John Wasn't Maddening

 

There are lots of ways to be a sports broadcaster these days. Some like to dress the part, wearing a loud suit with a louder tie, even though shots of the booth are rare and often undesirable. You could recite idiotic statistics for the viewers at home to ignore. You could recall inane stories from your past as a way to show you have rubbed shoulder pads with the likes of minor, helmet-wearing celebrities. You could shoutout friends on their birthdays. You could try and predict the plays before they happen as sort of cheap parlor trick – not that anyone asked you to do this. You’re supposed to analyze the plays not guess them.

You could pretend the game on the field is more intricate than the moonshot. That each new play is more complex than anything NASA attempted in the 1960s. That a player’s body is more impressive than the Saturn Five, and much more durable, since those pieces of hardware were used once and then sent into the abyss. You could compare the sideline geniuses with Gene Kranz, likening his white vest with a cutoff hoodie. You could talk over your play-by-play partner, ruining big moments, quiet moments, any moments at all. You could act like your goal is to disrupt the solemnity of certain major events. You could never get excited, treating each play the same, with an unrelenting monotone that puts lots of people to sleep and makes everyone else wish it had. 

You could speak in clichés and use more words than necessary. Saying this player is a real downhill runner, even though the field is totally level and any elevation changes would be a real cause for alarm. Remember the '89 World Series?  You could say the quarterback “fired the football into the open arms of an uncovered receiver, who’s now dancing into the endzone untouched.” You could read ad copy for gambling sites without a hint of irony, even though decades earlier the practice of wagering on games was derided and criticized as the end of professional sports in America. You might comment on the weather, speaking at length about the size of flurries on the field versus what they look like through a standard camera lens.

Or, you could just explain the game as clearly, as simply, and as entertainingly as you can. It’s harder than it looks though. And while you’re at it, cut a holiday feast with your hand instead of a knife. If the meat is tender enough, it shouldn’t be a problem.