September 15, 2006
For the third time in three months, my copy of ESPN the Magazine is missing. And I know, lovely neighbor, that you are stealing it. Swiping it. Borrowing it without returning it. Robbing me of the pleasure and joy that is the sweet drama of professional sports.
Do you know what season it is? I bet you do. It’s NFL season, which means that the information contained in that magazine will be a direct correlation on how handily I’m able to dominate in my fantasy league. It’s also the end of baseball season, and for the first time since I can remember, my Reds and my Mets have a fighting chance of… well… having a fighting chance.
And the other articles! Where else am I going to read a ten page vignette about Americans playing basketball in Iran? About runners with no legs and bowlers with no arms? How can I drool over full-page photos of Sidney Crosby and (sigh) Sean Casey?
I know you’re powerless to resist the call of the bigger-than-normal stapled pages, lying defenseless at the bottom of my mail slot. I know your eyes dart over the address label and fixate on the catchy headlines. I know the promise of a hundred pages of sports-related goodness is more than you can stand.
I know it’s just a matter of time before the next glossy issue captures your attention, and you feel that overwhelming urge to reach out and take what isn’t yours…
but next time, oh dear neighbor, don’t do it when I’m walking down the stairs.