A Line in the Sand

It's Official. Our editor decided that both our ideas were bad and alas our new CB/CH2 column is dubbed "A Line in the Sand." I think you'll agree that we love to disagree. This month we tackle mens' obsession with sports.

Frank, Frank, Frank. Dear sweet Frank. I’ve got you right where I want you. At press time, your last four Facebook posts (in just two days) are all sports related. In one weekend you couldn’t even muster up a little love for the beautiful spring weather? Hellooooo. Obsession!

Listen. I am a sports fan. In fact, I probably know more than the average lady. Heck, I even have a fantasy football team that boasted an 8-0 start to last season. Further, one of the items on my bucket list is to see a game at every Major League stadium. Listen, I’m no slouch when it comes to sports.

So now that we’ve leveled the playing field (pun intended), let’s talk about the “my team” phenomenon. This is where the man becomes so obsessed with “his team,” that you gently have to point out that he has no stake in the game, match, or contest.

We all know this guy. (Ahem, Frank Dunne.) He screams at the newspaper, the television, the players, the announcers – whatever form of media is bringing him his sporting content. Worse yet, if he is at the sporting event live, he calls out to the players by their first name, as if he’s earned that level of familiarity. (Frank, you’ll want to reference your Masters Sunday Facebook posts to your good friend, “Tiger.”)

His passion is fueled by a fire that burns in his belly - full of beer. And, he reacts in way that would cause anyone of average intelligence to assume that he owns the team, or is a member of the team, or was at one time on the team, or has some stake in a winning season. But alas – no! He is simply a fan. The game is over. Rip up your ticket like the rest of us and move on.

I understand that this is a generations-old problem. In 1979, my father came home from work devastated, and in tears. My mother couldn’t get out of him what was wrong. Her mind raced. Did my grandfather die? Did one of my father’s fellow firefighters get hurt on the job? What could be so wrong that it rendered a grown man nearly catatonic? Two words. Thurmon Munson. Yup, the New York Yankees catcher perished in a plane crash that day and my father was devastated. (Important to note that in my almost thirty eight this is the only instance of my father crying that I am aware of.)

As I pondered this topic, my better half became the unwilling case study. He was hyper-sensitive to my scrutiny and I was keenly aware of all sports-related hysteria. For example, while taking our morning walk, he checked his Blackberry, did a little hop-skip number, and elatedly declared, “We won! Whew. We were on a two game skid.” Oh really sweetie, a skid? Gotcha.

Or better yet, during the final round of the Masters, while Frank was Facebooking Tiger Woods, my guy was whispering to the television. “Go in.” He inched to the edge of his seat. “Go in.” He leaned forward with interest. “Go in.” His voice cracked, with anticipation. “Ohhhhhh.” Disappointment washed over his face and he slumped back against the pillows.

I love a man who has passion. I’d also love the ferocity of that passion to be directed at me, and I suspect that the majority of ladies would agree. I’m willing to – and I do - equally distribute my passion between said beau and my wardrobe, pedicures, and shoe collection. I’ll sit on the couch, after making him dinner, paint my toenails, and root for my Red Sox.

I get it. You love “your team.” But have they ever loved you back?