Many athletes talk about going fishing, but it’s usually after their career is over.
Reggie Swinton wasn’t so lucky. For a while, in between one of his eight cuts from professional football teams, in between the XFL and the CFL and the NFL and the arena league, in between Edmonton, Las Vegas, Dallas and Detroit, in between Green Bay and Jacksonville and Winnipeg and Arkansas, he had no choice but to go fishing — for his supper.
For years, I tried to hide it. If people asked, I denied the rumors. But sooner or later, like a moon through the clouds, your secrets emerge from darkness. And in a few days, mine will be exposed.
So I conferred with my people, my handlers, and they suggested, like Bill O’Reilly, it was best if I got out in front of this nasty business. So I will. Right here. I will confess it now.
I do Elvis.
I hadn’t watched a baseball game on a small, handheld TV set since 1986, when I was stuck in a cab in New York City. That game — complete with snowy fuzz — was an American League championship affair, featuring an unlikely comeback by the star-crossed Boston Red Sox against the California Angels in which the Bosox were one strike away from elimination yet ultimately reached the World Series.
Eddie Drummond tried. Kick after kick, punt after punt, the Lions’ return specialist rambled through defenders Sunday at Ford Field, going outside, cutting inside, delivering 20, 30, 40 yards worth of real estate, handing Detroit terrific field position. Problem was, once he got tackled, he came off the field.
That left the rest of the Lions.
Not ready for Prime Time. Prime Time teams don’t take a breath after a good victory. Prime Time teams treat third downs like a holy grail. Prime Time teams beat opponents when they’re down. Oh. And Prime Time teams complete easy passes.
I just heard some news that hardly seems fair. President George W. Bush is going to get slammed in a new “documentary” that is little more than a propaganda film.
Apparently, this documentary takes a one-sided view of his National Guard service and his later years as a party boy. There are “interviews” — if you can call them that — with angry National Guardsmen who never saw him show up for duty. There are “interviews” with people who claim they drank and did cocaine with him.
The room is quiet. The lights are off.
“Anybody out there?” the puck says.
“I don’t hear anything,” says the stick.
The lockers stand empty, side by side, collecting dust. The names are still there. “Yzerman” next to “Shanahan” next to “Joseph.” The names are still there, but the players are not.
“Probably a traffic jam,” the puck says.
“Yeah,” says the stick. “You know construction this time of year.”
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