Yesterday I awoke from my alcohol induced slumber to have ESPN’s The Sports Reporters on my television set. Absent from the stage was the shining star of the show (just ask him), Mike Lupica. I gotta say, from now on, I think the blog is about three things; baseball, raisin’ hell, and Mike Lupica. He is both the question, and the answer. Lupica? Lupica!
Since he’s the star of that big time show airing weekly on the Worldwide Leader every sunday morning, he gets special privliges that the others do not. I can just imagine him, demanding he have mothers day off:
“Yeah, so like, I’m so fucking not on for mothers day. Afterall, it’s in my contract if you want me to enforce it, if you’re asking me to be an asshole I have no problem being an asshole. Oh, and just so you know, I’ve got tenure here. Ten-ure. Do you fucking get it? I am the Sports Reporter; the original one. My mother and wife are more important than you, and all those couch-dwelling peons out there that will be watching anyway, so tell that weird-eared fuck Albom that he finally gets his big chance to run things, and tell John Saunders that he can talk some more about God knows what he dreams up, oh and tell Conlon that he can drag his fat ass in here with his coffee mug, cause I’m heading to Stover’s in Manhattan for the fucking brunch for my wife and mother, assholes.”
It’s funny because I started watching the Sports Reporters at a very young age. From the very beginning, I noticed a few things from the beginning. Two things; to be exact. One, was Mitch Alboms ears. I wish I wouldn’t have noticed Alboms ears. He was hard enough to listen to, now I have to try not to look at his ears. It’s a good thing he’s not one of the people I’ll get to meet in Heaven or I’d be afraid to get kicked out for staring at them.
The other thing I noticed, was that Lupica fucking runs the show. I mean it’s his fucking show. From day one, I said to myself after hearing him talk, and watching him talk with so much nerd filled anger, ‘Wow, this guy is probably a real shithead to deal with on a real-life basis.’ Sure enough, somehow it came up in conversation with editor George one day. Much to my delight he mentioned that Lupica was from somewhere nearby in Connecticut, and that he had actually interacted with Lupica before. It went something like this (while Georgie was working at a sporting goods store):
George: “Hello, Bob Sports, this is George,”
Lupica: “Yeah, Hi. This is Mike,”
George: (Long pause, silence…….)
Lupica: “You know, LUPICA?“
George: (Extended pause 2…..more silence)
Lupica: “From the Sports Reporters. Yeah. I need to know if you have any more kids baseball gloves, for my son, little Mike. Go in the back and check for me. Thanks.”
Now, tell me that isn’t the exact fucking way you’d expect this guy to act. From now on, I’ll have to mention every Lupica tidbit my mind can dream up because this guy is a complete fucking asshole and he of course owns the place and he’s going to let you know. It’s Mike Lupica’s world, we’re just living in it.