I am a sporty girl. Not sporty in the sense that I can throw a ball without considerable embarrassment, or catch – well, anything, but sporty in the sense that I like sports. I’m not one of those women who whines about my husband’s fantasy football league (tease, yes; whine, no). I certainly understand his passion for Arsenal, the English soccer team he grew up supporting. I don’t even mind his English and South African pride when it comes to national tournaments. Soccer, rugby, cricket, tennis, football…I get it. He loves sports.
Now, here it is – you knew it was coming – the big fat BUT.
I understand that he loves sports, but lately, it’s non-stop. It’s one never-ending ballgame. No matter what day of the week, what time of day – there always seems to be a ‘big game’ on. After all, when you support twenty-seven different teams, one of them always seems to be playing. Or one of their big rivals – who, of course, must be closely monitored as well. It’s true; he has always supported these teams, but in Atlanta – even with our platinum cable package and weekly pay per view bills – there were limits to what he was able to watch. No one would broadcast the England/Sri Lanka cricket match (a five day affair by the way) or the Durban/Gauteng rugby game. In South Africa, however, these games are in high demand, so lucky boy – he can see it all. He can even catch a few middle-of-the-night NFL games on ESPN International. That’s right ESPN. Even in Africa, there is no escaping Sports Center. We also get the British Sky Sports News, just in case we didn’t get enough information from the seven South African all-sports-all-the-time channels.
I’ve considered the fact that perhaps lately I am less tolerant because I don’t really understand these foreign sports. I’m willing to learn though, and perhaps the part of me that cried during the UGA/UT game last year needs a new place to direct my energy. So, I’ve watched a few rugby games on TV; I’ve inquired about the rules of cricket and even sat through a few half hour segments of the seemingly endless matches, but I’m just not there yet. Rugby is kinda growing on me, I guess. At least the game lasts a reasonable amount of time (and the players are often quite ruggedly handsome). Cricket on the other hand – well, any game that breaks for ‘tea’ is just a little too ridiculous for me. It’s often compared to baseball, but I see very few similarities. Baseball is simple. One, two, three strikes you’re out. Or you hit the ball and run. Not so in cricket. Six pitches, nine wickets, twenty overs, fifty overs, unlimited overs. Roger will explain it to me during one game, but by the next I’m lost all over again.
To make my point – a lesson in scoring.
Baseball:
“Who’s winning?”
“Braves, 5 to 3, bottom of the seventh.”
“Great!”
Cricket:
“What’s the score?”
“England has 157 runs for 6 wickets after 62 overs.”
“So, who’s winning?”
“Well, Australia hasn’t been up yet.”
“Hasn’t the game been on for two days already?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oookay.”
Roger insisted that I would only appreciate the game after experiencing it live. He had a point – part of my love for baseball comes from my early memories of cheering on the Braves at Fulton County Stadium. Plus, who can resist a ballpark hotdog? So Roger got us tickets, and Tuesday night we attended the opening ceremony of the 20/20 Cricket World Cup followed by the South Africa versus West Indies match. Now, the 20/20 version of cricket lasts about four hours as opposed to five days, so it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was kind of fun. Seeing it live, with a husband patient enough to explain it to me for the fifteenth time, was exciting. And he was right, with all that beer and junk food, I was bound to have a good time.
So maybe I’ll come around to cricket, but I’m afraid that won’t change my status as a sports widow. I certainly love American football, but I wouldn’t watch NFL games all day either. So, what to do? No one wants to be the nagging wife, begging her husband to spend time with her. I used to feel sorry for those women – clearly they needed to get a life of their own. Yet here I am, alone again on a Saturday while Roger and his dad watch Arsenal. I’m hoping we can go see a movie later, but I suspect the rugby or the cricket or the tennis or the Formula One racing will once again take precedence. I’ve asked Roger to make me a chart, so I’ll know when I can make plans for us that don’t involve sports. He hasn’t come up with it yet, and I suspect it has something to do with the fact that until both the Rugby World Cup and the Cricket World Cup are over – I’ll be a party of one.
I’m sure I’ll cope. Now that the weather is getting warm and I’m in my own house, I can do my own thing. I didn’t get married for a twenty-four hour companion, anyway. I’d like him to notice I’m alive occasionally, but if that doesn’t happen until the end of October I’m sure I’ll manage. Besides, if the worst thing I can say about Roger is that he’s obsessed by sports, I consider myself lucky.
And when he comes looking for me next month, well, he can find me and my laptop by the pool…
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