In a world where being a fan of some kind of organized sport is considered
as American as apple pie…..and refusing to participate in fanatical behavior
of something is practically treason, I have to confess….I am not a fan.  I positively detest
baseball/basketball/football/hockey with a hate that runs so deep that I’m
generally tempted to gouge out my eyes with a dull needle in an effort to avoid
seeing any brand of sport.  And, quite unfortunately, the head penis person
is a fan.  And not just a fan….but a huge fan of all forms of sports.  If he
can’t seem to find one of the above mentioned sports on the bazillion TV sports
channels that we have available for him to peruse, he will happily settle for
curling or shuffle board or tennis.  In a pinch, he once watched a pool
tournament playoff thing, beginning to end, just for lack of anything else
testosterone fueled to zone out to.

 

This makes living in our house rather difficult…..almost every day of the week any
time of the year.  If I found a genie in a bottle and was granted merely just
one wish, I would totally squander that bitch on the elimination of all things
sport related.  And not just from TV…..from LIFE.  Because my biggest fear is that I will be forced to become a soccer-mom or hockey-mom or whatever-mom……and then I will have to spend my days hiding the
complete disdain that I feel and that I am sure I will practically ooze from my pores.  You will be able to find me amidst the sidelines with a flask of something heavily intoxicating in an effort to deny the reality that I am a
whatever-sport-mom chained to the field of dreams for the love of one (or GULP! both) of my penis people.  And I can promise you I will be miserable and just barely able to contain it.

 

Now, in an effort to make this whole being-forced-to-endure-sports thing interesting and entertaining for me…..over the years I have come up with some ways to simultaneously amuse myself and drive the head penis person right over the edge of the sanity cliff.  I talk incessantly during games.  About rudimentary shit that no one (sometimes not even me) cares about.  I concoct ideas for new plays……new uniforms…..new positions.  I once spent a half hour explaining to my husband the idea of having a position called “the netter” in Hockey.  This person would wait for a puck to go sailing towards the goal net…..and promptly skate up to it moments before the puck went in and “accidentally” knock the net completely off kilter.  The goal doesn’t count and the worse thing that happens is some penalty minutes for the offender.  He could be like the guy teams used to send out there to beat
people up.  Yeah, they’ll get a lot of penalties, but that’s their specific job, at least in my  version.

 

I like to rename things in the game.  Rally caps become happy hats (if you think about this….it does make sense to call them this.  I reasoned that if you wear your hat funny like that and your team wins…you’re happy).  Football helmets are brain containers (as in “who’s the team in the yellow brain container”).  I’m one of those people who waits for someone to get hurt doing something really dumb or a duck to wander onto the field and be chased for a few minutes just to keep things interesting.  When they show a player on the screen, I sit and make up elaborate stories about them.  I try to figure out someone I know that he looks like.

 

Jeff, on the opposite end of the spectrum, seems hell-bent on boring me to tears with statistics and facts that I really don’t give a shit about.  Tonight while he was watching the Tiger’s game, he launched in to an incredibly extensive story about the 2007 World Series and some nonsense about guys in the locker room doing shots of liquor during the game.  I think it was supposed to be an inspirational tale of just saying “screw it all” and beating the odds……all I was inspired to do was to set the TV on fire in an effort to shut him up. I  also don’t understand the joy  or his need to watch not only the 50 replays that the TV shows from 10 different angles……but also rewind it and slow motion it so that he can watch that phenomenal moment 100 more times and explain it to me in great detail.  I’ve deduced that he is attempting to drive me crazy in much the same way I am doing to him.

 

He has our small penis people convinced that they should aspire to greatness in sports.  He is a die-hard University of Michigan football fan and is saving his pennies so that he can send them there one day.  Not for the stellar education that they will likely get…but for the college football tickets that he can get. Each week they must all don their Michigan tees…..in an effort of solidarity…..as a means to root on the team…..in the hopes that by wearing this silly garb it will spur them on to a win.

 

Because I know his love for his cherished teams…….his dedication to them……and because I am an evil woman when I’m bored and left to my own devices…..I always root for the opposing team…I hum their fight song…..I cheer when they score.  Not that I even really give a shit less who wins or loses….but because its fun and I delight in his being exasperated that I’m not on board with his mission to urge his team to win through fanatical behavior.

And then, just when I think I can’t take it a moment longer before I am forced to kill him in an effort to protect our kids from being equally as dedicated as he is, he retreats to his man cave in the basement.  Yes, I can still hear him while he screams at TV (you know, because they can TOTALLY hear him and follow his directions) but at least I don’t have to watch it
anymore.  I can now consider myself free to watch what I want.  And that is all that I was really hoping for all along!

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