My Hobbies Are Collecting Dust, and Apparently Slapping People Is a Sport Now?

I’ve concluded that human beings have far too much disposable income and not nearly enough adult supervision. And before anybody gets offended, I’m including myself in that assessment. Because somewhere in my house, there’s a metal detector that once represented the beginning of a thrilling new chapter in my life.

I was going to discover buried treasure. I was going to uncover lost coins, ancient relics, and possibly a Spanish doubloon that had somehow made its way into a suburban backyard. Instead, I discovered that spiders appreciate expensive recreational equipment propped up in the corner of the bedroom. Who knew?

Meanwhile, on television, two grown men take turns slapping each other into another dimension while an enthusiastic audience cheers. Apparently, we’re all pursuing our dreams. Some of us just have considerably worse dreams than others.

Part One: The Museum of Hobbies I Never Actually Had

I don’t know what happens to the human brain when we discover a new hobby, but something clearly disconnects. One minute, you’re watching a YouTube video about metal detecting. The next minute, you’re convinced that your true calling has been hiding beneath six inches of dirt your entire life.

You don’t think, “That might be a pleasant way to spend an occasional Saturday.”

Oh, no. You think, “I HAVE BEEN WASTING MY LIFE. THERE IS GOLD OUT IN THEM THERE HILLS!!”

And suddenly, you’re shopping...

First comes the metal detector. Naturally, you can’t buy the cheap one. What if there’s a priceless artifact buried somewhere and your inferior equipment mistakes it for a bottle cap? So you buy a respectable model. Then you need a digging shovel. Not an ordinary shovel. A specialized treasure-hunting shovel, because apparently dirt recognizes professional credentials.

Then comes the pin-pointer. For those unfamiliar, a pin-pointer is a smaller detector used to locate whatever your larger detector has already convinced you is hiding underground. Think of it as buying a second detective to investigate the first detective’s suspicions. It's always good to get a second opinion, right?

Then batteries. A carrying bag and of course, headphones. You don't want your beeping to disturb the wildlife in the surrounding area.

By the time you’re finished, you’ve spent enough money to purchase a modest amount of actual gold. But that’s not the point. You’re an adventurer now! You’ve already imagined yourself standing in a field, holding up a muddy coin while a documentary narrator announces:

“After decades of searching, one determined man has uncovered an artifact that could rewrite American history.”

Except you’ve been searching for approximately eleven minutes in your backyard. And the artifact is a 1997 Budweiser bottle cap.

Still, you press onward. You find a rusty nail. A mysterious piece of aluminum. Something that looks like a quarter until you wash it and discover it’s a washer. Eventually, you return home, place your equipment in the closet, and announce that you’ll get back out there next weekend. Next weekend arrives. It’s hot... Ok, well, let's make it the following weekend. The following weekend, it rains. The weekend after that, there’s something good on television.

And just like that, your promising career as an amateur archaeologist enters an indefinite period of administrative review. Months pass. You open the closet. There it is. Your metal detector. Still gleaming beneath a magnificent architectural achievement constructed entirely from cobwebs. A spider has apparently installed a penthouse between the control box and the shaft. Another has established a thriving community near the shovel. Your pin-pointer is now supporting a silk suspension bridge. The only thing your metal detector ever successfully discovered was a previously unknown species of dust bunny. And the worst part? I KNOW I’M NOT ALONE!

Somewhere, somebody has a $900 guitar they purchased after watching one Eric Clapton concert. They learned three chords. One of them was wrong. Now the guitar sits in its case while its owner tells visitors, “Yeah, I used to play a little.” No, you didn’t, Brian... You used to own a guitar. There’s a difference.

Then there’s the aspiring home baker who bought a professional stand mixer, six specialty pans, a digital scale, and enough flour to destabilize the commodities market. They baked one loaf of sourdough, and it had the consistency of a landscaping brick. Now the mixer is used exclusively during Christmas, when somebody needs to make mashed potatoes for fourteen people.

And let’s not forget the exercise equipment. Millions of Americans have purchased stationary bicycles or treadmills with the sincere intention of becoming healthier. Those bicycles now hold jackets, bath towels, and the occasional pair of pants. The manufacturers should stop advertising them as fitness equipment and start calling them what they are. The Deluxe Motorized Laundry Display System.

But here’s the real secret. We aren’t buying hobbies. We’re buying imaginary versions of ourselves. The adventurous treasure hunter. The talented musician. The disciplined athlete. The sophisticated bread artisan. Unfortunately, the imaginary versions of ourselves never seem particularly interested in showing up for the actual work.

Which brings me to another disturbing development. While my metal detector gathers dust, apparently the sporting world has decided the best recreational activity is giving somebody a concussion.

