My mistress
05/10/2001
Codding Home / Sports Channel / Bullz-Eye Home
For the first time in my life, I'm wearing a ring. I've been wearing this ring on my left hand since April 21, and while I'm slowly getting used to it, I still don't feel completely comfortable with it on my finger. But I can't take it off. I'm not allowed.
That's what she told me.
"She" happens to be my beautiful wife Mandy, and we've been married now for nearly three weeks. Married life has been great, but then again we spent one of those two-plus weeks in Jamaica on our honeymoon, so there hasn't been much time for me to aggravate her in the "real world." Not yet, anyway.
But I sort of feel sorry for Mandy. I mean, we've been together for more than six years now so she's pretty much got me figured out, but I know something is going to come between us at some point in time. In fact, I can practically guarantee it.
You see, I've had this other relationship stashed on the side for nearly 20 years, and I've never been able to completely break it off. OK, so I've never actually tried to break it off, but cut me some slack -- it's been hard. I mean, this is my first love we're talking about, and that's not something that can be taken lightly. Because it's about so much more than love to me. It's an addiction. And the worst part about all of this is, she knows. Mandy has known about it all along. She just doesn't know how committed I am to my mistress.
But she's about to find out. And, like I said, I feel sorry for her already.
You see, for some reason it was always OK if Mandy knew about this other relationship, but I never felt comfortable letting her know how serious it really was. All of my buddies know, and they all understand. Heck, most of them have the same problem with the women in their lives too, so how could they possibly judge me?
But now, with that ring on my finger, staring me down every single day, I guess it's finally time to come clean. Maybe I should have done this before the wedding, but I didn't want to risk losing what we had. So I bit my lip and hoped for the best.
We're living together now, though, and it'll be nearly impossible to hide this from her much longer. But even if Mandy begs me to end the affair, I know I won't be able to. There are just so many things my mistress gives me that she'll never be able to, no matter how hard she tries.
Like seven-game playoff series, majestic three-run homers, dazzling 40-yard touchdown gallops, and rim-rocking alley-oops. Oh, and Gatorade showers, but I'm sure Mandy could give me one of those. I just wouldn't appreciate it much.
Yes, I'm talking about my passionate affair with the world of sports. Not exactly Penthouse material, I know, but neither is our young marriage.
I bet I'll take some heat for that comment.
Anyway, like I said, Mandy knows that I spend a large part of my free time buried in boxscores, game recaps and player interviews, and I think she realizes that most of my non-free time (would that be my "restricted" time?) is also spent with sports. I am a sports writer, after all. But before we were married, she never really saw my ugly sports fixation up close. She never witnessed its staggering depth.
Now, with both of us living in the same apartment, she's seen firsthand what the NBA Playoffs are like, and how jacked up I get throughout the first month of the baseball season. She's heard me berate the Browns front office in my sleep for choosing one of the America's Most Wanted in the fifth round of the draft. She now understands, as a Cleveland fan, how deep my hate for Jose Mesa and Art Modell runs, and how much I love "Field of Dreams," sunflower seeds in the summer, and a hot dog smothered in Stadium Mustard at the Jake.
And I think she's scared, as in Freddy-Krueger's-in-your-closet-and-he's-tearing-apart-all-your-shoes- and-dresses scared. That's about as terrified as any woman can get.
And we haven't even reached the baseball playoffs yet.
You see, I'm like most beer-drinking, backyard-football guys who prefer curdled milk to the designated hitter, and ballet to the XFL. We don't really want women to know that, for the most part, sports dominate our pathetic lives. Sure, Mandy knows I love catching an afternoon game at the ballpark, or occasionally heading downtown to watch the Cavs lose by 14 to the Bulls. She also knows that I take my fantasy football, baseball and basketball teams very seriously. But guys don't want their wives to know that the success of those fantasy teams ranks right up there with their kids' success in the classroom. Give us a straight-A son and we'll show that report card off at work for a week. But give us a straight-A son and a fantasy football championship? Hell, we'd tattoo the word "CHAMPION" on our right ass cheek and staple that report card to the left one, and then moon everyone in the office for at least a month. Maybe two.
No joke.
I know for those of you who aren't quite as psychotic about your sports teams as I am, all of this may seem a little... well, psychotic. Now you feel sorry for Mandy too, don't you? But if you're reading this column, shaking your head and mumbling, "Man, I've done that before," you're not alone. There are guys like us all over the world (most of them are my friends), guys who'd seriously consider hocking their wife's wedding ring for an autographed Joe DiMaggio jersey.
Again, no joke.
It's sad, but that's who we are. We'd turn a casual softball game with our buddies into a malicious bean-ball war, and a friendly pickup basketball game into your typical Heat-Knicks playoff skirmish. Fourth-and-goal on the two with three seconds left? If that TV gets turned off or the channel is changed, God himself better be the one holding the remote. Or Mike Tyson.
And Mandy is just now finding all of this out about me. For more than six years, she's known that I'm a serious sports fan, but now, as my wife, she understands just how significant the relationship is.
Something good just may come out of this whole mess, though, because Mandy has always been somewhat of a sports fan herself -- her father, a man not much different from me, taught her well. But since we first started dating, her own fixation has gotten considerably more intense. She hates to see the Tribe lose almost as much as I do now, and quite often during another sloppy Browns game she'll unleash a colorful tirade that would make both Andrew Dice Clay and Chris Rock blush. That means that one day, she could learn to accept my affair. Maybe we'll even share my sports mistress. And you guys know what that means, right?
Yep, ménage á trois.
Man, I know I'll take some heat for that comment. If you need me, I'll be the one sleeping on the couch watching SportsCenter.
In the Bullz-Eye
The San Antonio Spurs. Many who follow the NBA, myself included, had the Spurs pegged to win it all this year, not only because David Robinson and Tim Duncan man the paint in San Antonio, but also because newcomer Derek Anderson looked to be the kind of slashing scorer the bulked-up Spurs needed to get past the Lakers in the West. But thanks to a brutal foul from the Dallas Mavericks' Juwan Howard, Anderson will likely miss the rest of the playoffs with a separated shoulder, making it much more difficult for the Spurs to corral the Lakers' Kobe Bryant should the teams meet in the Western Conference finals.