A Sudden Word on Professional Sports.
Why does it even exist, except to pull multi-million-dollar contracts from sheikhs? Yeah, that's pretty much it.
And with that, I would've slammed this damn chapter shut and moved on to the real discoveries that might finally pull your flat minds off the turtle and the elephants.
But I know you're here for revelations, am I right?
"Some of you already dropped to your knees in anticipation of just that."
No doubt, you want to know why the toxic environment of professional sports exists — beyond the money. And sadly (yet truthfully), I repeat: it's only about the money.
Get rich fast and get the hell out. Whether that's Wisconsin or the Himalayas — doesn't matter.
Doing sports for silly things like "drive," "passion for the game," or some delusional ambition of reaching greatness in the form of a shiny medal or a framed certificate — that's brainless and dangerous to the body.
The deeper you get into that nonsense — with the running, the jumping, the balls and all that sporting gear — the further you drift into the illusion, while your own body quietly collapses behind the curtain.
What did you expect?!
Modern cryo-chambers and recovery tech? Still pretty weak. Maybe future athletes will get lucky and squeeze out an extra hundred years of running.
But for now? Your rehab specialist will shrug. You'll be hunched over, begging for a veteran contract from your team or club. The sponsors will vanish. Your credit score will hit rock bottom.
And if you're not some anonymous journeyman, but actually a famous athlete — you'll lose something even more valuable.
And that, you little bug, will hit you harder than losing a hundred pesos here or there.
A Sudden Word on Fame.
Time to slightly change my shoes mid-air.
"The audience obediently waits as Maiji — or rather, his stand-in — is hoisted into the air by a steel cable, and a pair of assistants rush out to literally swap his shoes midflight for comfortable espadrilles."
Now then. Earlier I claimed that my improv has no structure, but this section, surprisingly, flows perfectly from the last one. Because maintaining fame is incredibly difficult (for everyone but me, obviously), and now here you are — once a well-known baseball player or other brilliant mind of the past — reduced to signing autographs on your own chest.
And the space on your torso isn't infinite. Constantly washing off those signatures takes gallons of shower gel — which is neither practical nor economical.
Once the star of every clay toy and chip commercial, now you rot in that miserable prison of memories — memories no one gives a crap about anymore.
It's a story older than any triceratops (may it rest in peace). And the point is — you don't know how to keep your hype afloat without crashing into some disaster, and worse — you misunderstand the very nature of fame.
I need fame, because I'm the Maître — and also because it brings in juicy dividends.
You, on the other hand, have no clue how to handle that formless, intangible sludge, because fame — without monetization — is just a worthless word.
Yeah, sure, you've "got" it. And now what? You don't turn it into profit. You just sit there praying for a sad little donation from a schoolkid who borrowed his mom's credit card for the afternoon.
"But you said respect was more important…" — the Worker-Man mumbled helplessly under his breath.
"Please stick to the script."- Valeria requested politely.
So, design yourself an imaginary suit called the "News Hook," and start pumping out flashy headlines nonstop. Use any kind of PR — white, black, or transparent. Doesn't matter. As long as they're talking about you.
Also, attach to your suit an invisible outstretched hand that's constantly asking the world for money — just for the fact that you're loitering in the media field, which gives you the right to request sponsorship deals, merch sales, and invitations to stupid-ass podcasts. Got it, chufuses?
– Yes, My Lord!
I doubt your ability to analyze, but I won't repeat myself. Time to move on.