| Special to the Courier & Press
Station announcer: Spanning southwestern Indiana to bring you the constant variety of sports . . . the thrill of victory . . . and the agony of defeat . . . the human drama of athletic competition . . . to boldly go where no man has gone before . . . in a galaxy far, far away . . . but I digress . . . this is WRASFF Radio’s Narrow World of Sports.
Sven: I’m Sven Shuttlecock.
Slate: I’m Slate Palmer.
Sven: We start today in Duck Beak, Indiana for the Quicksand Long Jump Championships.
Slate: Sven, the last-minute addition of a quicksand pit definitely makes this track and field event more exciting.
Sven: Kicking off the first heat is Rick-Fred Braun who has just been informed by his coach about the quicksand. His teammates encircle him to demonstrate support, closing in tightly for what I can only assume will be a ceremonial team-building group hug.
Slate: Actually, they are performing a group headlock, not hug. They’re now dragging him by his neck to the long jump area.
Sven: He’s flailing like a ragdoll. I sense reluctancy in Rick-Fred’s body language.
Slate: Well, there is that quicksand thing—
Sven: He’s kneeling now, as if praying. Let’s get a mic closer to the action so our WRASFF radio audience can hear Rick-Fred’s otherwise private conversation with his higher power.
Rick Fred: MOMMY!
Slate: There you have it folks.
Sven: He’s forced to his feet. He’s being carried over his teammate’s heads to the check mark, like a human sacrifice, Slate.
Slate: Sven, let’s now take our listeners to Manure Stench Township for Intern’s first sports assignment: Pickle Ball.
Intern: Thanks for making my radio internship even better by sentencing me way out here to Manure Stench. This place stinks, literally. Sheesh. I’m apparently on the wrong end of the radio today. Gross, I just upchucked in my mouth. I thought a Pickle Ball was some kind of paganistic mid-summer haybarn social, not a sport. Do pickles even bounce? Why am I the one covering Pickle Ball? Oh, let me guess: because Intern is Sharpied on my hand-me-down name tag. You guys don’t even know my real name. Pickle Ball—seriously? Is that even a thing? I’m not pursuing a journalism degree at a prestigious midwestern Crabgrass League school only to be put in a map-speck burg that perpetually smells like cow crap.
Station announcer: And now a commercial break.
Commercial music intro: AC/DC singing, “I’m on the highway to hell . . . ”
Sam Elliott: Howdy, friends, Sam Elliott here. Have you recently lost a beloved multi-generational family farm to concrete-hearted MIDWEST CORRIDOR constructionists and political marauders? Now you can relive your fondest family farm memories with our newest spray-can deodorizing scent: High Noon Hog Pen. One whiff will take you back down on the farm—or at least temporarily clear out the hellish suburbia subdivision you were forced to relocate to. High Noon Hog Pen, part of Rural King’s new Eminent Domain Collection.
Sven: Let’s go to Catfish Calhoun at the Hacienda Strasse Township Horseshoes Tournament.
Catfish Calhoun: We’ve already experienced six concussions this morning, likely due to the new horseshoe rules modifications involving defensive soccer maneuvers. Players can now use their entire bodies, except for hands, to block an opponent’s pitch. Ouch! Right to the skull! Make that seven concussions, Sven! The gurney boys have earned their pay today. Here’s the next pitch . . . it’s a perfect, high-arching flip-shoe . . . it’s a dead ringer!
Sven: Wow! Isn’t a ringer worth three points?
Catfish Calhoun: In this case, it’s six points since the horseshoe ended up wrapped around the opponent’s neck instead of the peg.
Station announcer: And now an obligatory public service announcement—
Commercial music intro: Dan Fogelberg sings, “Born in the valley, and raised in the trees . . . ”
Sally Struthers: Hi, I’m Sally Struthers. Hundreds of poor horses in southern Indiana and western Kentucky are shoeless. For decades, profiteering hill-jack poachers have stolen the footwear from sleeping equines and supplied them to a barbaric hillbilly sport called “horseshoes.” Help return dignity to our abused bare-hooved friends by donating your used loafers, boots and sneakers to Shoe The Horses International. May they too Run For The Roses one day. Please, no stilettos or flipflops!
Sven: Welcome back to Duck Beak and the Quicksand Long Jump Championships where Rick-Fred Braun is making his approach run. Technically, he’s running for dear life from his teammates who are insistent he jumps first.
Slate: His stride looks strong.
Slate: He’s soaring!
Sven: Splat! Right in the quicksand. Whoaa Nelly!
Slate: His struggle to escape only seems to make the quicksand angrier.
Sven: Rick-Fred has vanished, radio listeners! I hear the track and field official shouting something…
Track and field official: Send in the frogmen!
Slate: Ten minutes have passed. Still, no frogmen have resurfaced.
Track and field official: Send in more frogmen!
Sven: They’re sending frogmen to find the missing frogmen.
Slate: Twenty minutes. Still, no one has resurfaced. Maybe frogmen and quicksand don’t mix well.
Sven: Oh, the humanity.
Station announcer: You’ve been listening to WRASFF’S Narrow World of Sports. Join us next week for the Wham-O Slip ’N Slide Slalom Rooftop Challenge. What could possibly go wrong? Tune in to find out.
Contact Scott to order his new collection of columns about his mom and her battle with stage four colon cancer, “What Are You Going To Write About When I’m Gone?” $15. firstname.lastname@example.org.