Memoirs of an Aging Sports Addict

I dedicate this article to everyone that has hid their remote from their wife to watch the football game, knows all of the sports cable channels in memory, and has ever dreamed of being a superstar.It has broken up countless homes. It’s been that unspeakable force that can ruin a marriage, a family… even a Sunday night dinner.

SPORTS.

It’s been my passion as long as I can remember how to pee. It’s been the bane of my beautiful wife’s existence ever since she successfully talked me down from naming our children Trifecta U’Betcha and Muhammad Jordan Gretzky. She still mutters to herself “That was a close one” whenever the subject comes up.

But we could not keep it from infecting the minds of our little ones. My 4 year old daughter was absolutely devastated after losing what turned out to be a dead heat of a bike race on training wheels against the neighbor’s little girl. I’m still trying to sneak into their garage to see if the training wheels are standard issue… I SWEAR I saw them filing down the edges to reduce drag. Toys R’ Us weekend special MY BEHIND.

And my 2 year old son shuns the typical play date foolishness of chasing the other kids around the monkey bars in the park. “Come on over here and watch me crossover like a 50 Cent video on TRL” is what his ice cold stare resembles… the unfortunate part is that his little hands fail to stop the dribble of the adult sized basketball from rudely introducing itself to his face… walk it off, son. Walk it off.

Yes, my addiction to sports has far reaching effects. So much so that I feel compelled to share some of the tell-tale signs of said addiction so you can avoid some of the pitfalls that I’ve… uhhhh… HEARD of because I NEVER have experienced some of these things… I just have the addiction, man, but none of the symptoms… Yeah, yeah… that’s the ticket.

Here’s the first sign.  Your wife has cooked the most delicious meal, prepared the most romantic mood and slipped on the most amazingly skimpy outfit on the face of the planet… all while your vegetative behind was propped on the couch watching basketball. The way she figures it, she knows you’re into the game but there’s no way you’ll be able to resist the set-up she’s got for you (even though you’ve been completely oblivious for the past two hours or so…). So she slinks up to you on the couch, touching  THAT spot, getting you ready to rock and you know it. She’s got your full attention and you’re about to get the party started when…

“HOLY CRAP!!!!! PLEASE TELL ME DEREK FRIGGIN’ FISHER DID NOT HIT THAT FRIGGIN’ SHOT TO BEAT THE SPURS!!!!!!! I HAD $200 ON TIMMY “LIGHT IN THE ASS” DUNCAN!!!!!!! AW, C’MON, REFS!!!!! PLEASE TELL ME TIME EXPIRED… IT’S GOOD???!!!! YOU SUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!! OH THIS IS JUST THE PERFECT WAY TO END OFF MY FRIGGIN’ NIGHT!!!!!! I HOPE THE WHOLE LAKER TEAM GETS FOOD POISONING TONIGHT FROM YEAR OLD TACQUITOS!!!!!!! MAY KARL MALONE BE DISCOVERED TO BE AN AGE DEFYING ANDROID AND MAY SHAQUILLE O’NEAL EXPERIENCE AN OLIVER MILLER SIZED FOOD BINGE, SINKING HIM INTO A DEEP DEPRESSION, ONLY TO BE BROUGHT OUT OF IT BY RICHARD FRIGGIN’ SIMMONS AND HIS YOUNG SHORTS WEARING, FLAMBOYANT ASS!!!!!!!! AAAARRRGH!!!!!!!”

At this point, you’ve failed to realize a few things while you went nuclear over a buzzer beater: Your wife has not only angrily changed out of the outfit she so desperately wanted YOU to take off her, but she’s installed a bank-vault standard lock on the bedroom door (probably fashioned after the chastity belt she’ll wear for the duration of your marriage). She’s also keyed your car, slashed your tires, sold every valuable piece of sports memorabilia you own to charity for the lump sum of a “God Bless You”, and she’s taught your children to call you “That S.O.B. Wouldn’t Know His Head From His Behind From A Throwback Jersey”. Women can multi-task, indeed. (And by the way, sleeping on the couch is completely underrated… if you can deal with a leg and/or arm going numb in the middle of the night and waking up to find yourself walking around the house like Keiser Solze in “The Usual Suspects” BEFORE his secret was revealed.)

The addiction terrorizes you 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  For example, you have been waiting for the company flag football game since last year’s event. Yeah, yeah, you’re a bunch of thirty and fourty-somethings trying to rediscover your youth but it’s still YOUR event. You still get compliments for your performance in last year’s game: 3 touchdown catches, 2 sacks, 1 forced fumble… so what if the left tackle was Florence, the 65 year old office receptionist… if she chooses to be on the field, she gets ran over like I’m Terry Tate: Office Linebacker.

So it’s gametime and you’re ready. But this time Florence isn’t playing. It seems that the opposition has drafted some guy from accounting. Some kid named Bo Jackson Jenkins or Jim Thorpe Sullivan or something… 6’6″, 285 lbs., hands like Jim Rice and tenacity like Bill Romanowski DURING `roid rage. This young man’s sole purpose is apparently not only nullifying your effect on the game, but to put you as close to knockin’ on heaven’s door as possible. On your team’s first offensive play of the game, you fumble the ball (out of pure fear) when Mr. All-Purpose tackles you (they conveniently forgot to tell the biggest man on the field… who looks like he was created on Madden NFL 2005… that this was only FLAG football). You proceed to then get dragged to the end zone… like a can on the back of a Ferrari with “Just Married” on the rear window… as this freak from Mt. Olympus proceeds to make a Barry Sanders-esque highlight reel. All the while this freak of nature is turning around and calmly asking you if you’re alright  back there, not recognizing the look on your face is because you are holding on for dear life and not one of playing `til you hear the whistle. SMART ASS.

But in the end, your competitive spirit will not let you quit and you do get him back: You slow him down (somewhat) as he’s going in to score the last of his 18 unassisted touchdowns. You MAKE him juke you out of your jockstrap, forcing you into an immediate Joe Theismann-like retirement cringe. Either you were falling that slowly or he was moving that damn fast because he was able to score the touchdown, do an Ickey Woods Shuffle celebration dance, AND run back to where he juked you just to catch you before your ass hits the grass.

As your co-workers tend to your limp, lifeless body (giggling like little damn schoolgirls at your least finest moment), your replacement in company folklore has explained his planet of origin (`cause he sure as hell ain’t from Earth): He played two seasons in NFL Europe, wrestled alligators for a little while on the Bayou Sports Network, Set the world record for most buildings bench-pressed in one sitting and (just to piss you off) enjoys painting by the lake and playing the piano. THIS SUM’ BITCH HAS TO DIE.

Here’s the kicker: On the way home, you’re expecting to get sympathy from your #1 cheerleader and your two biggest little fans… Only to have them absolutely fall out in laughter at your experience the whole way. The kids aren’t even old enough to put sentences together but your little girl manages to get out a “Daddy’s Funny”.

Not as funny as those toys you’re not getting because you two decided to turn into pint-sized versions of Mike & Mike in the Morning. And Mommy is going to think she’s smack-dab in the Middle East with the drought SHE’S about to go through for her disloyal ways. So THIS is how Scott Norwood felt after that fateful day.

And the saga continues…