Goodbye, Kick Out the Sports!
by James Frey

After three years and 154 columns (155 if you count the clean version of the best of swearing in sports), Bob Cook is resigning his Kick Out the Sports column duties to pursue other interests, spend more time with his family and respond to a growing sense of calling that the next season of his life should be focused on more strategically using his gifts for the preaching and teaching of God's word.

Cook asked that his last column be turned over to author James Frey. Cook believed Frey best could sum up his life and accomplishments as Flak's sports columnist.

Bob Cook asked me about writing a tribute to him after finding me in the Harpo Studios men's bathroom (they have one, believe it or not), my shirt covered in vomit and blood. That was after my most recent appearance on Oprah Winfrey's show, which I thought had gone rather well. I just have a problem keeping vomit and blood off my shirt.

Bob said, "James, we've known each other a long time, ever since we served that three-month prison term together. I think you're the one who can tell my story. Just don't use all that bullshit capitalization and repetition you used in your book. Sound like me."

An odd request, to be sure, but I said I'd do it. If Bob could find me a washcloth and a bucket of OxiClean first.

I first met Bob in prison. Given that millions of you have read my book, you know why I was there. Bob was sentenced for conspiracy to build and operate a meth lab. What happened was, Bob is such an incompetent mechanic, the only thing his "meth lab" produced was fermented brake fluid.

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Bob was a smart guy. He figured out quick I was the prison badass, and he immediately offered to be my punk bitch if it meant he wouldn't get shivved. I laughed and told him I didn't want that from him. I just kind of felt sorry for the guy. Though he really put me in a bind a couple of times. I had to fight off four burly inmates and three wardens with nothing more than a plastic fork and a handful of peas after Bob started a riot by standing up in the cafeteria and saying I would kick the ass of anybody who didn't believe John Stallworth was the greatest wide receiver ever.

A few days after Bob got back from "the hole" — that's what we hardened prison inmates call solitary confinement — I told him, "Bob, when you get out of here, why don't you write a sports column? Any asshole can write one. At least on the outside they won't try to kill me for what you write." Bob said, "Wow, James! That's a great fuckin' idea!"

We were silent in our cell for a few minutes. Bob piped up. "Um, James?"

"Yeah?"

"Is my illiteracy going to be a problem?"

Fortunately, it's sports writing, so I told Bob illiteracy is not a problem.

After our three months were up, I said goodbye — probably a little quickly, what with having to see if Lilly had hung herself or slit her wrists or whatever else that kooky bitch would think of next. As I remember, Bob was taken home on a hay wagon pulled by a tractor. Bob was always kind of a hillbilly.

I kind of lost touch with Bob for a while. Someone told me a story that he had his appendix removed without anesthesia, and that he befriended a judge with a nasty Tastykake addiction, but I was too busy doing laundry to notice. I've got to do something about all that random vomiting and bleeding; my water bill is killing me.

Then I saw he was writing for Flak. Writing for free for Flak. Well, I thought, that won't hurt anyone. He was opinionated, though in this venue he appeared to be safe from everyone except Kentucky basketball fans.

Then I read about his first Pulitzer, the first awarded to someone whose work had never appeared in a newspaper. Then his second one. Then about his audience with the pope. His year-long stint announcing "Monday Night Football." His torrid affair with Jeanne Zelasko. (Actually, it turned out the affair occurred only with her fur coat.)

Amazing.

And now it's over.

Bob always told me he was never the type to stay in one place for long. Gotta roll along, he said. See what's out there. Don't set roots. Hit the blue highways. Then I'd slap him, because that was the only way to stop him from spouting more cliches.

Still, it seems odd that Bob would leave now. He's on top of the world. He's incredibly popular. Millions have responded to his columns, and the stories of redemption therein. I can't figure it out.

It's like he's afraid it's all going to come crashing down or something. Does that ever really happen?

Editors' note: An internal investigation by Flak, assisted by pointed and righteous questioning of Bob by TV's Judge Mathis, found everything written above is complete bull, except for the following facts: Bob is resigning as Kick Out the Sports columnist. He did write 154 columns (155 if you count the clean version of the best of swearing in sports). And James Frey often has vomit and blood on his shirt.

Bob says he'll continue to contribute pieces to Flak, but that if you want to read his sports writing, you'll have to go to MSNBC.com to do it or check this handy page we've built, which contains links to all his MSNBC pieces to date. We think he might be telling the truth this time; he says his friend Leonard can vouch for him. Just in case, TV's Judge Mathis is on standby.

E-mail Bob Cook at bobc@flakmag.com.