|Chooch ponders life after baseball; photo by Nigel Barker|
Now I know what you're thinking; we're a stereotypical Timothy Busfield thirtysomething couple and I hogged the remote and sat and drank my beer and wouldn't let my wife disturb the precious game. Nope, not the case. Not the case at all. Let me explain.
At the start of the Phillies game, my wife asked if we could flip to something else during commercials, to which I obviously agreed, because I like watching other things and am not interested in having my wife divorce me. So in between innings we watched some of America's Next Top Lunatic, and this was fine, because I sort of like that show and would like my wife to stay with me so that I don't end up homeless and alone like I imagine Timothy Busfield must be.
I even let her watch a full, uninterrupted ten minutes of her favorite part of the show when Tyra Banks and the good looking British photographer critique the lunatics' photos. Last night they had a big black dude join them who wore a cape. He was filling in for the other black dude who is actually more of a lady and teaches the lunatics how to walk. I'm not sure where the man-lady was last night, but I miss him dearly and imagine wherever he is, he is probably also wearing a cape. When we got back to the baseball game, I had missed the Giants score two runs, but this was okay because I love my wife and was very interested to hear the cape-donning judge's thoughts regarding the lunatics' photo shoot.
|I imagine he/she also has a "look of death."|
(Oh! ... He breaks out a gay joke!)
Now, here's where the problem arose: during the late stages of the game, I started flipping to an ESPN 30 for 30 documentary about the relationship of two former Yugoslavian basketball players whose lives and friendship were torn apart by their warring homelands (one was Serbian, the other Croatian). It's a gripping movie and features the enormously lovable Vlade Divac who goes back to his hometown in Serbia and looks through old shoeboxes of photos rehashing memories of playing basketball with his old friend, Drazen Petrovic.
Now up until this point, any time that I wanted to flip back to the Phils, my wife allowed me to do so. She understood that I deeply cared about my squad and conceded that what she was watching was absolute garbage. My wife is a rational person. She wears age appropriate clothing. She realized that her programs were for commercials, but tonight's game was the main event. But this time when I tried to change the channel back to the Phillies, my wife got angry.
"No! You can't go back to the game. Not now," she said.
"Not now, put it back."
"What? Why not, Dar? The Phillies are batting."
"You can't put that on and then turn it off, because that's real stuff and I'm into it and you can't do that."
|This woman is NOT normally this attractive.|
But now they were showing footage of dead bodies and wartime in the former Yugoslavia and meanwhile Carlos Ruiz was batting and the Phils were threatening. My wife wanted to watch a sports documentary and I was keeping her from doing so, probably the first and last time that will ever happen. That's when she unleashed her "look of death;" a look that only Serbian soldiers and female African American school teachers can give, and I changed the channel, threw her the remote and sprinted up the steps like an overtired six-year-old to watch the two-inch tall Ruiz in our upstairs bedroom on our microwave-television.
Over the next four minutes, I sat at the end of our bed, yelling down to her every sixteen seconds to see if the game was on yet (knowing she'd put it back on as soon as the documentary went to a commercial). She ignored me every time. I eventually settled into my new space, watched Mini-Chooch strike out and just as I got comfortable she notified me that the game was back on the big TV in the living room.
|Ye Ole Microwave-TV ... you can still find 'em!|
If the remote had never been invented, I probably wouldn't have received the wrath of Kahn, but then again I wouldn't have seen a black guy in a cape either; and that's just straight gangsta.