A Whole Different Ballgame

Football, football, football! It has only just begun and I’m already sick of it. And I thought the cricket mania was bad!
Yes, yes, I’m one of those boring women who don’t know a thing about cars and who yawn at the very mention of sports. But I’m a pretty girl and pretty girls are never lonely (quote-unquote Eva Longoria in Desperate Housewives). Or bored for that matter (quote-unquote IdeaSmith)

Not true, I discover this weekend. I should have read the signs on Friday evening when the predominantly male population of the office packed up and left early…no, not on dates, not for movies or parties, but to sack out in front of their TVs.

Saturday and Sunday come and go with equally disappointing trends. My last week’s date with the much-hinted-at follow-up this weekend doesn’t materialize. He’s too busy watching the match to make a trip across town.

Guy no. 2 is going to a friend’s place to watch the game with a bunch of other like-minded guys. What like-minded guys? That spells virtually the entire male population of the city.

Guy no. 3 is sleeping. “Wuzzup laid last night washing ze game”, he mumbles and starts to drift into slumber again.

Dee hasn’t called. He usually calls if I don’t. *Fret fret* In fact most weekends, he’s my wake-up call as he crows “Still sleeping? Some people live such pampered lives.” But today? The phone is silent. Our last two conversations have been 99% my yakking and 1% of “Hmm”, “Uh, huh” and versions of the same from him.

“What is it about men and ballgames? I think its ridiculous!!!”

“Hmmm…”

“Why do you suppose men are so fascinated with balls?”

“Umm…”

Great. This from a man who can out-talk me, out-shout me, out-argue me any day. *Sighh*
“Okay, have a good month!”

“Huh? Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. But you’re going to be in football planet for a month.””So?””So we aren’t going to have real conversations for a month”

“Hmm….why?”

“Because you’re busy watching football”

“Yes, it does get difficult in the evenings”

“DEE!!!!!!!!! We talk ONLY in the evenings. You and I both work during the day.””Ummm…””Never mind, why don’t you get back to your game? Goodnight”

“Hmm…”

And dad, even dad, my last hope for mankind has hogged the idiot box. No, not football, this man is always different. Tennis is his ballgame. Dash it all, I say, its just another game, after all. He ignores my wail. I mean, so they’re whacking a ball around with nets on sticks instead of kicking it around. And, and, its even a tinier ball! “Quiet, now, I can’t hear the commentary” dad growls. I decide to stay mum. Besides I very much doubt, daddy dearest is going to want to hear my theory of men and their balls. Errrmmm.

Commentary, that’s another thing I can’t understand. I mean, you’re watching the damn game. Who needs someone to spell out each move? Men do, apparently. In which case, why do they keep shush-shushing me when I talk at movies? *Grumble grumble*

Sum total: Every single guy I hang out with, date and talk to…is glued to the game. Well, who needs a guy for entertainment? Dash it all, I can’t hang out with women ALL month! What’s more, every single shop, restaurant, mall and pub I walk into is proudly displaying its allegiance to the confounded game. Not to mention keeping the predominantly male population enraptured.

Oh well, when you can’t beat them….

At least there’ll be some eye-candy on the field. Turn up the volume, someone, I want to hear the commentary.