So apparently I get a little feisty while watching I.U. basketball. This comes as a bit of surprise to MathMan. When we lived in Bloomington, I didn't appear to pay much attention to the games happening a couple of blocks from our apartment.
Over the years, the games were background noise while I did other things - read, cleaned, folded laundry, separated fighting children, rearranged furniture. While MathMan could focus for the two or so hours it took for a game to play itself out, I was antsy, mentally consumed by the things I felt sure had to be done right then, unable to relent to the blasphemous idea of relaxation.
And the most salient point of all - I.U.'s teams were fair to middling. I'd been spoiled by the 1987 championship and the unmitigated madness in the street that followed. Nothing that came after could compare. Or at least it couldn't compete with the noise and goings on what with two parents with full-time jobs, three kids, a cat with a predilection for vomiting and an old house that was always leaking, peeling, or generally requiring repair.
But now, this fair weather fan is interested. I.U. beat Kentucky, Ohio State and Michigan with only one loss to Michigan State. This is the team's best year in what feels like a very long time. It's fun to watch again.
By fun, I meant I hoot. I holler. I ask repeatedly for the score because the graphic is so tiny and I won't put on my glasses. I conjecture and fuss about whistle happy officials. I become a raw nerve if there is less than a ten point lead. Some of these games have been crazy close and I've nearly lost my damn mind.
If I had pom poms, I'd wave them. Instead I settle for highfiving cats.
Tonight I may have crossed the line. Indiana let a ten point lead whittle down to a tie. There was a tussle of the ball and it got slapped out of bounds. Michigan's possession.
"For fuck's sake!" I yelled in the privacy of my own bedroom out of earshot of my children who have never, not ever, heard me use such language.
"Is all that cussing necessary?" MathMan asked.
"Yes it is. Fuck you." Trust me, we don't normally speak to each other this way. In fact, we speak to each other very much like in Life with Father. I even call him Mr. Golden around the house. As in "I don't know if we have plans. I'll check Mr. Golden's schedule." Very Victorian, see?
Without blinking an eye he retorted, "Bite me...... please."
"Not now, sweetie. There's a game on."