As a journalist myself, I look back on some of the stuff I did when I worked in sports radio with disgust. For example, the second after Florence Griffith-Joyner died, I was on the air making jokes that, when I listen to the tape now, make me cringe. I was wrong. Out of line. Immature. Making futile efforts to create a name for myself as the second coming of Howard Stern.
If I didn't understand the process of growing up, I would be nothing but embarrassed and ashamed by those days.
As emotionally tragic as it might be to reflect, some of us need to go to that sort of demented and inhuman extreme before we come to the realization that were not talking or writing about the surreal. Junior Seau firing a shotgun into his chest isn't some prop, a convenient foil that eventually facilitates a segue for somebody like Prisco to produce snuff porn.
If Pete Prisco has a conscience, he's spending his spare time as an emotional wreck while he figures out how to explain his actions to his children, if, by some unfortunate stroke of fate, he has any.
But, based on his weekend Tweets, he reacting like I would have, 15 years ago, when I was 22.
He's being defensive. He's deflecting. He's assigning blame to others for issues that, while related, have nothing to do with his ill-advised column or Olbermann's critique.
And he's busy telling us not to worry about Tim Tebow's well-being.
Of course, because like the people who will receive settlement money from the NFL, Tebow is rich. And he knew when he got into the game that it might not last.
That's what it's all about. Anything and everything material that doesn't require the eye of a medical doctor to tease out from something complicated, but concrete.
Human emotion, response to trauma or perceived failure -- these things just don't register with Prisco.
Some people never grow up. They just grow old and eventually bitter.
Written by Rocco Pendola in Santa Monica, Calif.