Chicago Man Claims He Does Not Like Sports

By Jimmy Olson for Shooting Stars Daily

CHICAGO — A gaggle of reporters gathered around Frank Feral, a Chicago man who recently became the target of outrage over secretly recorded comments he made at Billy Goat Tavern.

“Look,” said the bartender, “I hear lots of stuff from drunks at the bar — guys who plan to murder their ex-wives or kill their neighbor’s dog. No big deal. But this pervert pissed me off so much that I recorded him and sent copies to the media. Yes, I violated the bartender’s code of confidentiality, but I have no regrets.” He asked that his name not be used.

The words that shook the city and rocked the nation were clearly audible on the recording. “I don’t give a fuck about sports.”

Reporters caught up with Mr. Feral in Haymarket Square, on the near west side of the city, where he sat on a park bench, feeding pigeons. Three burly men with TV cameras perched on their shoulders like sharp-eyed birds of prey jostled for the best shot. Reporters elbowed each other to get in close.

Buzz Spector, from the ever-popular TV sports show, The Daily Fix, shoved a microphone into Frank Feral’s face, and yelled with the urgency of a reporter asking a mother about her gunned-down son, “Frank, is it true that you don’t like sports?”

The elderly man looked at the crowd with mild curiosity, shrugged, and replied, “Yea, I don’t give a fuck about sports. Never did, never will.”

He then leaned to the left and let out a blast of flatulence that sent Spector stumbling backward gasping for air.

This allowed Martin Lackey, a reporter for the Chicago Tribune, which now covers only sports and entertainment, to rush in for a follow-up question.

“So, you don’t root for the Chicago teams?”

“Why would I do that?”

Lackey sneered. “Because you are a Chicagoan, that’s why!”

“But what if I was born in Milwaukee?”

Lackey blinked in bewilderment, appeared to search deeply into his mind for an answer, then replied with a confident smile, “In that case, you would root for Milwaukee teams!”

“But why?” said Frank, raising his voice slightly. “These players aren’t even from the cities they play for. They get bought and sold like multimillion-dollar slaves. And their salaries are obscene!” A vein in his neck began to twitch.

“Yes, but…” began a reporter from the prestigious National Enquirer.

Frank slammed his pigeon food to the ground. “Gladiator matches where fellas give each other concussions for the entertainment of the lobotomized public! What the fuck is the matter with you people? These are just games, they don’t mean a god-dammed thing!”

A stunned silence followed as we struggled to process his nearly incoherent statements.

“Lobotomized public? What’s he talking about,” said Lackey under his breath, as he straightened his tie.

Sensing insanity or at least dementia, I gingerly asked, “Mr. Feral, don’t you have a sense of pride in your city?”

“Pride?” he said, scratching his groan, “I hate religion, but isn’t pride supposed to be a sin?

“No, Frank,” I said, trying not to sound patronizing. “Pride is a feeling of accomplishment, like when your team wins…“

“What the fuck do I have to do with a team winning? I can barely shuffle down to the bar.”

I gazed into the smoggy Chicago sky for a moment, then spoke slowly and patiently, as if explaining human civilization to a space alien.

“Frank, you are supposed to identify with a team. It’s your team. And if they win, it’s wonderful! You should be proud. Just like you should be proud of your gender and race — especially if you are a white man, as you clearly are! And proud of your country, if it happens to be America.

“Let me see if I got this right,” said Frank. His leathery forehead became wrinkled, like an old catcher’s mitt.

“I’m supposed to pretend that some team represents me. And I’m supposed to pretend that a meaningless game is important. And then I’m supposed to get all emotionally worked-up about winning or losing?”

“Yes, that’s it!” I blurted out, proud of my communication skills.

“But why?” he continued, like an annoying child.

“Because that’s what people do in society,” I said firmly. “It’s normal. Don’t you want to be normal, Frank?”

He looked down at a flattened beer can in the gutter.

“Normal?” He repeated the word several times, then asked, “Is it normal to do all that pretending?”

A few moments passed. His face softened. He stared deeply into my eyes as if searching for a lost golf ball in a muddy pond. Hours seemed to pass. I felt the urge to urinate. Then he looked away and muttered, “I guess you can’t find a pearl in a can of sardine.”

He shook his head slowly from side to side, then spoke in an ominous tone, “Marx said religion is the opium of the people, keeping them sedated and distracted so they could be exploited….”

“Groucho or Harpo?” asked Lackey.

Frank ignored the question. “But today’s opium can wipeout the entire planet.”

He closed his eyes and began chanting. Within moments he appeared to be in a deep trance. Although barely audible, he was repeating something that sounded like, “Knee-rows, knee-rows, knee-rows.”

We all moved in closer to hear what he was saying. You could hear a pin drop. Then he leaped to his feet and shouted, “Rome is burning and you fuckers are fiddling about nothing!”

Startled by this psychotic outburst, we packed up our gear and left.