All of the lying in sports recently has inspired me to confess some of the falsehoods I’ve told over the years.
Lance Armstrong had Oprah. I’ve got you, the readers.
To my friend, Jim Cornell: The autographed picture of Shaquille O’Neal I gave to you that’s been hanging in your mancave the past 20 years is a fake. Shaq never showed for our interview. I signed his name to it.
To my neighbor, Eddie: I shouldn’t have accepted that dinner bet after watching that football game with you Sunday afternoon. It was a replay from Saturday night. Still, thanks for the pork chops.
To my physician, Dr. Lee: I was truthful when I said I was walking and exercising more. But I didn’t reveal I was eating doughnuts every time I went out. Chocolate on the way to the mailbox. Glazed on the way back.
To my mother, Elouise: The reason I didn’t come home for Christmas in 1994 wasn’t because I was helping feed the homeless at the shelter. I spent Christmas Eve at the casino in Oklahoma that year and lost all my money. But I heard those white sox I mailed to you fit perfectly. You’re welcome.
To my wife, Rhonda: You were right. I did keep the cats’ little box under my bed at my house. I only removed it while you were there.
To the local ladies I pursued when I was single: I didn’t play quarterback in the Canadian Football League, I didn’t ride a horse in the Kentucky Derby, and I am not a descendant of Thomas Jefferson and his mistress, Sally Hemings. But I did recover an on-side kick in high school when our team was behind by 30 points. Yep. A real hero.
To my old drinking buddy, Rick Wood: That bread you ate at my house late one night with the green spots on it wasn’t really Irish bread like I said. It was molded. Glad it didn’t kill you.
To my cousin, Kelly: I didn’t cheer for Ole Miss against Arkansas like I promised when your husband, Ed, was coaching the Rebels. I still cheered for Arkansas, even though you bought the tickets, and had money on the Razorbacks. Why do you think I offered to pay for dinner after those games?
To my former friend, Billy Steghuis: I only hung out with you in the seventh and eighth grades because I thought your mother was hot. I never liked you.
OK, so I’m a scumbag like Lance Armstrong. But I feel much better now.
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RICK FIRES IS A SPORTSWRITER FOR NWA MEDIA