change, you’ve heard the last of me. (Danger, You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Me! No, But The First Of You Turns My Stomach!) The domain registration for this blog expires in 29 days and I’ll probably not even renew it, despite the fact that when it disappears so will the archives of the finest sports writing New York has seen since Damon Runyon puked on Red Smith. If you’re interested in owning http://www.bigeastboards.com/, hit me up. The previous owner gave it away for free and I’d be happy to pay it forward. Just don’t call me, unless you’re a member of the tribe obviously.
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One last thing. I’ve looked at the NCAA tournament pairings and see various outcomes that would give even the most stoic St John’s fan palpitations. I append them here.
Norm Roberts wins yet another national championship
Arkansas win a national championship
Georgetown win a national championship
Connecticut win a national championship
Syracuse win a national championship
LJ Figueroa wins a national championship
Rutgers makes the Sweet 16
Iona makes the Sweet 16
Mikey Dixon makes the Sweet 16
Porter Moser (aka Coach Second Choice) makes the Sweet 16
That’s a lot of bad outcomes. I wish as many of them as are mathematically possible on all of you.
So see you in the funny papers. And speaking of hearts that can’t stand the strain, enjoy Chris Mullin’s bestie’s wife, Mrs. John McEnroe, she’s hot as fuck. Or at least she was. And still it remains, goodbye to you.