Resplinzalball, anyone?

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In the matter of preparing for the future of humankind no scenario should go unchecked. Thoroughness is key. It’s important to be specific when analyzing the possibilities so a contingency plan can be tailored to prevent any possible hiccups. A global event would alter every aspect of our lives from art and schooling to transportation, weather and even sports. Earth’s population is enamored with sports, and therefore it’s only natural to prepare for what may lie ahead, even the galactic kind.

If a space-alien race arrived on planet Earth and demanded we streamline our lives in a dramatic way in order to bring about more efficiency in our species, and we were forced to create one sport out of many to satisfy all of human culture, what would that sport look like?

A ball, a puck — a gun? Skates, skis or sneakers? Do individuals or teams compete? The iconic ingredients from every sport in the world would have to be smooshed, squished and crammed together to create one cohesive, playable, entertaining, physically invigorating game to satisfy the multitudes.

I’m just shooting from the hip here, but I envision four teams consisting of nine players — three men, three women and three children of various sexes — running across the same field of play in brightly colored jumpsuits, hollering cues and directions to blindfolded counterparts who are juggling symmetrical objects of various sizes and weights while avoiding pitfalls, tackles and riddles, all under the watchful eye of one single just and righteous referee. (I’m a little shaky on the minutiae, but I feel like the basic framework is in place.)

Intertwined with the fabric of sport is the delicate dance of running to the bathroom during any given break and coming back with beer and snacks. In order to fulfill this most rudimentary requirement our sport must have a thought-out and precise placement of breaks in play. Pauses must be plentiful enough to satisfy even the most sensitive of bladders and appetites while still offering game play in satisfying chunks.

The formula I’ve devised — consisting of ratios involving nacho cheeses, microwave temperatures and bowel tendencies — suggests 12 5-minute periods, buffered by 200-second stoppages in order to fulfill all the duties of the digestive tract. (A combination recliner/toilet/refrigerator could revolutionize the game, but that’s a conversation for another time.)

What could you call such an exquisite blend and balance of our athletic history? The name must reflect the very essence of sport, and maintain a tone of powerful, aggressive energy without denying its celebration of mental prowess and precision timing.

Resplinzalball perhaps? Or Glappersion? Maybe Donch Clossticle? In the end, the name could only be settled on after rigorous debate and intensive voting, followed by debates about voting and votes about debating until, for a lack of a better expression, it just feels right.

Little green men descending on our planet with the intention of consolidating our extracurricular activities may not be more likely than, say, a zombie apocalypse, an Illuminati takeover or another ice-age, but in this world, where surprise is commonplace, I have only one thing to say: It feels nice to have a plan.

Nic R. Krause was born a cranky, curmudgeon of a child in a Minnesota suburb. He was plucked from the muggy tundra and relocated to Colorado Springs 22 years ago. From intramural jai-alai, to his complicated relationship with the Minnesota Vikings, Nic, plainly stated, is bonkers for sports. Follow him on Twitter @NicRKrause.

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