Some people just don’t understand sports.
They say it’s only a form of entertainment, that
it’s “just a game” and isn’t what the real
world is about.
Those people should be deported. This column is for them.
Everything in life can be brought back to sports and in 558
words, I’ll show you how.
I planned to do my history paper last weekend. That didn’t
happen.
The thing is, I know how I play ball. And by starting my paper
unnecessarily early, I would jump out to a big lead in the first
few innings. That’s just not my style.
My excuse is that it would be too easy. Let’s just say I
like the challenge of being in a pressure situation with the game
on the line. And Tuesday night, the ball was in my court in the
ninth inning on my own 5-yard line.
They were bringing the heat but I was ready.
By 1 a.m. Wednesday morning, the assignment was starting to wear
me down. The pangs of intellectual pursuits over the past few hours
had me looking like Byung-Hyun Kim in the 2001 World Series. I
searched my room for a shovel so I could dig myself a hole, but I
had no such luck.
I decided it was time to call the bullpen. And by bullpen, I
meant Italian Express.
After the longest 55 minutes of my life, my pepperoni Gigante
arrived and I was back in the game.
By 2:15, I was almost done with the five- to seven-page paper
““ or so I thought. I had rallied from nothing and was still
feeling strong enough to finish it off relatively early.
Then the trickeration began.
No one is ever prepared for a double-reverse option or a suicide
squeeze in the second inning, but this play surprised me like Bruce
Willis in “The Sixth Sense.”
My roommate had fixed NCAA Football 2007. After giving it up for
dead over a week ago, the prospect of drowning my academic
frustrations in a video game got me out of my chair so quickly you
would have thought it was diseased.
The paper was just going to have to wait.
After a quick Iowa-Penn State matchup and a rare Feder win, I
headed back to my desk. Although I struggled to keep my eyes away
from my bed, I typed out the final lines like a fullback punching
the ball into the end zone to take the lead with only seconds
remaining.
The only thing left was to get the seven pages of Western
Civilization to my class on time.
As long as I don’t fumble down the stretch, I should be
fine, I thought to myself.
With my paper in hand, I headed up Bruin Walk the next day. (At
this point I realized for the first time that the walk between
class and home is actually uphill both ways.)
Though I thought I would be home free with plenty of time to
spare, I forgot one thing ““ Bruin Walk is really not a walk.
It’s a jackknifing slalom that must be maneuvered
carefully.
Some people were standing in the middle like squatters in
undeveloped territory, and others were setting screens like it was
their job. So after doing enough bobbing and weaving to make Oscar
De La Hoya proud, I finally reached my ultimate destination. I
handed in my paper like a veteran referee turning in his whistle
after a long career.
On my walk home, I decided one thing: I’m officially
retiring. Academics is a young man’s game and I’m
done.
At least until midterms.
E-mail Feder at jfeder@media.ucla.edu if you’re
actually getting deported.