One of my longtime friends recently got his first phone that was strictly his and his alone. Before this new purchase he had shared a non-smart cell phone with his wife for emergency purposes only. I can only guess why he waited so long to join the 2000’s, let alone the 2020’s, technology-wise, but I must admit, a small part of me is envious.
Over the last two decades my love for new technology has been slowly whittled away to the point where I didn’t investigate any of the new features included with my own recently purchased phone. I just assume they’re mostly used for spying on me anyway, so why bother? Meanwhile, my non-connected friend must have been slightly confused about why the rest of the world turned increasingly inward, was a little bit meaner, got super-interested in cats, and decided they were angry about a whole bunch of things they were mostly uninterested in before. He hasn’t been worn down by our all-consuming phone culture, and this shiny piece of technology in his pocket seems to be sparking a tiny bit of joy.
Consequently, for someone who has been mostly incommunicado since we departed his wedding reception nearly thirty years ago, my friend has been on a bit of contact heater as of late. He’s sent numerous unprompted texts to our college group about his thoughts and opinions on various recent sporting events. I was never much of a sports debater, so I didn’t add much entertainment value to the ensuing back and forth. My takes are often nuanced and the quite the opposite of “hot.” As it turns out, doling out shades of grey does not make for funny and engaging group texts.
To be clear, I still love watching sports, it’s just the never-ending dissection of them that I’m checked out on. And as someone who doesn’t even enjoy measured intelligent discussion about athletics, I can’t fathom why anyone would find “sports shouting” (the cable network sports discussion style de rigueur) enjoyable. Being of that persuasion, I am eternally mystified about the continued employment and inexorable rise of Stephen A. Smith in the sports shouting landscape. I would honestly love to meet a single human being who turns on a television in their hotel room (the only place I imagine people watch ESPN anymore) and willingly says, “All right, Stephen A. is on! Let’s go!”
Most recently, my friend texted us about the upcoming NCAA tournament. He regaled us with his picks for the tourney, provided some stray thoughts on the 1985 Final Four, and for good measure, offered up a trivia question to which I did not know the answer.
My lack of enthusiasm and knowledge for the topic at hand wasn’t all that surprising. Despite my deep-seated love for basketball, I haven’t caught a lot of America’s second tier professional basketball circuit over the past few years, so I couldn’t even tell you who’s going to perform better or worse in their upcoming month-long income generation event. When compared to the other top-flight professional basketball leagues, the standard of play is worse and there are a lot more teams to keep track of.
Additionally, the deals given to its players are generally of the one-year variety, so if you root for one particular team it’s kind of hard to get to know some of their contractors before they find other employment. As a result, if you didn’t attend one of these workplaces (or have another personal connection, like sending all your spare cash to one of these institutions to educate your child,) it gets increasingly hard to generate enthusiasm for an assemblage of for-hire higher ed professionals just because you’ve traditionally admired the color of their uniforms.
I’m not saying that these employees who generate vast amounts of wealth on their labor shouldn’t receive their fair share of it. I’m just describing an unfortunate by-product of this new reality: my waning interest in the whole damn thing. After a certain point you’re just trotting out a pale imitation of product that’s being produced better elsewhere. You can gussy it up with all the pep bands, face paint, and “tradition” you want. At the end of the day, all you have is minor league basketball and a barely hanging on Dickie V.
