At the core of every guy is a failed athlete. There are almost no exceptions to this rule. During childhood, just about every single boy in North America aspires to play some professional sport. This pursuit is engrained into our being, passed down from grandfather to father, father to son. It is virtually genetic.
How do I know this? Because I am both a failed baseball and soccer player.
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It's great when you're a kid. Spring afternoons filled with wiffle ball, summer evenings with Little League games, and spending autumn nights reenacting World Series highlights.
Then puberty sets in and you realize you're no Michael Jordan—5’ 9" is as tall as you are ever going to. And you fail spectacularly.
These failed athletes still exist in all of us, deep inside our bodies now retrofitted for couch sitting and internet surfing by domestic beer and fast food.
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The very few exceptions to this rule include the lucky ones; the home run hitters and big game pitchers that actually made it (though I would imagine their lives are also entirely consumed by the world of sports.) And there are, of course, the smart ones. The one half of one percent who shunned the world of sports entirely and became musicians and writers, critics and artists.
But I'm talking about the rest of us—the guys you date, the boys you know, the ones that will watch any game, no matter the sport or teams involved. The ones who read Deadspin on an hourly basis, who listen to sports radio incessantly and who, on any given Sunday, are involved in at least five fantasy football teams. We are the ones that never quite got over getting cut from varsity junior year or losing our last state playoff game. The ones who have had to settle for a lifetime of living vicariously through a collection of men who wear the same jerseys and happen to represent the cities we live closest to.