Your Flight Leaves at 8, Her Flight Lands at 9, My Game Just Rewind

So there I am this afternoon at work, sitting at my desk, suffering through the Joe Average Worker equivalent to chasing a vicodin with a 40 of King Cobra-- namely, shit that puts you to sleep with the quickness. Which is not to say that what I do what pays my rent, cable bill, and bar tabs is all that exciting to begin with, because it ain't. But this was seriously on some "You can't be serious.... you really askin' me to do this?" type shit. So I did what every other red blooded American does-- I surfed the damn internet. In addition to furthering my quest to read the entire Sexy Results! archives on the company dime (I'm up to May of '05), I caught up on my internet surfing, peeping the shit that I used to read all the time but have slacked off on lately as the ol' J-O-B has gotten a little more serious and all. And that's when I stumbled upon the genius that is Bethlehem Shoals for the umpteenth time, who dropped knowledge at the always inspiring Free Darko (cop the t-shirts, they're hot):

"But what I really want to do is what I do best: heap shame about the white man and back-handedly, somewhat imprecisely, praise those of the minority persuasion. One of my absolute least favorite things alive is white men, usually slightly older, talking sports to women who clearly don't need or want to hear it. At a crap Italian restaraunt back in H-Town, I nearly got up and punched some British guy who, when the conversation at his table turned casually to the geographic wonder that was the Rose Bowl, proceeded to bust loose with an amateur scouting report on Vince's pro prospects, the difference in defensive schemes, etc. Then last night, the man behind us had a running monologue going, presumably for the benefit of his wife/date, about the Princeton offense, Tampa Bay's defense, other garden variety ESPN.com information. Two rows back, the aforementioned LD impersonator would occasionally stop bellowing about defense (WORLD'S DUMBEST WIZARDS SEASON TICKETHOLDER. the Wizards are not built to play defense, just to score and get steals in transition/on the perimeter) to tell his daughter (??) about which Wizards were really valuable to a sound team game.

I am not a sailor or an adventurer, but something has become clear to me as I wash this earth with my scalding blood: if someone's not responding, they don't care. Either that, or you're talking way over their head. Granted, half of what people say out loud at a sporting event is to sound knowledgable around their oh-so informed peers in the bleachers. But if you are really, truly, talking about screens as a way of bonding with your female companion, it's not working. Keep in mind the model of the baseball game: at any given time, only about 70% of the spectators at a ballpark can apprectiate the nuances of the action, but that doesn't mean the others aren't having a good time. In fact, they're probably enjoying it on their own terms, with as much as they need to know, and find it intrusive to have someone browbeat them with technical wank. At the risk of pissing off our very limited female audience, usually a woman (or any non-fan, for you parents trying to force a burgeoning art fag to play catch) agreeing to go to a sporting event is itself a loveable concession. And if he/she is managing to enjoy the experience, its on her own terms, not through a cloudy, just-discovered lens of identical fandom that God calls upon you to polish. Otherwise, Sundays would not be a day of solitude, and playoff season would not be a unrelenting string of excuses and avoidances on my part."

Maybe it's just me, but I found this fucking brilliant and completely on point. Because if you're anything like me, you have one of those friends who thinks he knows everything about everything, even when they don't know what the fuck they're talking about. You know the type-- the kind of dude who tries to tell you that the Pixies didn't get their big break until Fight Club used "Where Is My Mind," completely ignorant of the fact that the Pixies broke up a full seven fucking years before the movie came out. The type of dude that spends a few hours playing Madden, sit downs to watch a football game with you, and all of a sudden thinks he's the defensive coordinator, babbling on and on about the intricacies of the 3-4 defense and the zone blitz and what have you, when all you're thinking is "God, please shut the fuck up and let me watch the game, ok Coach?" You know the type-- loud as a motor bike, but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight....

