Column: Will you be my non-valentine?
A Happy Valentine's Day to you and yours!
May your day be filled with love, happiness, too much of the color red and a little something that rhymes with lanky tanky. Or at the very least, I hope you stock up on some halfway decent chocolate.
But now, enough of that.
In sports, we get to celebrate some healthy hatedand do so on a consistent, obsessive basis. From rivalries to purported villains and the talking heads that populate "First Take," hate is alive and well. Today should be no different.
For example, just hours after UConn waved goodbye to scummy Syracuse for good last night, there's no doubt that zero cards or well wishes were sent to follow them home. In fact, flipping the bird or firing eggs at the window of the fleeing bus would have been much more acceptable.
Sports, it seems to me, is the only venue where that kind of hostility is perfectly okay.
So to take advantage of that fact and mix things up today, here are some fictional "non-Valentine" cards from sports figures and groups who know damn well that the recipient won't be their Valentine.
So, will you be my non-Valentine?
Dear Dick Vitale,
You suck with a capital 'S,' baby. Can't wait to hear you on another broadcast of one of our games against Duke. You know, because their cheering section isn't loud enough already. See you in a few years when old age has turned you into a Diaper Dandy.
The North Carolina student section
Dear Bobby V,
The only "Valentine" you ought to see today is at the bottom of any check you sign. Thanks for nothing. But, in the spirit of today, we've attached some candy hearts. In case you can't read them, they spell out: "Be Gone," "My Satan" and "FU FU." In the instance that you can't place the customized flavors, you're now tasting: lawn mower clippings, jockstrap and shame.
Red Sox Nation
Dear Ray Allen,
Dear Alex Rodriguez,
I have to say I'm thoroughly impressed by your post-season performance. I'm not talking about the playoff efforts that resulted in 12 strikeouts in 25 at-bats. Nor the .185 on-base percentage. I'm not even talking about the benching midway through the year's most important series. Rather, what you've done truly after the season was over.
You know, the ability to make everyone hate you even more than they did back then with all this steroids talk and being injured. Sitting back and still collecting hundreds of millions, you've currently got an easier gig than a weatherman in Greenland. Meanwhile, the rest of us get to talk about you and try to put a season together. 'Preciate it, hombre.
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