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Thirty-five Wake Forest fellas, a gang of eight of Sammy Sportface psychiatrists who will preside as expert witnesses, and Dr. Keith Ripley gather in Brad’s basement an hour before the start of the Rally on the Chesapeake.
With some trepidation but a firm belief it’s the right thing to do, they organized an intervention of Sportface, their Wake Forest friend of 38 years.
The purpose of the intervention is to let Sportface know they think he’s going insane, that they fear he’s losing his mind, to tell him that, to let their concerns and armchair psychoanalysis be aired, to vote on this matter, and haul him away if a majority vote he’s insane.
As Sportface lies on a couch with his belly pointed skyward, Dr. Ripley, a professional psychotherapist who agreed to moderate the intervention, sits in a nearby chair.
Stoney speaks up first.
“Sportface when I read your blog about you watching horses mate at the Kentucky Derby and then emailed asking if you are insane, I wasn’t kidding. All of us are here because we’re concerned you’ve lost your mind and we don’t know what to do about it but are sure this behavior can’t continue. We feel we’re losing you, that you’re mentally gone, and you’re never coming back. So I brought a straitjacket to this intervention in case we have to wrap you in it and take you away to an institution before the Rally on the Chesapeake gets rolling. We can’t have an insane person at this party. It’s too important we all get drunk in a sane way.”
“Thanks for your honesty, Ted,” says Ripley. “Anyone else wants to say anything?”
Sonny stands up. “Sportface isn’t insane. He has a persecution complex. He thinks everybody has been coming after him to do him wrong his whole life. Don’t fall for his crazy antics. He’s just in love with himself as a card-carrying narcissist, is bitter about his past, and has to have attention on him all the time because he’s insecure and weak.”
“Thank you for sharing, Sonny,” says Rip. “Anyone else?”
Scott Lawrence stands up.
“It won’t surprise any of you that I don’t care for Sportface and hope we decide tonight he’s nuts so we can have him put away so he’ll stop sending us never-ending email drivel. He’s a menace and a disruptor in our lives. I say we stone him first and then haul him away to some padded room.”
“Thank you, Scott, for your candor,” says Rip. “Now I have a few questions for you, Sportface.”
“Fine but can we take a food break?” asks Sportface. “I’m hungry.”
Sportface gets up from the couch and starts passing around boxes of Dunkin Donuts, Wendy’s Baconators, and Grape Soda that he brought for the gathering. The fellas chomp that down then get back to business.
“Sportface I read your blogs and often find myself asking questions about your motivations and editorial decision-making,” says Ripley. “There’s no pattern or consistency or coherency to what you post. One day it’s horses mating, the next a dreary college commencement address, the next Luka’s Mom, the next an obtuse Billy Idol reference, the next lauding sleeping while drooling, then a sober report on some random book no one cares about. This all makes me wonder what’s going on inside your mind. It’s disconcerting and, while sometimes mildly amusing, not in any way normal in my professional psychoanalytic opinion.”
Sportface stands up, stares them all down, and launches into this:
“Haven’t you read the Baby Boomer Brotherhood mission statement, Rip? Haven’t any of you? Don’t you understand what this bonded group is called to do? We’re on a mission to make the most productive days of our lives in the future, in our 60s and 70s. We’re not done. We’re just getting started. The world may think they can marginalize us, but another thing is coming. My goal is to educate, inspirate and entertain the Baby Boomer Brotherhood. Come along. I’m not insane. I’m a visionary.”
Sportface sits up and chugs a 16-ounce bottle of grape soda. Then he washes that down with some apple fritters. The beverage spills on his shirt and the fritters stick up his hands, so he wipes them off on his shirt and lies back down on the couch.
“We all get that, Sportface, but we think your entire mission is flawed, unrealistic and we, frankly, aren’t interested in following you,” said Duff. “The biggest reason I think you’re insane is because you actually think this Brotherhood is a good idea, a real thing when none of us do. It’s not a thing. It isn’t anything. And it never was. We never think about your mission, your cause, and we don’t want to be involved. But you keep pushing it and we’ve been clear with you we’re not interested. But you don’t listen. You never listen. This is why we’re having this intervention. We think the way you’re behaving about all this doesn’t make any sense. It’s craziness. We all got on a Zoom call to talk about what to do about you, and this intervention is what we decided was the best course of action. We think we’ve lost you because you’ve lost your mind. And we need to do something about this.”
Bill Walton, who crashed the meeting once he heard about it, stands up in the back row: “You guys aren’t seeing the magnitude of what Sportface is trying to do. He’s right. We’re all given this one chance at life and we have everything the world has ever had to offer in front of us. Sportface sees it all and he’s painting that picture for us. It’s got blue and yellow and pink and orange colors. It’s the most mind-altering state of being any of us could ever want for ourselves. Listen to Sportface. Follow Sportface. He’s the most sane of all of us.”
Ripley calls the meeting to order.
“OK we’ve heard enough from you guys and Sportface, and I’ve said what I wanted to say. Now the only thing left to do is vote. Each of you now needs to stand in single file and when you get up here to the Sportface couch, you will have two choices. If you grab the black super ball and drop it in the grape soda cups, that’s your vote that Sportface is crazy and he needs to be sent away. If you don’t think he’s crazy and you’re OK with him hanging out at the Rally on the Chesapeake and continuing to send us emails we don’t want and twisting our minds with his corrosive content, drop a red superball in the grape soda cup.”
The fellas line up. Sportface is intrigued. He’s going to find out whether these 35 guys really think he’s insane. He watches them as they drop the balls into the cups and notices a pattern. As this process unfolds, Sportface grabs a couple of Baconators and starts chowing on them while lying on the couch. On his lap, he has his computer where he’s starting to write a blog about the Baby Boomer Brotherhood calling an intervention to determine if he’s insane or not.
All eight of his psychiatrists get in line and place their votes. All drop the black insanity ball. So do all 35 of the Wake fellas. Walton is the only one who drops the red ball showing his solidarity with Sportface not being out of his mind.
Coene gets the straitjacket.
“Come on, Sportface, put this on,” he says. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Fine, but give me all the extra donuts,” says Sportface. “I’ll eat them on the way to wherever you’re taking me. And look for my blog about this in about an hour.”
Author Profile
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
Sammy Sportface Has a Vision -- Check It Out
Sammy Sportface -- The Baby Boomer Brotherhood Blog -- Facebook Page
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