Anywho, I fully recognize that when it comes to certain subjects-- most music, sports in general and baseball in particular-- I'm a full fledged dork. It's safe to say that if you know me personally (or hell, have read this blog), you've been subjected to a half cocked ramble about a band/musical style which your knowledge of is only tenuous at best. But hey, that's me-- you accept this as the price you pay for hanging out with someone as cool as myself. And if you can't-- hey, fuck you, I can't help it that I'm smarter than you and just trying to hip you to the new hotness.

That being said, I learned early on not to be that guy. Or maybe not early on, but I learned that shit. It was probably when the summer of '02 when I finally learned that shit. See, I had the genius idea of taking my new girl to Shea (a/k/a/ The Fucking Mecca) for a largely inconseuential game with my boys-- and I fucking scored the game! Respect to the lady, that didn't kill my game, but she did let me know that it was kind of on the dorky tip. And when you think about it, it makes sense-- if you're spending three hours with a program in your lap and pencil in your hand, wondering whether the left fielder or center fielder caught a can of corn in the sixth inning rather than "Do we need more beer?", the question of "Wonder if she's wearing the Vickie's lace panties today?" is something you ponder during the 7th inning stretch rather than something you ascertain with certainty a few hours later. Similiarly, if you spend an inordinate amount of time explaining just why it's called a "6-4-3 Double Play," the "You got condoms, right?" question is probably not in your future (unless you're me, cuz I ball like that).

And hell, maybe it was because it was my first summer being 21 and I hadn't spent enough time in NYC bars, so the idea of paying $7.50 a beer was an insult to humanity rather than simply paying the cost to be the boss, but I learned real quick. And it wasn't only the young lady who had to suffer through me scoring said game who schooled me, but rather the glazed over eyes of the compatriots of those that guy's that Shoals describes before it became clear to my fertile mind that "Yo, I don't wanna go out like that." So now, when I hit up the ball games, my concern is less with keeping score (cuz honestly, do I really need another program that I'll never look at it again and will only take up space in the passenger seat of my car until the end of time) and more with making sure the beer man is making his rounds with the quickness. And if my girl wants to ask a question, I'll induldge her in a suitable manner-- but I ain't tryin' to get into a ten minute discussion about the career history of the Expos #7 hitter, because she definitely doesn't care about that shit and frankly, I shouldn't either.

It just sorta brings it back to a few theories I have. Namely, that having a girl who likes the same music you do is cool, but not necessarily essential-- in fact, I'd argue that if she doesn't like the same music, thats a good thing. That way, you can hit her off with the inevitable mixtape filled with DJ Shadow and Massive Attack jawns and she'll think you're a musical genius for blowing her mind and introducing her to this shit (that is, if she's a good chick). In the same way, you don't need a chick to like sports, but rather to only to respect the fact that when OSU-Michigan is on, she either needs to find something else to do or get the fuck out of your way. But if you find that girl that digs sports-- and I'm not talking about those girls that front that they do, only because they're like "Derek Jeter is so hot!" or "I love Tom Brady's ass!," but actually know there shit-- that's even better. But if you can't find one of those rare breed, do yourself a favor and keep your inner Belichek inside, hard as it might be. Trust me-- it'll work out better for all involved. But the chick that not only says "Ok, I'll see you after the game" but says "Why don't I watch the game with you?" and doesn't just do it to humor you, but is actually interested-- that's the one you keep.

Do I have a point in this? Not really, other than that I have noticed this phenomenon just as Shoals has? Not really, other than to say that I have learned my lesson and, white skin or no, I will not be that guy, and that I found his observations funny. And I'll never be that guy again.

One Final Word On The Atrocity That Was The Panthers-Giants Game: All through the game, I was joking that when I went to the grocery store today, I'd find a picture of Plaxico Burress on my carton of milk, because dude was a missing person the entire game. I get home from work (surprisingly still awake), and what do I find in my mailbox? One of those "Avo asks Have You Seen Us?" postcards with missing children, and guess who's on it.... Jeremy fuckin' Shockey.

Yeah, I went there. In another few days, I'll be ready to accept the whole "We went 11-5 and won the NFC East, shit we weren't remotely supposed to do" argument. Not right now, though.