My literary world and sports world collide

All right, I had to share this with as many people as possible. I was reading ESPN the magazine about a month ago, a March edition, and to my surprise, and enjoyment, I found an opinion piece by Junot Diaz, the celebrated author of "Drown." I was overwhelmed that my literary world and my sports world had finally collided. So, in my Fiction Writing II course I was assigned to write a parody of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis" and I wrote it with sports on the mind. I wanted to share a few excerpts from my parody with you, enjoy, and remember, this is FICTIONAL.


Samuel Sosuh awoke one beautiful sunny summer day in Chicago from pleasant dreams of another White Sox World Series victory and an explosion that incinerated Wrigley Field to find himself transformed into a diehard Cubs fan. No f-ing way, he thought as he searched his room walls for the poster of Paul Konerko.

As his eyes came into focus he saw Konerko’s aged facial features including his signature graying-goatee staring directly at him from his bedroom door. A fierce jealousy rushed through him and out of instinct he attempted to pounce on the poster but tripped on the side edge of his mattress and rolled into the door with a loud boom. He was about to stand up when an incredible, overpowering, lazy, ah-f-it force strangled him and kept him seated with his back resting upon the door. Not looking, he slothfully reached up behind him with his left hand and felt around for the poster material and eventually removed it from the door. The poster fell and wrapped over his head. A disgusting feeling curled his stomach as if someone had just thrown A.J Pierzysnki’s post game jock strap upon his head. He pinched the poster’s sides between the index finger and thumb from each hand as if it were contagious, brought it down to his lap and motioned to tear it in half. After one half-ass attempt, he realized he no longer possessed the physical strength to complete the task so he sighed deeply, put the poster face-down on the floor beside him and began to weep …

(Later on in the story)

Samuel’s roommates couldn’t understand what he was saying for he sounded like a guy who had been pounding back Old Style for the past six hours.

(Later on in the story)

Crap! Samuel thought, forgetting the game today was the first of the Cross-Town Classic at the Cell. How am I going to work today? I can’t sell beer today. There’s no way I’ll make it up and down the stairs. Plus, the Sox fans will see right through me. They’ll see the jealousy in my eyes, see my lazy, depressed motions, hear the drunken slur in my voice and they’ll KNOW. Even without seeing THE MARK, they’ll know. They’ll know that I’ve converted into a Northside, true-blue, ass-grabbing Cubbie lover! Samuel’s mind was racing.

(Remember that Samuel's speech is not understandable at this point in the story.)

A series of quick, softer knocks sounded on the door. Samuel figured it was his other roommate, Oswalt Geeyin. Samuel’s guess was verified when he heard Oz’s quick, barely understandable English laced with Spanish words: “Aye mane, whatchewdoing? Thaygom baygeens enunahora.”
“What did you say OZ?” Samuel responded.
“Whot?” Oz asked.
“What the hell did you just say?” Samuel asked.
“WHOT?” Oz asked again, this time louder.

(I have more, but will save the rest for a later time.)