Life as a sports prophet: not as glamorous as you think

What does it profit a man to be a sports prophet?

A person with whom I am very familiar was once in the business of sports prognostication. He was very good.

I imagine even the mighty Zultan would concur: the prophet business is not all peaches and cream. Let the truly wise among you read these words and ponder…

In some unknown burg or ville or dale,
in the safety of darkness’ breast –
across the tracks, behind some shacks, in shadowy secret nest,
past a pallet bridge and a discarded fridge,
in a cave made of dairy crates
our hero steals nightly, slinking ever so quietly to his fortress of solace and rest

For the morning will dawn soon enough
and with it, the trappings of fame:
a three-piece suit, a case full of loot, a Learjet, a limo, a name.
With scratching and clawing, pulling and pawing,
his suitors know not to relent.
Why all the commotion, hysteric devotion? The future’s the name of his game.

Monte Carlo, Vegas, Cairo, Cancun,
Caracas, New York, Singapore.
The world’s his stage, he’s all the rage. Sheiks knock upon his door.
With laptop astow, ’round the world he does go
to answer the questions of kings –
for somehow he wrings the mysterious things of the future and brings them to fore.

Without further ado, let me introduce you
to the one who has caused all the stir.
They call him Big Red—the redhead with cred.
The Seer Supreme, as it were.
His methods are hidden, his hunches are ridden.
Events seem to follow his lead.
I don’t understand— he just gives the command and the future unfolds at his word.

“Can the ‘Horns beat the Tide?”  “Should Tiger go hide?”
“Will the Cubbies win two out of three?”
“Can Rafa beat Fed?”  “Is Elvis dead?”
The questions come unceasingly.
Not to mention the Mob (Oh, the risks of his job!).
He sports Kevlar underwear.
Though the lucre does flow, somehow I don’t know how he clings to his sanity.

(This is how…)

In some unknown burg or ville or dale,
in the safety of darkness’ breast
across the tracks, behind some shacks, in shadowy secret nest
past a pallet bridge, and a discarded fridge,
in a cave made of dairy crates
our hero steals nightly, slinking ever so quietly to his fortress of solace and rest.

-written March, 2009

Published in: on November 21, 2010 at 8:22 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Rojo’s Henhouse Adventure

Normally, I’m the faithful type.

A sentry at heart, I know my duties. I’m familiar with my territory. I regularly mark its boundaries and am the first to respond to any perceived threat.

I sound the alarm to those I’m bound to protect, and issue a warning to any stranger approaching my turf.

Aside from the occasional run in the park or stroll along the riverbank, this is my life.

My reward is a warm bed, a regular meal, and the companionship of my charge. A rare, bone-shaped “cookie” tells me I’ve done something exceptional.

I’m also the curious type.

When someone leaves the back gate open, what’s a fella to do?

I cautiously scan the area and notice a garden, some tools and implements. An intriguing wooden structure squats in the shade of the far corner.

I proceed into this new realm, slinking jackal-like, following my nose. A momentary awareness that I’ve left my post prompts a quick glance back.

Alas, curiosity and adventure win out, as I hone in on the shed.

Nose to the ground, I make two circuits around the place. There is definitely something inside, alive and warm. Overcome with pride at my discovery, I lift a leg to stake my claim.

Before I can open the valve, the little house explodes with such a commotion, I leave my feet with surprise and fear. Returning to earth, I gather my thoughts and try to sort this thing out.

Jibber-jabber, cluck, cluck. It’s as if a normal male function somehow triggered a great protest.

I must know more about the occupants of this structure. A knothole provides my next opportunity. Nose-first, I investigate the interior. The smell of straw…feathers…femininity and…OUCH! They must have knives!

Their cackling almost sounds like laughter.

A nostalgic thought of my comfy, old familiar haunts brings a wistful stare at the gate…

But once again, adventure – and now danger – pique my curiosity. I’m goin’ in!

With all the natural athletic ability I possess, I leap the wire fence, stride across the pen and insert my head through the tiny door.

What interesting creatures! Some redheads, some blond, some brunette, some speckled. Strutting around like they own the place. And their features: crowns like royalty, wings to fly, soft feathery robes and…and…TALONS!

Before I have time to feel the inevitable pain, I am over the fence and through the gate, tail appropriately between the legs.

It’s an interesting lot, over there in the henhouse. They just seem to gab all day long and every now and then one will make a big fuss over some great achievement. They seem like a social bunch alright, but don’t be taking a nosy, pushy attitude over there. You’ll feel the pain.

Look at ’em over there, laughing at me. Females…who needs ’em?

Me? I think I’ll just keep to my own yard. I’d rather face bullies, thugs, and burglars any day.

-originally written January, 2009

Published in: on November 16, 2010 at 9:20 pm  Leave a Comment  
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