Today I went to the Clippers/Rockets game with Brian. I had bought these tickets in a package deal several months ago, so I had forgotten exactly when the game was. I had just came home from physical therapy in the morning and was running out the door to Sarita’s to hang out and watch the Michigan game, when I went to print out my tickets and found out that they were for 12:30pm. It was 12:22. DAMN. So I grabbed Brian who was trying to eat a slice of banana covered with peanut butter and told him we were going to have a boys afternoon out and go to a Clippers game. RIGHT NOW.
We got there at halftime and found our seats. We were sandwiched between these 20 year-old Asian kids and this black family. I was immediately a little bit irritated about having to sit next to a whiney Asian girl and her high-pitched voice throughout the game, and by the fact that there was a pile of nachos on the floor in front of my seat that the guy sitting next to me on the other side needed to move.
So we sit down and Brian and I are trying to pick which team we were going to root for. He reasons, he works on Tmac campaigns so he should root for Houston, but Marko Jaric of the Clippers is his boyfriend. I told him he should root for Houston because I had Bobby Simmons on my fantasy team today so I would be rooting for him, and that way, we could root for opposite teams and get really heated and into it like men at ballgames. (I later realized that Brian should obviously root for Houston because he’s freakin’ FROM Houston).
So I’m telling Brian little facts and statistics about the game and players, as I’m prone to do. (note: I’ve spent so much time around my brother, that my first instinct when I’m in a situation where I think of a fact or explanation that someone I’m with may not know, is to share that knowledge with them. It makes me an obsessive trivia quoting dork). So I’m telling him things like, “Elton Brand has a size 17 shoe.” “Marko Jaric is a Libra.” “Yao Ming has a strong lower body but a disproportionately slender upper body, making him look like a T-Rex when he runs.” “My PT told me Elton Brand told him that Chris Kaman is a virgin and that’s where he gets all of his power.” And then I notice the guy next to me keeps laughing every time I say something.
So I sneak a glance at him and see that he’s a young, black guy with creamy, caramel skin, and these dark, curled eyelashes around warm brown eyes. Wow. I wanted to kiss him right there. Other furtive reconnaissance glances revealed that he was attending the game with his mother and another maternal female figure. Who was holding this adorable, stuffed Clippers Rally Monkey. I thought he was the cutest thing.
The next big play, I softly quipped as if to myself, “Why are they double-teaming Bobby Simmons?” (note: Bobby is not such a good player that teams need to put two defenders on him, like on a Kobe or a Garnett). I heard him laugh and agree. After a few moments of silence, I figure this exchange is over. But then he said, to seemingly no one in particular, “It’s not like he’s Tracy McGrady.” I laughed. I knew he was talking to me.
Throughout the game, he and I would trade comments on the game without ever really looking at each other. After I went nuts for Bobby Simmons free-throw, he finally looks at me and asks, “Do you play fantasy or something?”
I said, “Yeah. I’ve got Bobby on my team for this game.”
He laughed and said, “That’s an unusual choice.”
I said, “Well, I needed field goal % and free throw %, and Bobby has great field goal percentage and shoots over 90 percent in free throws because he’s only missed one free throw this season.”
He pauses, not knowing what to say, then laughs saying, “Well, he’s doing great for you today.”
I asked him, “Do you play fantasy basketball?”
(thinking…well I should probably be up front…I’m a big dork.)
“No,” he said, then softly added, “Just um, fantasy golf.”
(superdorksoftheuniverse UNITE! Excellent.)
And then, throughout the game, he did the sweetest thing–he would cheer with me whenever Bobby did anything good or was at the line shooting free throws (note to non basketball-game attenders: Free throws are not a very exciting aspect of the game, so people don’t usually get excited).
(also note: at one point in the final quarter, he stood up to cheer, and you can bet I checked out his ass. I’m not very knowledgeable on how to judge asses since I’m more of a leg/back/arm girl myself, but his ass was definitely appealing.)
I started wanting to figure out a way to be able to maintain some sort of contact with him once our shared experience of this basketball game was through…ask him for his number? Lean over and whisper into his ear, “I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve seen in a long time.” ? Psychically give him the Jedi mind trick to make him ask me for my number?
But then his phone rang. He was engaged in a conversation with someone about where to find something in what sounded like a bedroom. I was pretending that I wasn’t listening, but I couldn’t help but listen, and he was pretending that he didn’t know that I was pretending not to listen. In terms of the conversation, I deduced that when he said, “it’s by my TV,” it would not be a woman he’s living with on the phone because I doubted there would be a “my” tv and a “your” tv. Also, he didn’t say any form of closing comments to end the call. He just snapped off the phone. And no girl will ever let her boy just turn off the phone when he’s done talking without saying a “Bye” or a “Later” a “Love you honey you stupid cunt who’s ruining my life.” So my robot brain concluded that he was talking to a guy, probably a roommate.
Just as I figured it was all clear, that as far as I knew, he was still a single guy, his mom asked him, “Was that Kim?” Doh! He quickly said, “Uh no, that was um, Trey.”
maybe she said “Kiiiiieeeen” like “Ken.” Not like girlfriend Kim. But like boyfriend Ken.
Shut up robot brain. That man has a girlfriend.
So at the end of the game, Brian and I are leaving with 13.4 seconds to go on the game clock. We step down to the row in front of us, and I look up at the guy sitting next to me…finally get a look his face in its entirety. And….he was a trainwreck. Baby-was-born-ass-first ugly.
No, I’m just kidding. He was really cute. Baby-face, very sweet smile, looked like your classic nice guy. Such a warmth about him.
I tell him to have fun and walk to the end of the aisle. I look back and see he’s still looking at me, smiling at me. I smile and turn away. I look back and he’s talking to his mom, but he catches my glance and we share another smile.
It really takes very little for me to be happy sometimes. Just having a nice, gentle, pleasant connection with someone, for just a short time, is really nice sometimes. It’s a warm feeling, like having laid out in a field all day, on a warm, sunny afternoon.
Where’s my basketball-loving boy next door with the radiant smile? I’m still waiting for you to cuddle with me.