He was sporting the wrong colors entirely for the venue. Amid a sea of red and white, his yellow and green sport jersey stood out precariously, making him easy prey for the poor sports all around him.
The sports network camera found its mark easily, and the cameraman and sports announcer made a sport of coming back to him each time the home team scored in the first half. The jumbo screen operator picked up and made the sport his own. Each time the man in Row 19C was pictured, folks at home booed or cackled. He, of course, couldn't hear them over the roar of 20,000 sports arena fans shouting obscenities and the like at his huge picture on the screen.
He was a sport, this man, having gambled so much on the outcome of the game that he had to come see it live, even if it meant putting up with the sporting done at his expense. He was a good sport about the abuse he was taking, particularly as he was watching his entire life savings dwindle to nil in the first half.
He was even a better sport in the second half, willing himself to not so much as grin when his team scored. And then scored again. And again. And again, taking the lead. Now, whenever his image appeared on the jumbo screen, those surrounding him made a sport of throwing cups and wrappers and sausages at him. The crowd began yelling, "More!"
Experts and wannabees had plenty to say after. "He sported with his own life, coming here in those colors." "Can you really blame the sport itself for the violence?" "A few poor sports are giving the whole fan base a bad name."
His widow sported a brand new mink coat to his funeral. Afterwards, she took up residence with a man whose post flew a magnificently large red and white flag each match day.
[Making sport over at Sunday Scribblings today. Do read what they're saying, 'k?]
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