My own hell

Let me just say up front this isn't going to be a fun story, because the least I can do is prepare you for what follows. These are not good days for everyone's favorite sports writer. Not by a long shot.

Anyone who knows me can vouch that I've been dwelling on turning 30 for about five years now. Because I've always been someone who plays sports and tries to keep in shape, I knew that 30 was the magic number where running backs go to die and pitchers start to lose their fastball. People can try to tell me differently, but I've followed professional sports for way too long to believe any of that nonsense.

And let's be clear here, any sport I'm playing these days isn't professional. I'm spending my time in beer leagues, where the hockey game is the second most important event of the evening. It's not like any of us had all that many steps to lose to begin with. But I digress.

So needless to say, I was not a good sport (pardon the pun) when I turned 30 in February. Friends and family would probably tell you I was downright childish. But I had every reason to act the way I did – I knew what kind of dark days were on the horizon. I just had no clue they'd get here so fast.

In less than two full months since I turned 30, I've taken a hockey stick to the eye, been diagnosed with insomnia and, most recently, had my first battle with kidney stones. I wish I was kidding.

The hockey stick wasn't a big deal, especially compared with everything else. I was playing hockey, my defenseman moved a guy from out in front of the net and the other guy's stick went flying up and hit my left eyelid. No, I don't wear a visor – that would make too much sense. I'd much rather skip wearing a helmet all together (a la Rod Langway), but I'm not that old.

The insomnia is like nothing I've ever dealt with. I can climb into bed at 10:30 and lay there for hours without ever falling asleep. The doctors tell me it's because I'm stressed (and I tell them "no shit." Of course I'm stressed – I can't sleep). Thankfully they make medicines that can help a brother out in times like these.

But none of that compares to kidney stones. Those little bastards don't mess around. I woke up on a Sunday morning thinking I had a sore back from sleeping funny or something like that. Only the pain didn't go away. Instead it intensified. By a lot.

I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say this past week has not been a fun one. I've been basically stranded on my couch resting and trying to keep my life as stress-free as possible. Lord knows I can't take much more of this.

I figured I would focus on the local sports scene to cheer myself up until I was back to 100 percent (since this is a sports column I would normally be required to say 110 percent, but I'm 30 now, so that's not an option anymore).

The biggest story in town is always the Washington Redskins. Unfortunately, they're seemingly run by a fantasy football owner with A.D.D. – just when everyone thinks they've learned their lesson and will sit quietly during the offseason because their splashy moves almost never work out, they make headlines again.

This time Chicago linebacker Lance Briggs feels he's being held hostage by Da' Bears, who are willing to pay him more than $7 million next season, so the Redskins feel obligated to rescue him. They're offering a swap of first round picks and a new contract worth more than $20 million guaranteed to the "slighted" Pro Bowler. This would have been a mistake, had the Bears brain trust not gotten greedy and demanded more. So for now the Redskins are impatiently forced to sit on their hands until another flashy object catches their eye (Adam Archuleta and Brandon Lloyd be damned!)

With the Redskins bumming me out I tried to switch to the Washington Capitals, but it's even more depressing. A two-man game might work in basketball, but it sucks in hockey. Alex Ovechkin and Olaf Kolzig are great, but there's not much else on this minor league roster. Sure the players try hard, but we're not talking about the Special Olympics here. I want Stanley Cups, not gold stars. Bring some players into town who can actually make hockey relevant again.

Speaking of basketball, Gilbert Arenas and Caron Butler both went down within a four day span. Butler's out six weeks and Agent Zero is out two to three months. There are only eight games left before they make the playoffs and lose in the first round (again). Can they please go back to being called the Bullets?

That leaves us with baseball. Unfortunately, Washington is home to the Nationals, who somehow will be less competitive than the pathetic Capitals. People honestly think the Nats could lose 120 games this season. But it's okay (so we're told). We'll have a new stadium in a couple years and then we'll field a team. Be sure to buy your tickets now, so you'll have a better shot at quality tickets then. What a crock of shit.

At least the Caps have two players – the Nats have one. If not for third baseman Ryan Zimmerman, this team might as well move back to Montreal. Seriously, things are so bad that people in town care more about the nightly mascots race, featuring the four Mount Rushmore presidents than the actual team.

While the team will surely be historically bad this year, fans go to the games hoping to see if a 10-foot Teddy Roosevelt mascot can finally do the unthinkable and win his first presidents' race. George Washington, Abe Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson shut out poor old Teddy last year, and apparently the losing finally got to him.

Roosevelt snapped on Opening Day this week, using a cable to fly toward home plate from the top of the right field roof. The ballpark went nuts as he zipped down to seemingly win his first race in his storied career – but it was not to be. He was disqualified because, as it turns out, you're not allowed to fly. So Teddy was shut out again. I guess it's fitting he's the one this town is forced to pull for this year. I mean, no one else is capable of winning around here either, so why not give in and embrace the loveable loser?

Normally I'd spend this last paragraph making it all better and tying everything back to the beginning of the article. That's kind of my thing. But truth be told, it's not going to get better. My teams are all going to continue to alternate between sucking and blowing and 30 ain't getting any better. That's it. Sorry about your luck. You want a happy ending, go see Ned Bitters.

Brian Murphy is the 2005 Defense Department's sportswriter of the year. And he still doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. Contact him at murf@the5holes.com.