I miss sports most of all

Viral quarantines are a pure irony delivery system, and the joke is wearing thin. What do we lean on naturally in times of fear, uncertainty, and material scarcity? What verities and values are most likely to be reaffirmed? Hugs and friends and bonfires, of course.

Throw in beer, ball games, and guitars and you can lock me down there for eternity.  Yes, I do understand that with cataclysmic systemic collapse also comes a fair amount of, you know, community farming and all-hands-on-deck roof thatching and shoe repair. Not my idyll of choice, but I’m pretty much stepping in as elder, so I think I could probably hack it.

Sign me up for augury. I’ve always had a way with birds. Could we please swap this for a non-viral apocalypse?


The very essence of viral awareness is suspicion. Everyone is a suspect. Everyone is a vessel. It is, as usual, what’s on the inside that matters. Teamwork is selfishness and rigid separation is teamwork. It is getting to the point where I don’t even really feel like seeing my friends. I just feel I should feel like it. This is bad.

And I miss sports. Perhaps most of all. The NCAA tournament, the Masters, spring baseball, the NBA playoffs, the Stanley Cup. I only fully realize the extent to which sports are the clock and calendar of life now that they’re gone. The birds are returning in sheets and spirals and swarms. No one can say what they will bring.


Read more installments of Village Voices by John Burdick.