Word: jocked
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...here’s your typical Craigslist ad: “Masc, muscular, discreet Harvard jock here looking to hang out with another masc Harvard dude.” I am neither masculine, nor muscular, nor terribly discreet about anything, but these seem to be the requirements. I couldn’t very well hope for success if I posted, “Skinny dorky Jewish flamer seeks fleeting sexual gratification from Harvard jock fantasy,” and so I’ve found myself manufacturing a Craigslist alter ego. In Craigsworld, when my faceless torso photo lures some...
...course, it never works. I have passed many early morning hours waiting for this jock fantasy to materialize, but in the end, a baseball cap does not a straight boy make. (Of course, these guys may just think I’m a total mieskeit, masculine or not, but as I’ve always thought of myself as strikingly attractive, I am unwilling to explore this possibility.) I also live in the Quad: you might as well tell a River boy you’ve got warts; he’s not making that trip at three...
Lovie Smith is a football coach. Yes, the name is Lovie, and while that's not exactly a testosterone-fueled calling card, Smith isn't cut from the foul-mouthed jock mold anyway. The head coach of the Chicago Bears cusses like, well, a kindergarten teacher. What does he say when he gets upset? "Jiminy!" And when he's really angry? "Jiminy Christmas," says MaryAnne, his wife of 26 years. "That's like us throwing F-bombs." Or there's the glare, a sign to the players that they've disappointed their coach...
...would be difficult to imagine a man who looks less like a writer than John Grisham. A whisker under 6 ft., Grisham, 51, is handsome and trim, a former jock who's still in shape. He wears jeans and has an almost actorly sense of self-possession about him. He talks in measured phrases. He doesn't fidget. If you feel like a Diet Coke, he'll fetch it himself. His charm is Clintonian; in fact, the two are distant cousins...
...though the media almost daily instructs us that this is pure fantasy. That's why the doping scandals so outrage us and the reports of rapacious behavior by athletes so dismay us. We have a primitive need for tales about the walk-on who makes the team, the aging jock who summons the idealistic spirit of boyhood and wins our hearts. To the degree that Invincible evokes that old-time religion, to the degree that its hero's rewards are limited, it seems to me that, on the eve of a new football season, it is a modestly useful reminder...