My Dear Knucklehead: Tomorrow is Father’s Day, and you may yet be pressed to find a suitable gift for me. I know that at times, I can be difficult to shop for, so I thought I’d help you out with a few gift ideas. Any of these items would be sure to please. And remember, a simple hand-drawn card inscribed with, “I love you” is all it really takes to say a meaningful “thank you.” A sentiment I will remember in kind when your birthday rolls around. But if you feel you must get me something, here are some things I would enjoy:
- The new Jack White CD.
- Your metabolism.
- Is Inside Llewyn Davis out on DVD yet? It is? That’s funny, I haven’t seen it anywhere.
- I’d like to throw out the first pitch at Fenway tomorrow. Now that Mr. Cent has effectively widened the strike zone, I feel I can handle this without embarrassing either one of us.
- Avenge my eventual death, Inigo Montoya-style. As I am as likely to someday die from lethargy, or an internal parasite as anything else, this gift may be especially challenging. And don’t go all Hamlet on me. Put in some effort.
- A villa somewhere. Or a bungalow. Yeah, a bungalow sounds nice. You can’t go wrong with a villa or a bungalow.
- A role in Expendables IV. If Kelsey Freakin’ Grammer can join the cast, why not me?
- One day in the Major League Baseball replay center in New York, and not as a tourist, either. I want to call games.* You can join me if you want, as a father/son outing. I dibs the Yankees game.
- You know how sometimes when we’re in a department store, I’ll hold up a shirt and go, “Hey, what do you think about this?” and you’ll roll your eyes or make a face or something and I’ll put the shirt back and say, “Ha ha. Gotcha! I was just kidding!” Well, I wasn’t kidding. Not one of those times. Suck it up and get me one of those shirts.
- I’d like to see a constitutional amendment that mandates Robert Duvall to play a cowboy in at least one film a year, for the rest of his natural life.
- I’d like this blog “discovered” by Huffington Post, or The New York Times, or Oprah or somebody. It hardly seems fair that just because Daddy Doin’ Work is younger than I am, and better looking, and a better writer, and carefully maintains a site people actually want to look at, and doesn’t smell funny or forget what he JUST WALKED INTO THIS ROOM TO GET, and has better teeth, and can rise to a standing position without moaning, doesn’t mean he should have more of a readership than I do. I want to retire, dammit.
- And while we’re on the subject of the blog, it would be really cool if I could get just one view from Sweden. Hur går det, svenska pappor och knuckleheads? Make a call.
- I want 1984 back. As a do-over.
- I would like to never again hear a reporter ask an athlete, “How awesome was it…?” or “How devastating was it…?” or “How heartbreaking was it…?” in a post-game interview. Until a system of weights and measures is designed for awe or devastation or heartbreak, this is a meaningless question. You’re not interviewing poets or mystics, you’re interviewing ballplayers. Many of you “journalists” were English majors at some point. Take a few minutes before the game to formulate better questions.
- Somewhere in this world I believe there may exist a baseball signed by Akira Kurosawa. If you can’t find it, a ball signed by Martin Scorsese will suffice.
- You know how I like my cheese curls.
*On second thought, I don’t want to just call games. I want the authority to fine, issue subpoenas, and sentence jail time. “Tell Jeter he’s out, and he has to play the rest of the game in a dress.”