Trying to explain Hawk can be otherworldly

A spaceship landed in my back yard Saturday afternoon, and a friendly space alien emerged.

He identified himself as Pooper, the Secretary of Poop from Planet Poopoo.

He was dispatched here on a fact-finding mission concerning the one issue that baffles his leaders about Earth.

“Mike Madigan?” I asked.

“No,” Pooper said.

“Seedless watermelon?”

“No.”

“Queen Elizabeth’s hats?”

“No.”

It turned out that Pooper was curious about the Hawkeroo phenomenon that erupted last week.

“Why ask me?” I asked.

“Because,” Pooper said, “you have been identified by my people as your people’s ayatollah of absurdity.”

Anyway, who knew that Poopoopians have satellite dishes that pick up Hawk Harrelson broadcasting White Sox games?

“So you want to know what happened when Hawk went nuts on the umpire?” I asked.

That wasn’t it. Poopoopians saw and heard what happened. They want to know more about this intriguing Hawk character.

“Iced tea?” I offered.

“Decaf, please” Pooper said.

We clanked glasses, toasted our mutual interest in ceramic supermodels, and got down to business.

“Your leaders fear that Hawk has Poopoopian ancestry, don’t they?” I asked.

“Well, maybe, uh, yes,” Pooper said.

“Relax. You’re safe. He’s our very own alien being.”

“My research indicates he’s a former baseball player and current baseball reporter.”

“Half right. He was a player, but he’s not a reporter. He’s a TV play-by-play announcer.”

“Aren’t they one and the same?”

Poopoopians are naive. They don’t understand that considering a baseball broadcaster a reporter is like confusing a Schwinn with a Harley.

“Reporters are objective journalists,” I said. “Baseball broadcasters are entertainers at best and shills at worst.”

I explained that reporters don’t accept money from news subjects to report on them.

“Mr. Hawk is paid by the White Sox?” Pooper said.

“He’s paid by TV outlets,” I said. “But the Sox approve his employment.”

“So to keep his job the Hawkster must be partial to the Sox. Is that what you down here call being a homer?”

Pooper was catching on, sort of. Hawk Harrelson is a homer but in a way that gives homers everywhere a bad name.

“Real homers,” I said, “sit on barstools and condemn the team’s bad performances as much as they commend good performances.”

“You’re suggesting that Mr. Harrelson doesn’t criticize the Sox?”

“Not much. Check his tongue. It’s terribly bitten.”

“This is more complicated than I anticipated.”

I explained that Hawk Harrelson isn’t a native Chicagoan. He never played for the White Sox. He didn’t grow attached to them until starting to be paid to broadcast their games.

“So he’s an announcer but not a fan,” Pooper said.

“Hawk is a fan all right,” I said. “He evolved into one the more he grew to like Sox chairman Jerry Reinsdorf.”

“So he roots for the chairman, and through the chairman for the team, and through the team for the players, and through the players against others?”

“Sometimes, yes, that’s how it works, like during last week’s misguided tirade against a misguided umpire.”

Pooper finished his iced tea and climbed back aboard his spaceship.

“I’m still not sure I can explain the Hawkeroo to Poopoopians,” he said.

“Join the club,” I said. “We’re still trying to figure him out down here, too.”

Pooper waved a perplexed wave and was on his way back to a less wacky Planet Poopoo.

In other words, he gone and this column is oh-vah.

mimrem@dailyherald.com