Unlike horse racing, Kings, aka King’s Cup (aka Circle of Death, aka Ring of Fire-for fans of nuance), did not earn its regal title filling the idle time of blue-bloods. And most vitally, it requires a willingness to revel in the alcohol-fueled misfortune of others, a boutique brand of schadenfreude accessible only by those who know how it feels to chug a mug filled with equal parts shitty beer, Smirnoff Ice, Steel Reserve and warm Franzia. It demands a worthy, though not encyclopedic, knowledge of the world’s most important topics-like ‘90s television shows, cigarette brands and breakfast cereal mascots. It calls for some physical prowess, but not so much that you’re asked to stand. It’s more of a game than a sport, really, but one built around the most molecular aspects of competition-quick thinking, risk-taking, self-preservation, picking up what others are putting down.
The sport called Kings, meanwhile, has about as much in common with royalty as John Goodman in King Ralph. There are people-the type of people who use “summer” as a verb-who say horse racing is the sport of kings.
