The Height of Ridiculousness

Word comes to me today that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is contemplating legislation to ban discrimination against short people (and fat people, too, but I really couldn’t care less about that). I may be a bit late to the party on this, as word often takes some time to get to me, since I’m, y’know, vertically challenged and all.

As a card-carrying liberal, at least on social matters, I’m keenly attuned to the fact that our society discriminates against certain groups (as, it may be pointed out, do many other societies). I come here not to make light of legitimate grievances deeply felt by racial minorities, homosexuals, religious groups, and rednecks (maybe I’d make a little light of the latter). I’m a white, heterosexual, middle class Protestant male with no obvious accent. I’m one of the Chosen People. At least I always thought I was. Until today, that is, thanks to Massachusetts, my ancestral home - defenders of the wee, protectors of the Lilliputian.

Now that I know I’m part of a protected class, I’m not going to take this lying down, even if it looks that way to you from up there. Really funny, that joke. Seriously. How’s the weather up there, freakshow? Enjoy your circulatory problems while my evolutionarily perfect compact frame hums at maximum efficiency. Duck through that door while I coast into the room unimpeded. Cram yourself into that airplane seat, while I stretch out in comfort. And read along as I fight back against the forces of heightism with a new G:TB feature – Bite Me, Randy Newman.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the universe of diminutive stars, Bob Costas is a constellation of his very own. By turns erudite and self-effacing, Costas has spanned the worlds of sports, entertainment and even politics with rare versatility for nearly two decades. His star turn in BASEketball, waxing excited about his erect nipples, cemented his public reputation as a man of the people, a veritable dynamo of Gheorghism.

But those of us in the community of the tiny already knew of his legendary common touch. I took two weeks off in the summer of 1996 to attend the Atlanta Olympics. One evening, I was indulging my post-event thirst at an over-commercial faux-Irish bar somewhere in Buckhead when Costas walked through the door. He was anchoring NBC’s coverage of the Games and had ventured out to catch a late supper. My courage bolstered by several rounds of Guinness, I approached his table to express my admiration.

“Tell you what,” he said as I reached his table, “Let me finish this meal and then I’ll be happy to talk.” Figuring that was a polite brush-off, I wandered back to the bar to continue poisoning myself. A few minutes later, I looked in his direction and saw him waving me back to his table.

I sat down next to him and his driver, and said, “In 1986, if you were John McNamara, would you have had Dave Stapleton on the field in the 10th?”

He replied, “Sure, but McNamara wanted Buckner on the field when the Sox won it all.”

“I knew it!”, I exclaimed, not really knowing it, but satisfied with an answer that gave me some explanation of that ill-conceived decision.

Costas was as gracious in his interaction with me, a drunken fanboy, as he has been throughout his public career. His recent verbal jujitsu with Barry Bonds captures the essence of the man’s subtlety and clever wit. After Costas’ HBO interview with Curt Schilling aired and the Red Sox’ hurler blasted Bonds, the soon-to-be homerun king said this of the interviewer, “Is that the story Bob Costas talked about? A little midget man, who doesn’t know jack about baseball, who never played the game before? You can tell Bob Costas what I called him.” You stay classy, San Francisco.

Rather than sinking to the level of his competition, Costas responded with, "As anyone can plainly see, I'm 5-6 1/2 and a strapping 150, and unlike some people, I came by all of it naturally. I've actually always had a pretty cordial relationship with Barry. I have no ill feelings toward him personally. I regard him as one of the greatest players of all time who got an inauthentic boost and then became a superhuman player. I wish him no ill whatsoever."

Like a thousand paper cuts, that response, laying open Bonds’ misplaced aggression and naked arrogance. For that, and for his entire (small) body of work, Bob Costas earns his place as the recipient of G:TB’s first Bite Me, Randy Newman award.

(Editor’s Note: For the record, G:TB understands that the Massachusetts legislation really only applies to dwarves, and not garden-variety shorter-than-normal people. Although it may also apply to gnomes, if such things exist. G:TB also recognizes that acknowledging that understanding in the body of this piece would completely fuck up the comedic premise, as should you.)