You’re walking along the beach, wading in the tide. Ahead of you is a pier, and sitting on the edge of the pier is a pudgy man in a uniform and a baseball cap.
You walk onto the pier and up to the edge to admire the view. Then, the man in the uniform speaks.
“Hey, kid,” he says. You look at him, and there is an eerie glow about him, but you recognize the face. After a few seconds of racking your brain, it hits you.
“...Babe Ruth? But, you’re dead!” you sputter.
The Bambino smiles. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white baseball.
“Kid, I’m here to grant you one wish,” he says.
“A wish?” you ask.
He nods and holds out the baseball in front of you. Slowly, you move your hand toward the white orb, but he pulls it away.
“There’s one rule,” the Sultan of Swat tells you. “Your wish has to do with sports.”
“Sports?”
He nods. “Anything you ever wanted to know or see or do in the wide world of sports.”
And you start to think, what would you do with one sports wish?
Would you see Wilt Chamberlain score 100 and be one of the 200 fans who rushed the court after witnessing the historic event? Or what about watching him grab 55 rebounds in another game, against Bill Russell no less?
Or maybe you’d play a round of golf with Jack Nicklaus, Tiger Woods and Arnold Palmer at Augusta National Golf Club. Ask them for some tips on your backswing, then knock back a few brewskies with them at the 19th hole afterwards.
Perhaps you’d have a catch with Willie Mays. You could marvel at the leather shark on his left hand that swallows baseballs like minnows, the glove that ruined the dreams of hundreds of batters.
Then again, maybe you’d do something noble with your wish. Maybe you’d go back to February 2001 and warn Dale Earnhardt to watch out for Ken Schrader on turn four of the last lap.
Or maybe you’d go back to 1919, just before the World Series, and plead with Buck Weaver to publicly reveal his teammates’ plans to throw the World Series. You could save sports from one of its worst scandals.
Perhaps you should pit Lawrence Taylor and Jim Brown, each in their prime, against each other to see who would come out on top. Or — if you’re thinking about setting up dream matches — what about Joe Louis versus Muhammad Ali?
Maybe the best wish would be to banish Bill Belichick and his short-sleeve hoodies from football forever. You could force him to take Terrell Owens and Adam Jones and every babyish diva in the league with him, too.
How about wishing for an interview with Wayne Gretzky? You could ask him how he was able to play so long, set so many records and win so many rings, all while keeping his teeth intact. Then you could ask him for his dentist’s phone number and forward it to Alexander Ovechkin.
What if you resurrected Jackie Robinson, just for an afternoon? You could shake his hand and buy him lunch and show him pictures of Cal Ripken, Jr. and Darrell Green to let him know that he wasn’t the last sports hero.
Maybe you could use your wish as a public service: once and for all get rid of the God-forsaken Bowl Championship Series and instead put in a real college football playoff.
You could listen to your inner patriot and go to the 1936 Olympics wearing red, white and blue. Then you could cheer on Jesse Owens as he beats the Third Reich with his two legs.
Or perhaps you’d make yourself one of the luckiest men on the face of the planet and witness Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech.
You know what would be fun? Teaming with MJ for a little two-on-two against Magic Johnson and Larry Bird. For a little bit more flavor, you could ask Charles Barkley to be the commentator for your little matchup.
Maybe you love the underdog. You could go back to 1969 and bet big on the Mets or visit the 1980 Olympics and tell people that you believe in miracles.
What if you wished that the media would never utter the words “Barry” or “Bonds” ever again? Steroids or not, people that selfish should not get the headlines he does.
How about wishing to write a letter to Payne Stewart in 1999 or Knute Rockne in 1931 or the Marshall football team in 1970? Tell them to take the train instead.
Or do you want the action heroes and adrenaline from your TV to be on the big screen, too? Maybe you should cast Brett Favre, one of the toughest men in America, as the next James Bond. You know you want to watch him foil South Korean and Russian villains after years of watching him foil nickel defenses.
Everybody loves a game-winning homer. Would you wish for mobbing the crowd after Kirby Puckett hit one out of the park in Game Six of the 1991 World Series? How about seeing Kirk Gibson hobble around the bases after his game-winner in the first game of the 1988 Series? Then there’s the granddaddy of all home runs, the Game Seven-clincher by Bill Mazeroski in 1960. Would your one wish be to witness that?
You look at Babe Ruth and he’s growing impatient, but you’re still not quite sure what to say. Then, suddenly, it hits you.
“Babe, my wish is to have Sean Singletary come back and play for U.Va. for one more year.”
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