Alas...I Was Born Sans the Sports Crapola Gene

I have quite a few ailments that fall into the autoimmune category.  Some pretty ugly, some not so much.

We'll address those perhaps down the line, but for today I would like to address my being born with a handicap.  I was born without the Sport Crapola Gene.

As handicaps go it isn't a bad one, in fact, in my particular instance it is a case of not missing what you never had.

That being said...I like to go to sporting events.  I like to go for the music and people watching, the camaraderie and the energy.   One recent aspect of sporting events that really appeals to me is watching Left Brain strike up bromances with his fellow sportaholics.  He is always laughing at me for the way people I have never met will come to me and strike up a convo like we were long lost friends meeting up for the first time in a few years, and yet...get him in a sports crapola situation and he turns into Chatty Cathy himself! 

IF I had a child, sibling, relative, or friend of any sort playing the sport I can get caught up in it.  This makes sense to me.  I love that person...their success is a happiness in my score book.  I want to see them do well, I want to see them have fun, I want to see them with their friends/collegues, and I want to enjoy their enjoyment.

I can go to soccer practice for Caybob and Hanners and spend a good two hours yelling and cheering for them.  Seeing them excel and their joy in their success...HOMERUN for Grammy! 

What I don't understand is how people (and men especially) can get caught up in something that:
a) in the long run means NOTHING
b) has nothing to actually do with them or anyone they personally know
c) makes them scream or yell at the television like they are actually a part of the program
d) causes them much disappointment and duress when their team of choice stinks or perpetually loses
e) has them adopting players.  "That's my boy."  Really???  Your boy?  Does your wife know?
f) makes them join "fantasy" teams

*looks up...I think that about covers it*

Left Brain is very good to put up with my  handicap and has actually given up some of the fix of watching sports...he even gamely pretends to watch Dancing With the Stars with me.  Left Brain is a very good man...even if sports testosterone tears through his veins he valiantly soldiers on, fighting it for me. His noggin is full of useless sport trivia, and he can spout it at the drop of a hat. 

I can say to him, "Left Brain, tomorrow I think we should run to Costco for dog food," and he'll not remember that comment ever being uttered.  He can, however, remember how many times Joe Blow from the '85 Dodgers got splinters in his keister from sitting the bench for five consecutive games, due to some blow up that he had with John Doe in a game with the Braves on a sunny day, with a temp of 58 degrees, and a SW wind at 3 miles per hour, in June! 

I don't care that Left Brain is so into it.  In fact, I like that he has something that  makes his heart race and blood pump, other than me.  I like to watch him throw his arms around and yell at the people on the screen.  I smile sweetly when he talks about snake drafts and has a bromance at a game.  When I go down to the man cave and see the superfluous amount of sports crappola books that line bookshelves I get a warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach that he has so much of what he loves about him (ok, maybe that isn't the reason I feel that when I see them, but ... whatever).

He can try to explain it all he wants.  Others have tried, others have failed. 

What truly makes me chuckle is when he tries to liken it to ... oh...my love of shoes.  I find that argument illogical and one he will forever lose because one does need to have shoes.  Do they  need as many as I do?  Probably  not, but then again they are needed. 

So while he sits, contemplating his losses on his Fantasy Football League (that term even makes me grin), and while he checks scores on the teams he loves...I'll just sit beside him, browsing shoe sales and thinking..."I love him as is, and maybe it isn't me that has the handicap...maybe it is HIM!"