New Year’s Dissolutions

Image courtesy of Ferdinand Stöhr

I avoid everything you people do like plague, on the 31st of every year. The fireworks that upset so many tax-paying cats and dogs, and fireworks period. That ‘Year in Review’ nonsense literally every media house feels obliged to publish or upload. The resolutions. The staying up ‘til midnight and counting down … Even the Times Square stuff on CNN, pre-pandemic, was never quite my bag. Bah, humbug! I’ll be in bed at 9 and maybe I’ll stir awake at 1 to mess about on YouTube. 

But I want this year to be different. I need it to be different. I demand that it be different! All of these things are as true as one another, so I will write the waves into existence, and bend both them and the seasons unto my will. 

(I really hope this works out.)

I will write more fiction, and steer clear of punctuation marks that enable self-aggrandisement. 

Reading the late Anthony Veasna So’s Afterparties has been a pleasantly odd experience. This young Cambodian-American, gone far too soon, has found the means with which to portray a peculiar culture without disowning, exploiting or mocking it. He somehow crafts this memorable collection of stories without pulling back — seemingly ever — for the violent forehand, the worldie from thirty yards out, the Hail Mary in the clutch; the ‘motherfucker’ sentence, I like to call it.

I want to write like this: patiently, and without the burden of ego. 

I will read more fiction … no, actually, wait — I will read more non-fiction. 

The trouble with this resolution, which actually I make every six weeks, is that I end up scratching the itches I tend to grant the most attention anyway; sports, literary legacy, where in the state of New Jersey prestige TV comes from. 

I should increase my reading speed, really, so there’s time to justify not one, not two, but three subscriptions to very good journals. I should put my science money where my science mouth is. (Looks awesome on the resume, and it’s true!) 

But let me get that Giannis Antetokounmpo bio out the way first, and that oral history of The Sopranos too.

I will purchase a pair of luxury headsets, and venture into the dark and murky waters of online gaming, and possibly resurface with a decent foundation for a novel. 

I’ve been meaning to write a thing, for years, about a geezer in love with two different people and (through them) two different football, or basketball, or baseball, or football clubs. The protagonist, stop me if this sounds familiar, has an existential condition that causes him to drift between sports loyalties. 

But I’d also like to get to know the people that are capable of ending me multiple times, within minutes, in Halo Infinite. Who’s that mysterious armchair savant that out-yarded me in Madden the other week? There’s a whole community out there of people stuck in their bedrooms, and I’d love to chronicle the spectacular lives we all lead on our consoles — once I can ascertain the appropriate vernacular for it. 

I will one day give my whole heart to the never-ending New York Knicks basketball experiment. 

The funny thing about watching a team every bit as abject as one’s Knickerbockers, checking if there is heat still to one’s Celtics fandom, is comparing the two Gardens’ responses to (well) mediocrity. A game Boston actually won almost put me to sleep one Sunday evening. Its moments of jeopardy weren’t nearly as interesting … as the ones people appear to blow out of proportion daily in New York. 

I bet the Celtics make a trade they ought to, just as I adjust all of my personal NBA settings, because the universe works in mysterious but mostly fucked up ways. But it’s time. 2022 is the year I sit across from, behind or by Spike Lee and go, sigh, “These Knickerbockers, my mans.” I will wait with you, New York, for Valhalla.

I will one day give my whole heart (gulp) to the New York Jets football franchise. 

I bet nothing in the world eradicates more hair follicles, or lowers libido faster, than supporting a New York-based football team — and God help you if it’s the Jets. 

Rookie QB Zach Wilson got to have what looked like fun for the first time, last Sunday against the Jacksonville Jaguars, which is no compliment. I probably shouldn’t align myself with such brazen mediocrity, in a year in which I’d like to try the sensation of winning things; of happiness. 

But it’s time. 2022 is the year I sit across from, behind or by Larry David at the Meadowlands and go, sigh, “These Jets, my mans.” I will (gulp) wait with you, New York, for Valhalla. 

I will one day give my whole heart (and soul) to the New York Mets baseball organization.

I’m not the proudest agnostic; I just so happen to be one. When it comes to sports, however, I’m all about that juju.

The New York Mets last won a World Series the year I was born. Last year — the year the clubhouse got taken over by a billionaire who’d like to accelerate the path back to glory — my favourite rock band ever dropped a literal ode to the Mets. This is even more meaningless, but first baseman Pete Alonso reminds me of kids I warmed the bench with sometimes in inter-school soccer. 

It’s time. 2022 is the year I sit across from, behind or by Jerry Seinfeld at Citi Field and go, sigh, “These Mets, my mans.” I will wait with you, New York, for Valhalla. 

I will win something, anything, and so will Tottenham bloody Hotspur. 

Happy New Year, everybody.