I was going to write about the Raiders moving to Las Vegas. That was a huge news story from yesterday. And then this happened:
Tim Tebow hits against Max Scherzer.
It's fun and eventful, and for Tim, it doesn't go well. pic.twitter.com/4oZabpjOYS
— Jay White (@JayWhiteSports) March 27, 2017
It’s a testament to the omnipresent coverage of both of these news stories in the past few months, that they immediately intersected in my mind and I found myself thinking one thing: thank goodness there’s going to be one football town too Sodom and Gomorrah even for the Prodigal baseball son to return to: Las Vegas. That beautiful den of sin and vice. That tapestral weaving of vapidity and excess. That OFF brand of Tebow repellant, now with more DEET.
Even with Tebow’s fingernails dug feverishly into the last flecks of flesh from the bloated, fetid carcass of his 15 minutes of fame and even though ESPN is hell-bent on breathlessly recanting the spittle that forms in the corners of his mouth as he blathers on about “chasing his dream”, even though he’s a grown man with a Roth 401(k) who needs to hang up the cleats and just keep cashing his massive, massive, checks so he can let someone with actual talent at the plate chase their 12-years-younger-than-him dreams, this is potentially the one non-destination for when he inevitably is cut, then rises from the dead in August, just in time for mini-camps like the scriptures (or Trey Wingo) foretold.
And let’s be honest: there’s no need for him to continue to wrench the spotlight out of the hands of the lighting guy and forcibly jam himself under its hot glare. At this point, Michael Jordan could probably jam his corny ass into a pair of gym shorts and completely ruin a D-League team with his mere presence the way that Timothy Richard Tebow has done with the NY Mets’ spring training team, but Jordan — and I don’t know that I’ve ever typed this since he put his Wizards jersey on a hanger and walked away for good — has too much dignity for that. When it comes to Tim Tebow’s baseball potential: the roof is definitely the ceiling. And that ceiling is collapsing like the roof of the Metrodome after heavy snow.
In the year 2017, Baseball Tebow is the athlete version of that aging hipster that still creeps his way into open mic nights down at college campuses with a pair of bongos and a receding hairline to perform his beat poetry and to try to seduce an underconfident freshman that’s trying to avoid the last 7.5 pounds of the freshman 15 and doesn’t realize that when people say “it gets better”, they’re actually talking about your judgement, too.
He’s somehow morphed (*Author’s note: this is a registered trademark of Saban inc. and no I’m not talking about Nick) from an untouchable collegiate field general to Jack Black’s character in School of Rock. He’s up in front of a group of young people, his strikeouts looking more and more like an absurd air guitar in front of 3rd graders he is trying desperately to convince that he “rocks”, as he espouses his belief in “going for it” and “chasing his dream” like he’s some repressed kid in an ’80s movie that just wants to dance.
I’ll say it for you now, Tim. Right to you: it’s time to move out.
You can’t sleep on the couch of our collective sports consciousness anymore. You need to get up, put down the XBox controller, and go look for real work. We don’t have any more room for you; you keep eating all the food in our fridge without buying more and you never put the seat down after you go to the bathroom. It’s not us, it’s you, Tim.
Sure, you’re not a ravenous piranha like LaVar Ball or immediately-post-retirement Favre, but you are a leech nonetheless. Latched on. A little unnervingly polite. Just taking enough to stay alive. Gross.
And, if TLC shows designed to make us want to barf with their subject matter have taught me anything: if you keep letting a parasite stick around, they won’t ever leave of their own volition.
I know this is Virgin territory for you, Tim, but you’re a religious guy so I will put it in your terms: this is your exorcism. Out with thee, I command it. We’ll wait for you to pack your bags, and all the piles of cash you have stuffed into them.
In the meantime, this will be all of us, watching you play baseball: