Like many retired athletes, I traded in the two-a-days for khakis, Gatorade for beer and healthy eating for $.35 wing and taco buffets. Being an athlete is not sustainable, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my competitive edge.
There are many types of people in beer league sports with varying levels of skill. You tend to see the same people all the time and develop a hatred for some of them.
This year, I got the call up to play both beer and competitive league hockey. Unfortunately, my beer league nemesis, Jim, also will be featured in both leagues. Initially, I thought this would be a shit situation but it allowed me to collect my thoughts. Without further adieu, an open letter to my most hated person in beer league sports.
First off, fuck you. I’m sure you already know this, but I cannot begin to tell you how much of a dickhead you are. First, let’s start with your wife’s “let me speak to your manager” haircut. I would rather my woman have bangs or a bowl cut than this atrocity. I’ve never met her, but anyone that loves you clearly has Stockholm Syndrome or their shittiness is of equal to or greater value than yours.
I’m sick of seeing Schwan trucks in my neighborhood. I don’t know if it’s you, but I know you drive one. For those that don’t know, Schwan brings overpriced shit straight from store to your neighborhood — an adult ice cream man, if you will. Only lazy people order this shit and frankly, I love the grocery store. Your very existence is an assault on my core values.
You may remember last year’s final; I know I do. The beginning of the standoff. I tried to make a play, we collided, you fell and apparently I’m an “asshole.” Well, Jim, you outweigh me by at least 35 pounds. I didn’t appreciate the slash and I don’t regret giving you a nice shoulder under the chin that dropped you like a sack of potatoes. Pete (a mutual friend) told me your back is still jacked up. I don’t regret giving you the Nolan Ryan either after you hooked and pulled me across my chest, even if it got me kicked out and we lost 3-1.
You see, this is a new year. I’m not sorry for making comments about your gut, how you haven’t seen your penis without a mirror since high school or that you resemble the Stay Puft Marshmellow man. Someone once said, “If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say it at all,” and I disagree because they clearly never met you.
I will make sure to wear shoulder pads and a mouth whenever our teams meet because I know you’re a dirty player. I hope you hit the tread mill and practiced your crossovers because I’ll take you outside all game and you know that. With beer league season coming soon, I can’t wait to exact sweet revenge. This year will be a rubber match, our teams 2-2 last year and I can’t wait. I know you’ll use every trick, play dirty and are generally a low life but I’m ready for it.
I know you’ve seen me out drinking and chose to give the cold shoulder. I give you the smile and man head nod, even though you choose to ignore me. Knowing you were there at the same bar when the Rangers beat the Penguins and seeing your sad, dejected face trundle out of the bar, bitch wife in tow, made my Friday night celebration that much sweeter.
In closing, I would like to offer up my condolences in advance. My personal mission from the drop of the puck is to make you look as bad as possible. I have great health insurance, something I don’t know if Schwan affords to you, so any salty cheap shots will be just a flesh wound.
Go Fuck Yourself,
Image via YouTube