No more sports writing for me!

By and

A true story: When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a sports writer.

Then I learned about values and helping people, and I wanted to be a doctor. Then my teachers told me I could be anything I wanted to be, so I wanted to be president of the United States. Then I grounded myself a little, and I wanted to be a lawyer. Then my grades went to hell, and I couldn’t get into any law school in the world, so I wanted to be an economist. Then I went broke, despite my economic wizardry, and wanted to work somewhere, anywhere at all.

Then I became a sports writer.

Writing sports for The Chronicle has been a trip and a half. I discovered many, many things about myself. Most importantly, I’ve discovered that I definitely don’t want to be a career sports writer.

First of all, it pays nothing at all. There’s more money in eucalyptus futures.

Second, it took all of my time, and most of that time was spent sitting in a chair, half asleep, while the women’s softball team was striking out for the 10,000 time.

Third, editors are crazy, and they hate me.

Fourth, I’m crazy, and I hate editors.

Fifth-wait, what’s fifth again? Oh yeah, something about not respecting myself for recording the trivial details of grown men who play with balls for a living and/or education.

But that’s not important. It’s really more the pay thing.

Sports writers should be paid millions.

Athletes wonder why the media are so tough on them. Well, half of it is the fact that they rape, cheat and assault people, and the media’s job is to report that. But half of it is the fact that Kevin Garnett gets paid $18 million for doing something a lot more fun than writing about how Kevin Garnett gets $18 million.

That single, overriding truth is responsible for just about every sports writer’s opinion about everything. Asking a sports writer about athletes is like asking a homeless person in Central Park what they think of Donald Trump.

When we go to “games,” we simply take note of everything that happens while we drink beverages and devour concessions, much like any other fans.

The difference is that we spend the whole time thinking about how we have to spend two hours writing furiously when the game’s over, and how we have another game to go to tomorrow, and how this is the stupidest m***** f****** sport you’ve ever seen, and how you would rather watch a 12-hour movie marathon on the Oxygen channel than another lap, er-quarter.

These are the thoughts that start to seep in after a couple of weeks of going to games for free, getting free food and meeting the athletes that you always saw on TV. All in all, that’s fun for two days. Max.

So when you picture a sports writer, don’t think of that kid in The Sandlot who gives a big “thumbs up” to his former childhood buddy from the press box after he steals home in the climactic scene.

Instead, picture a guy who’s struggling to look down at the game over his neck fat, wheezing and coughing and scratching himself as he imagines a day when he, too, would hit a 500-foot home run in front of the nation’s viewing public-perhaps while, just maybe, holding a big, juicy corn dog in the other hand.