Desperate Knutewives

Why Sports is The Ultimate Reality TV.

Some would say that my life is a shallow, pointless one. I don't care. I love sports. I love movies. DVDs are one of man's greatest inventions. I love TV. Women are God's greatest creation and, gosh darn it, I like them more with less clothes.

I can admit that I love all those things. But I try to offset those things with others of deeper meaning that I won't get into because, a) it's nobody else's business and, b) that stuff would make for a boring column.

But now I am wondering if I'm starting to get old. My passion for sports other than the NFL and college football is waning (that is a whole other column), my opinion of the movies is fading. Too much crap aimed at the idiots of our society who worship at the altar of Paris Hilton while attending services at MTV:Springbreak. DVDs are still a Godsend and I still love women. But my enthusiasm for TV is fading fast. I have 120 channels and there is NOTHING on.

Well, there is plenty on. It's just that the airwaves are all crammed with that Reality TV crap. Mrs. Lombardi is absolutely addicted to it. If they had Celebrity PMS House, where B-list female celebs who were all hitting that time of the month, lived together in a house with David Hasselhoff she'd watch it. I roll my eyes and scold her for contributing for the Romanesque (with a touch of Revolutionary France) decline of society and tell her I don't need reality TV because I LIVE in reality and the last thing I want to do is watch it on TV.

Then the other night she turns to me, after an Archie Bunker-like rant on the lack of redeeming qualities in her choice of TV programming and says, "Your idea of fun is parking your butt on a couch and watching grown men chase a little ball around. Or better yet, going to a stadium and watching them chase the ball around while 60,000 people jump around and hoot like a scene from "Planet of the Apes". How does that contribute to a stronger society? Especially when those grown men all act worse than our 9 year old girl and make more money than people who really make a difference, like teachers and nurses and cops? How is that any better than my watching Survivor, Mr. High-and-Mighty?"

I said nothing. Had she been one of my male friends, she would have received the standard male reply when a point is made that cannot be rebutted: A punch in the mouth. Sadly, she is not a male and she is my wife. Mostly, I love her dearly and respect her for all her hard work in raising the 4 shaved Gibbons with ADD that we call children. I was so mad, that were I a woman, I would've withheld conjugal favors for a month. But since I am a man, and that sort of thing would work to her favor, I vowed to pester her for conjugal favors twice a day for TWO months.

As I sat in my room, mentally licking my wounds and flipping through TV channels fast enough to cause an epileptic seizure, I started to go over suitable replies in my mind. It was very George Costanza-like, tossing out witty comebacks in a dark and empty room. I'm a deep believer in the value of sports for kids when it comes to teaching hard work and discipline, but there had to be something more because she would counter that it takes hard work and discipline to win "Survivor". Then I started thinking "what IS redeeming about what I like to do?" and it came to me.

As a boy, my father and I were very close, as I grew older, we grew apart. A very common thing among teenage boys and their dads, so it's not like I feel like I'm different from the rest of the world. But it went from a guy-I-could-talk-to-rough-house-and-wrestle-with-and-hug, into a "Men-don't-hug-each-other-because-we-all-have-sh**-to-do-so-man-up-and-get-your-sh**-done" dynamic seemingly overnight.

My dad is what I like to call a Hemingway Man. He came from a long line of Hemingway Men. What's an H-man? If you've read Hemingway, you know already. If you haven't then go check out a book of his short stories from the nearest library and read them…now! Sorry, what was I saying? Oh yes, an H-Man is the man's man. The only emotions allowed are anger, indignation, and hearty laughter. Brooding is okay but only if it's stoic and not bitchy. If an H-Man cuts a finger off, he's expected to curse, angrily wrap the offending digit and then loudly decry all the work that isn't getting done because he has to sit around while some soft handed doctor sews his finger back on. In fact, if losing a large amount of blood didn't result in death, (a serious detriment to getting things done) then the H-Man would just rub some dirt on the stump and continue with the job at hand.

I've seen this very scenario play out when my dad very nearly severed 3 fingers working on an old hay mower. I was personally put in this situation when I put a pitchfork through my foot when I was 13. There I stood with a hole in my boot, a hole in my foot and the offending pitchfork filling both holes. I could feel the cold, wet mix of mud and manure seeping through both holes and I wondered which was going to be worse, the pain of stabbing myself right through the foot or the septic condition that was sure to result from the seeping muck.

My dad's response? "Don't just stand there, pull it out and help me finish spreading this straw then we'll go to the house and take care of it."

So we spent the next 10 minutes spreading straw and I limped back to the house where dad stopped me and said "get over here", motioning to the well. He then made me strip off my boot and then ran cold well water over my blood soaked foot for about 2 minutes. Keep in mind it was February and I grew up in a cold climate. He handed me some salve and a band aid and when I asked if I should have mom write a note to keep me out of gym the next day he looked at me like I'd just asked him if I should wear high heels or pumps.

That's a Hemingway Man. That's what I may become.

But as a teen, I wasn't ready to give up the hugs from my dad, or the heartfelt conversations about how I felt about certain things. But I felt I had to so that I wouldn't be seen as a Sally. I drifted away and I don't think he knew how to break that ice either. But we still had one thing in common: Sports.

He is a work-a-holic but we would do the farm work with the radio in the truck on so we could listen to the game. Once in awhile, we even went to a game, and as I got older we went more often. That was our bonding time. Some dads take their boy hunting, some fish or build models. My dad took us to the ballgame. Better yet, he played ball with us. He'd toss the football to me while we walked out to the barn to feed the horses and cows. We'd shoot hoops when we were done with the chores and we'd sit together in the living room and listen to our favorite college football and basketball games.

And for about 6 solid years, it was through sports that my dad and I communicated. I got his life view as it related to things that happened in the sports world. I found out what was important to him and what was just fluff and chaff the same way. At 17 I wanted to quit the football team because as a Freshman I had started both ways and played all the time, as a sophomore I was in the rotation on the JV squad and even got a few starts, but as junior I was on a senior laden team with a bunch of good athletes ahead of me. I was a bit of a prima donna I guess. I wanted more PT and it just wasn't fair that I only got to play a little. Why was I putting in all this time for nothing. I made these thoughts known as my dad and I played HORSE.

His response? "Your job right now is to practice hard, give the starters a good look, get better and be ready if they need you. That doesn't make you any less part of the team. I had to quit the football team when I was in high school to help on the farm. I still regret that."

That was all he said but it spoke volumes. I stayed with it and we won the State Championship later that year and I was part of something that everyone still talks about at reunions 2 decades later.

After the game, while literally thousands of people celebrated on the field, my dad found me.

"Thanks for the advice dad." I said.

"I'm proud of you." he said.

Then he hugged me.

Let's see "Survivor" do that.