“Chad is a hilariously funny TV sports critic whose philosophy is that if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing to excess.” Publishers Weekly
Hold On, Honey, I'll Take You to the Hospital at Halftime
Confessions of a TV Sports Junkie
Atlantic Monthly Press
978-0-87113-584-1 • $11.00 • Paperback • Oct. 1994
It started fifty years ago with a couple of baseball games. Then came pro football, basketball, hockey, more baseball, the Olympics, golf, bowling, stock car racing, skiing, tennis, volleyball, badminton, darts, and anything else producers could find to sell a few beers. Every man who hasn’t gone out into the woods to find his wild man is plunked down on the living room sofa in front of the twenty-seven-inch-diagonal screen.
Marriages crumble, family time disappears, hardbodies go to flabTV sports are taking over the world.
Now, just in the nick of time, Norman Chad offers a hilarious, biting, and incisive look at television sports. First he takes to task the excesses of sports TV: too much viewing (and its effect on the home), too much college basketball, too much talk from announcers, too much figure skating, too many replays, and too many jock analystsnot to mention the biggest, loudest personalities bringing us the games: Dick Vitale, Chris Berman, Tim McCarver, and John Madden. Next, he poses some questions: What’s wrong with “Monday Night Football,” and how can we fix it? What’s it like to watch twenty-four consecutive hours of ESPN? What’s with the explosion of all-sports radio, and how can we stop it? Does golf really need to be televised? Finally, Chad offers a few radical solutionseliminating all jock analysts, for instance, or simply announcing games yourself from the homeand then concludes that the only answer just may be complete abstinence from all sports viewing.
Hold On, Honey, I’ll Take You to the Hospital at Halftime is the first book to take a humorous look at the hugely popular phenomenon of TV sports and is certain to appeal to all armchair quarterbacksas well as to all wives who would like to turn off the tube and get their husbands to rake the yard.
“It was 58 degrees outside, winds south-southwest at five to ten miles per hour, with the sun darting delightfully between partly cloudy skies. It was a mild winter’s weekend of so many wonderful possibilities, from biking and hiking to walking and talking to perhaps just exploring the recesses of an ever-dulling mind.
“So I watched television.
“It was 68 degrees inside, a slight breeze coming out of the top of the microwave, with the living color radiating off the screen toward my pale, prone body. Clicker in hand, I went from boxing to bowling, from hockey to hoops, from recliner to refrigerator.
“There was nothing to watch, there was everything to watch.
“Question: Is there too much sports on television?
“Answer: Let me get back to you on that one at the first TV time-out.
“So there I sat, hour after hour, virtually paralyzed save for my right arm’s sweeping, rhythmic motion between M&Ms and mouth. If they air it, I will watch it. By mid-afternoon Sunday, I thought I heard the faint, familiar voice of my wife from upstairs, only to recollect that she had left several years earlier.”