“Naah … I’m used to speaking in front of crowds,” I said, adjusting my cufflinks and straightening my tie. Probably an Armani suit, since it was a dream.
“These are the media; you gotta expect a grilling,” the extra said.
“Bring it on.” Probably a Mike Ditka sneer, since it was a dream, and mine.
At the lectern, the made-for-dream Commissioner of All Sports addressed the throngs.
“As you know, this is a first in the world of competitive sports,” the CAS began. Then, some boring yadda yadda stuff – skipped because this was my dream. “So, without further ado, it is my pleasure to introduce the very first Ambassador to Save Sports – a man whose vast knowledge and encyclopedia-like brain, not to mention a curmudgeonly persona, tinted with a spice of cynicism, is perfect for this position. Mr. Greg Eno, the floor is yours – as the first Ambassador to Save Sports. The pioneer A.S.S.”
“Thank you, Commissioner,” I, the A.S.S., said, squinting into the lights. “I’ll just read some brief opening comments, then I’ll take your questions.”
“As you all know, there is much wrong in the world of sports today: outrageous contracts, hypocrisy, jealousy, and Bill Walton. Now, I may not be able to do much about the last one – but you can bet I’ll try.”
Knowing chuckles and head nods from the press guys.
“But seriously, when I decided to take this job, it was with the understanding that I’d have total autonomy; that the league commissioners would report directly to me. Yes, even you, David Stern. Don’t roll your four eyes at me, sir.”
Some oohs and murmurings, like in one of those courtroom dramas.
“You want ‘zero tolerance’, Stern? I’ll show you zero tolerance, my friend. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
I was just getting warmed up, this being my dream and all.
“OK, first things first. Let’s start with Mr. Roger Goodell and his NFL. Starting immediately, all defensive backs will be encouraged to chew garlic during the games. Don’t look so confused, Roger. I figure if all it takes to get a pass interference call is to breathe on a receiver, the DBs may as well get some satisfaction.”
More chuckles and the pens were being furiously pressed to notepads.
“Oh, and about the uniforms nowadays. Who designed these monstrosities? Crayola? Rejects from the Arena League? You can start with the Tennessee Titans, who I have decreed have the ugliest duds ever to get a grass stain. Redesign them forthwith. And you will go back to having all home teams wear dark jerseys, and visiting teams wear white. Like it used to be. I turn on a game today and I can’t tell where they’re playing, because so many teams are wearing white at home. This isn’t baseball, gawl dang it!
“Don’t snicker, Bud Selig. You’re next.”
Some clearing of throats and shifting in the seats.
“If I was a baseball player, I figure I’d be, with my marginal talent, a utility infielder. You know, 150 at-bats, .230 batting average, little or no power. I’d be as much of a household name as that brand of facial tissue that isn’t called Kleenex. Get where I’m coming from?”
Baseball commissioner Selig nods, waiting for the other cleat to drop.
“So with those skills and those meager statistics, I’d guess my salary would be, oh, $5 million per year?”
Even more chuckles, and pens are being changed.
As an A.S.S., I would have Stern (left) and Bettman, plus Goodell and Selig, working for ME
“Enough already. Your owners are about as responsible with their money as Michael Richards is with a microphone. So beginning right here, right now, every team gets a budget – and I mean a real budget. You know, like a checkbook – but the kind you balance, not the kind that’s filled with blanks. And guess what? You overdraft, Major League Baseball hits you with an NSF fee. Of one MILLION dollars.”
Gasps.
“Oh, don’t look so aghast, Bud. Rein your owners in, for gosh sakes. I mean, at least get the utility infielder down to $2 million per year. Show me something.”
I seek out basketball commissioner David Stern in the audience.
“Then there’s the NBA. Quite a menu. Where shall I begin? Well, I mentioned your ‘zero tolerance’ policy when it comes to arguing with officials. Look me in the eyes sir and tell me that’s not a ‘Zero Rasheed’ policy!”
Applause and cheers. The press conference is in Detroit, after all.
“That’s right, I said it! What are you going to do, ‘T’ me up? I don’t think so. This is MY dream, dammit!”
Stern squirms and looks for Michael Jordan to save him. Not this time, pal.
“Argue with impunity, I say! Let the officials take it, like they do in the NFL. Goodell’s league at least does that right. The NFL lets their players and coaches blow off steam during the heat of a game. I’ve seen the zebras get worked over like a mangy-haired teenager by a drill sergeant, and their yellow hankies stay stuffed in their waistbands. But poor Sheed wrinkles his nose, and here comes the tech. Outrageous.
“And as far as your new ball goes? I suspect we have another Coke marketing ploy happening. Remember what Coke shamelessly did? Replaced its product with ‘New Coke,’ getting the predictably negative reviews, before introducing ‘Classic Coke.’ Genius. So you commission Spalding to make a new ball, which the players mostly dislike. They’re even complaining of paper cuts on their hands. Seriously! So what’s next, David? ‘The NBA Classic Ball’ from Spalding?”
More murmurings, and the writers are cramping up.
I take a breath, and swig some bottled water. Aquafina – my dream water.
I find NHL commissioner Gary Bettman in the crowd.
“Finally, there’s hockey. Poor, poor hockey. The league with TV ratings lower than Anna Nicole Smith’s IQ. The league of trapezoids, shootouts, points for losing, and so many power plays, it would make Donald Trump blush.”
There’s a long, long pause as I think of what I could possibly do, as an A.S.S., to save hockey. I think and I think. I scratch my head. Then I turn to the CAS.
“I want a raise.”
“Already? You just started.”
My dream.
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