I rise today to speak in defense of my embattled gender (men, that is).
From Boston to Berlin, we hear the same outcry from females of the species:
“Why do you idiots park your carcasses in front of TV for hours at a time to watch brutes in red uniforms commit felonious assault against brutes in blue uniforms?”
Courtesy: Fox Sports
Put in simpler terms, ladies, you want to know why we males love sports so much? Why we would howl in protest if a playoff game was interrupted for coverage of the end of the world?
Ladies, I have two answers to your burning question. But I have a question first: Would you prefer the simple or the more complex version?
(Loud chorus: “The simple one, fool. You’ aren’t smart enough for complexity.”)
Very well. At issue is the very root of our existence.
Males like to be spectators at events where there’s a chance somebody’s going to get hurt. Women go for the “Ya-Ya Sisterhood.” Guys go for life-saving crews.
In baseball, a hitter can be beaned by a 98-mile-per-hour fastball.
In hockey, a slapshot can go completely through a player’s body and exit in the goal.
In football, if you fumble the pigskin, you’ll find out how it feels to be a doormat at a prison during a jailbreak.
Courtesy: thetruthaboutcars.com
The resulting agony fuels our passion for the game. We count the number of ammonia capsules it takes to get Brutus breathing again. We count the number of surgeons it takes to put his esophagus back in place.
Then, when the guy re-enters the game after taking more dope than if he was at a drug-infested picnic, we cheer his courage and wish we could be just like him.
And that’s why we watch sports. Understand, ladies?
(Loud chorus: “That made absolutely no sense. Give us the complex version and this had better be good.”)
Very well, ladies. Shaquille O’Neal is a very large man who used to play professional basketball. He is more than 7 feet tall, weighs 350 pounds, and can bench-press a factory. Imagine Shaq at the top of the key with the basketball. He thunders toward the basket with plans to deliver a rim-rattling dunk.
A much smaller player on the opposing team has the job of getting in Shaq’s way. He’ll fail miserably and be knocked into the 10th row. Then, he’ll be put in a body cast–medivacked to a nearby medical center.
Males watching at home will praise the defender’s testicular talents. Then they open another 6-pack.
There are 10 TV replays of the injury, each showing a different X-ray. That’s what SportsCenter is for, really.
Courtesy: tvtropes.org
We men will salute the fallen player, hoping he recovers at least a portion of his mental capacity. Then, in a ritualistic display of male bonding, we’ll put hands on each other’s shoulders and prance around the room in an alcohol-fueled conga line.
(Loud chorus: “Guys are morons!”)
“First and Goal” on that play.
