Sports

It's that time again -- time to isolate half of you by talking about sports. It's just that sports is the only thing on TV that doesn't make me want to jump out a window.

My addiction started early, in pee wee soccer. When you're four feet tall, you don't understand the rules, per se; you just know that if you kick the ball in a forwardly direction, those big people will stop yelling at you.

I watch the British Premiere League just for the brogue: "Newcastlefordshireham takes a commanding one-to-nil lead, and the players, in a fit of unbridled joy, doff their sweaters."

That's the Shakespeare of sports, isn't it? Maybe that's why there's so much drama when a player gets fouled.

"Forsooth, with spikes mine enemy hath struck! To bleed or not to bleed?"

I had one of those dads who'd practice his swings in public. Sometimes baseball, sometimes golf. Once in a while he'd shoot a free throw. As a kid, all you can do is hope that no one is looking. I'm just glad that he wasn't into gymnastics.

I enjoy boxing despite the glaring lack of ball. I actually trained for and got my butt kicked by a 16-year-old. It was like he was hitting me from both sides at the same time. My mom had to watch through her fingers: "Use your words, honey. Use your words!"

Baseball is good as background music. The nice thing is that if you miss anything, your team will play several more games before the day is over. My buddy Jake was taping a game, and I wondered, When is he going to watch it? When the next one's on?

I like to go to the stadium, be a part of the spectacle. It's strange, though, singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" when you're already there.

I can't do basketball on account of the fouls ... "Johnson takes the inbound pass and is fouled. Baker dribbles to the base line and is fouled. Bryant shoots a free throw and is fouled (Smith gave him a dirty look)."

Why don't we just give the ball to the referees and let them play?

Who, by the way, is choosing these uniforms? We've got full-grown men running around in bumble bee yellow and soccer mom teal. If I were in charge, my team would shave their heads and play in prison uniforms. Tell me that wouldn't chill the opponent.

Football is swell, but here's what I don't get: What do field goals have to do with football? Here's a team that scratches and claws and bleeds its way down field, and when they finally get within view of the end zone, they call in the kicker.

He's not even watching the game; he's on the sideline chatting up the cheerleaders. He puts out his cigarette, grabs a random helmet, and ENDS THE GAME! A game that he doesn't even understand. He may as well come in and do archery or pee for distance. So it goes.

We watch the Super Bowl at my mom's house, where there's NFL festooning and football-shaped cookies. Sometimes Mom walks in wearing her commemorative Super Bowl T-shirt to say, "Look at my team. Buncha friggen bums." She doesn't know anything about the game; she's just cursing to be festive.

"Mom, it's the pregame show. Go back to your cookies."

Men will turn anything into a contest: surfing, walking, hot dog eating. In Beaver, Oklahoma, you'll find the championship cow chip toss, which is like the Olympic discus, only the fans don't stand so close.

In a pinch, we'll even watch WWF. Whenever I get angry at baseball calls, I remember wrestling referees, who routinely overlook folding chairs to the back of the head.

So ladies, if you live with a sports fan, don't fight it. That only makes things worse. Allow your man his sweaty little soap opera; let him get it out of his system. When the game is over, he'll return fresh and invigorated, ready to mow the lawn.

Unless, of course, there are people on TV talking about sports, in which case you'll probably lose him again.