Part Two: Apparently, Getting Smacked in the Face Is a Career Now

I remember when sports had fairly recognizable objectives. You put a ball in a basket. You hit a baseball and run the bases. You kicked something through a goal. You ran faster than anybody else and voilà! Simple enough. Now I turn on the television and see grown adults doing things that look like deleted scenes from a particularly irresponsible bachelor party.

Take competitive slap-fighting. Yes, it’s real. Two people stand opposite one another and take turns delivering open-handed blows to each other’s faces. Rules, referees, weight classes, and actual organized competitions. Somebody looked at a schoolyard argument and thought, “You know what this needs? Corporate sponsorship.”

I watched footage of this spectacle and immediately had questions. Who was the first person to propose it? How did that meeting go? “Okay, gentlemen, we’re looking for a fresh new sport.” “How about tennis?” “Too traditional.” “Competitive swimming?” “Too much water.” “What if we just smack each other in the head?” “BRILLIANT. GET MARKETING ON THE PHONE!”

And the competitors are completely serious. They prepare themselves. They concentrate. They measure their stance. They chalk their hands. Commentators analyze technique as though we’re witnessing the culmination of centuries of athletic development.

“He’s really generating tremendous rotational power through the hips.”

Bob, he’s pimp-slapping another dude... Let’s not pretend we’re watching the discovery of nuclear fusion here.

And the spectators! People are cheering! They’re buying tickets! They’re purchasing merchandise! Somewhere, an enthusiastic fan is explaining that his favorite competitor has exceptional palm placement. I don’t know about you, but when I hear the phrase “elite hand speed,” I generally expect somebody to be playing the piano. Not rearranging another man’s facial expression.

And then there are those bizarre collision competitions circulating online, where participants sprint toward one another at alarming speeds. I watch these clips and genuinely cannot determine the objective. Are they trying to score? Are they attempting to knock somebody over? Is there an imaginary ball involved? Did somebody lose a bet?

All I see is two enormous gentlemen charging at each other like runaway shopping carts while an announcer screams as though civilization itself depends on the outcome. And apparently, this is entertainment.

Look, I understand that athletic competition has always involved risk. Football players collide. Boxers punch. Hockey players occasionally resolve disagreements with their fists. But at least those sports have histories, strategies, and recognizable structures.

With some of these newer spectacles, the strategy appears to be:
Step One: Locate another human being.
Step Two: Become a medical expense.

Which got me thinking. If this is where we’re headed, why not invent my own sport? Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly present:

The International Ball-Peen Hammer Championships

Picture the arena. Twenty thousand screaming fans. Two magnificent athletes enter beneath dramatic spotlights. Each carries a ball-peen hammer. They sit opposite one another in comfortable folding chairs. A referee checks the equipment. The announcer speaks in a voice normally reserved for heavyweight boxing championships.

“IN THE BLUE CORNER, WEIGHING TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY POUNDS, THE UNDISPUTED KING OF QUESTIONABLE DECISIONS…”

The crowd goes wild... The concept is simple. Competitors take turns attempting to smash each other’s hands with their hammers. The first person unable to hold a hammer loses. Yes, it’s a spectacularly terrible idea, but that's the point, isn't it?

If we’re going to turn avoidable injuries into prime-time entertainment, why stop at slapping? Think of the sponsorship opportunities. Ace Hardware. Band-Aid. Every orthopedic clinic within a fifty-mile radius. The broadcast practically writes itself.

“Well, Jim, we’ve reached the championship round, and Henderson is having serious difficulty maintaining his grip.”

“That’s right, Bob. His opponent appears equally concerned, although it’s difficult to tell because both men are currently requesting medical attention.”

“And what an incredible crowd tonight!”

“Absolutely. Nothing says it’s Miller Time like a subdural hematoma.”

Naturally, the league would need a commissioner. Preferably somebody who has never been within a hundred yards of a medical textbook. And a championship belt. With a hammer on it! Because nothing validates a terrible decision quite like awarding somebody an enormous gold-plated accessory afterward.

We could even have a junior division. Actually, no. Let’s not. Somewhere along the line, even this ridiculous imaginary organization needs to demonstrate a shred of common sense.

The Final Score

Here’s what I find fascinating. We live in a world where people will spend hundreds of dollars on equipment for activities they never pursue. And other people will devote their lives to activities that make the rest of us wonder whether we’ve misunderstood the entire concept of recreation.

Meanwhile, my metal detector sits quietly in its closet. It has never won a championship. It has never uncovered a buried fortune. It has never even discovered a decent quarter. But it has provided safe housing for approximately forty-seven spiders. And you know something? I’m beginning to think that’s a more respectable accomplishment than anything happening at the International Ball-Peen Hammer Championship Circuit.

At least nobody has to call an ambulance. Although if I ever open that closet and discover a spider wearing a championship belt, I’m selling the whole damn house. And buying another metal detector. Because somewhere out there, there’s treasure waiting to be found. Probably right next to my common sense...