Why My Husband Won't Take Me To Another Football Game

What is it about sporting events that brings out such odd behavior in the male of the species? T. and I went to a Colorado Crush arena football game, and I spent the entire time studying the fanatical behavior in the stands around me.

A few seats behind me was "the ref obviously needs a little guidance" man - who spoke in strange fragmented sentences that always began with the number printed on the ref's shirt - followed by a series of instructions . . . some of them anatomically impossible. After a bad call in the first quarter, the sentences sounded something like: "23. Hey! 23! What the @*!%^ was that? Pull your head out of your !@#$. Call a &@#^@ personal foul. Remember you OWE us ONE."

I stared straight ahead, doing my best to ignore the obscenities streaming from behind me. Besides, I was far more interested in the 12 year old girl sitting in front of me - patiently pulling bubblegum out of a hair barrette. Not that the barrette was in her hair. She had apparently removed the barrette for the precise purpose of stuffing it full of bubblegum so that she could spend the next fifteen minutes pulling bubblegum off of it. At which point she returned the gum to her mouth so the process could begin again.

I started giggling. T. looked at me. I whispered in his ear, and he looked down . . . and started gagging. The women seated to my right shot me a dirty look, probably thinking I'd had one too many beers (I only had one bottle of water the whole night, Honest!).

During the second quarter, I volunteered to go for snacks - and ended up in line behind a man who was in deep and personal communication with the TV over the Dippin' Dots stand. "Come on," he whispered, so softly he was almost just mouthing the words. "Come on, come on, come on." I looked up at the TV. A referee was standing on the field, doing absolutely nothing. I looked at Communion Boy. He raised his arms and made a rolling motion, circling his hands around each other. "Come on," he mouthed, pausing the motion and nodding at the TV encouragingly. At last, the referee moved, repeating the rolling motion Communion Boy had just been making. "YES!" screamed Communion Boy, throwing his arms in the air. And I guarantee you that Communion Boy probably thought the ref wouldn't have made that particular call without the last two minutes of patient guidance.

But the "Fanatical Weirdness" prize must go to a duo of boys whom I dubbed "Lumberjack Tim" and "Slappy." Lumberjack Tim probably weighed over 300 pounds, stood at least 6' 7", and was wearing an honest to goodness flannel sleeveless wife-beater shirt. His main function at the event seemed to be keeping his friend Slappy from doing anything stupid, which occupied most of Lumberjack Tim's time and attention. When Slappy was a little too rambunctious, Lumberjack Tim would slap him upside the head or apply a judicious elbow to Slappy's rib-cage.

Touchdown! Lumberjack Tim overbalanced while trying to catch an airborne T-shirt (the cheerleaders throw them into the crowds at every touchdown), and nearly toppled over backwards onto a very nervous little old lady, who was watching her impending doom with a look that acutely said "Oh, please . . . don't let the newspapers report how I died."

Slappy stood up, wildly swinging his fists, a wad of chew the size of a baseball stuck in his right cheek, and proceeded to hump the air. I repeat. Hump the air. For a good 30 seconds.

I dissolved into gales of laughter. T. was giving me funny looks, so I waved in Slappy's general direction. T.'s skeptical look turned to one of absolute horror. "I can smell that wad of chew from over here!"

Touchdown! Apparently, Slappy didn't feel he had displayed enough attractive features of his masculinity . . . so he began diligently picking his nose. I poked T. in the arm to point out Slappy's new behavior and take bets on whether Slappy would ever meet a girl who would allow him to continue his genetic line. Much to my surprise, T. looked at my finger, and then at me, his blue eyes wide with shock. "Ow," he said. "Thanks a lot."

This coming from a man who sets his own broken fingers and toes. I looked down at his arm. . . and saw the severe sunburn he picked up at the wedding. "Sorry," I said.

"Why don't you dig in a little deeper next time," T. said facetiously. "Maybe twist the nail around for better effect?" I finally lost it, and laughed until my side hurt. The little old lady who had been spared being crushed by Lumberjack Tim pursed her lips with disapproval and decided I was drunk (I wonder what stories she told about me when she got home . . . ). As we left, I was laughing so hard, I couldn't even walk straight.

Now, tell me again - why in the world does my mother think I'm strange for dressing up twice a year for the Renaissance Festival . . . but doesn't bat an eye at individuals who choose to dip themselves in vats of orange and blue paint, and show up to nationally televised sporting events wearing nothing but a barrel?

Am I wrong here?