Sports analogies can describe anything in life… even a road rage car crash
I’ve just got to share with all of you something that happened the other night.
I was watching my beloved Cleveland Indians beat the Red Sox when I heard a thud louder than anything a linebacker ever put on a ball carrier.
Making like the track and field athlete I’ve never been, I raced downstairs and outside my front door.
There to my horror was my car, looking like it had just gone 12 rounds with Muhammed Ali.
In the street were a handful of people making more noise than you could ever imagine at a football game.
There were a couple of guys standing nose-to-nose, which would have made any Billy Martin-baseball umpire dispute proud.
It got to be so bad that I thought a UFC bout was going to break out any minute.
It appears as though a couple of folks in their “Chariots of Fire” had an alleged dust-up a little ways from my house. That allegedly began the “Great Race, or Chase” has it may be.
The alleged “chaser” was like a defensive back dogging after a wide receiver. The “chasee” tried to put on its best wideout moves.
The chaser made a move and supposedly tried to block the chasee from reaching the access road from my street.
The chasee reportedly made like a Formula One driver with a bad sense of direction, traveling in reverse nearly half the length of a football field before plowing into the front end of my car.
There was a dispute over why this happened. It included enough blue language to warrant a basketball season’s worth of technical fouls.
Needless to say, their behavior could best be labeled unsportsmanlike.
The game officials – the police – eventually arrived (they could have been flagged for delay of game) and went about their business sorting out all of the infractions.
In the end, they made their calls … offsides and out-of-bounds for the chaser and roughing the passer (my car) for the chasee.
The tickets they both received were not for courtside seats to the Cavaliers.
There was also much concern for the wounded quarterback, writhing there helplessly on the field.
The next afternoon, the brave warrior was carted off on the AAA stretcher and taken to the lockerroom.
Hulk Hogan was always able to raise his arm just as the referee was about to count him out.
It was not to be this time, as the final ref (the claims adjuster) counted to 10 and signaled “No mas.”
The end result of this unfortunate tale is that I will soon be tooling around the cross-country courses of Union County with another set of wheels.
The moral of this story… I guess you can find sports analogies for just about anything that happens in life.