In The Spirit Of Hate

I have to thank Tim Hardaway. Before he and his hateful mouth came along this week, I didn’t realize how much hate I had stewing in my blood.

Hardaway, the former NBA player, is the second one of his ilk to come out of the closet in recent days. The first, John Amaechi, admitted to being gay. Hardaway admitted he hated the John Amaechis of the world. Tit for tat, sort of.

But then I realized … you know, I hate, too. But not gays. And not even the people who hate gays. My hate isn’t quite as dramatic or headline-grabbing. But it’s there.

To wit …

I hate it when you turn a game on the radio and the announcer refuses to give the score, instead saying cryptic things that describe everything BUT the score.

I hate it when a good standup comedian abruptly ends his act with, “You’ve been great, goodnight!,” leaving you thirsting for more laughs.

I hate when the puck goes out of play in the middle of some great end-to-end hockey action, necessitating a bothersome faceoff.

I hate when people don’t use their turn signals. It’s telling me, “You don’t need to know what I’m doing. Just stay out of my way until I reveal my intentions.”

I hate when a pitcher won’t throw the damn ball, causing the batter to step out of the box. Then I hate it when the pitcher takes that opportunity to step off the mound and rub up the baseball.
Hello! There’s a game to be played!

I hate when I’ve packed a mouth-watering, hearty lunch … and realized I’ve left it on the kitchen counter when I’m halfway to the office.

I hate when a defensive lineman on my football team jumps offsides on a third-and-four.

I hate that everything is packaged nowadays like it’s intended to survive a nuclear holocaust.

I hate when a basketball player misses a dunk. I mean, that’s like eating spaghetti and missing the sauce.

I hate it when the guy in front of me at the ATM is using the machine to apply for a mortgage. Probably the same dufus I get behind at the drive-thru who’s ordering food for the entire GM Tech Center day shift.

I hate when a football announcer on television says a player is tackled on, say, the 33-yard line, when it’s clearly the 34. I’m big on field position accuracy.

I hate when you spend precious time punching in an account number during an automated message to _____ company, and when a human being actually comes on the phone, the first question they ask you is, “What’s your account number?”

I hate an inning-ending double play, or a rally-killing popup.

I hate biting into a hot pepper that’s not hot.

I hate being five games out of first place with four to play.

I hate turning on the radio when one of my all-time greatest hits is in its final ten seconds of airplay.

I hate the uniforms of today’s teams. Since when did we start the trend of brown mustard as a base color? It’s the Gulden Age, I tell you.

I hate the overuse of the term “on the same page,” and this new one, “SHOOT me an email.” And I hate that I have used them myself.

I hate when a quarterback calls time out because he “doesn’t like what he sees.” Maybe I hate that because we can’t do that in real life. Though it’d be nice, I must admit.

I hate spandex and shorts and tank tops on any member of either gender who has as much business wearing them as Matt Millen has with a high draft pick.

I hate $20 for parking near Comerica Park. And I hate that the folks who are charging that won’t take any responsibility for your car while it’s under their noses.

I hate the fact that kids don’t play baseball anymore, and if they do, it’s with a video game controller in their tiny hands.

I hate the idea of “blocking” tight ends and “pass receiving” tight ends. And I hate that it took 30 years for Charlie Sanders, who could do both splendidly, to get into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

I hate trying to spread rock hard butter on tear away bread.

I hate umpires who won’t call strikes.

I hate music-free, commercial jams on the radio.

I hate press conferences for new head football coaches, because they’re like x-rated movies: you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Or so I’ve been told.

I hate the politics in Warren, where I live. I’m convinced that Council President Jim Fouts would engage mayor Mark Steenbergh in a debate over the color of the sky. And white rice.

I hate that the NHL regular season means absolutely nothing come playoff time. So it’s 82 games for … what, exactly?

I hate that you can’t get paper bags at the grocery store anymore. You mean I have to actually bundle my newspapers now?

I hate the overkill of men proposing marriage to their girlfriends in front of tens of thousands of people at a sporting event. Like she could actually say no without people throwing beer on her.

I hate the fact that certain baseball players simply “don’t bunt,” when sometimes a mere base hit to center field, scoring a runner from second, is all that’s needed to win a game.

I hate “spring forward.”

I hate that there are no jump balls in college basketball. We can’t teach the refs to toss a ball three feet in the air, straightly?

I hate a good column that ends abruptly.

Don’t you?