Manhood is defined by more than sports

The other day while waiting on a fellow Daily Bruin writer to
wrap up a story for the following day’s newspaper, I busied
myself watching TV.

She had the Yankees-Red Sox game on in the background, to which
I audibly sighed and flipped the channel posthaste to see if the
people at MTV could tell me what music I liked at the present
moment.

Witnessing such flagrant disregard for all Americana, she
commented, “You know what, Hector? You’re the only guy
I know who acts like that when the Yankees-Sox game is
on.”

This got me thinking. First, said friend should not stop taking
her shut-up pills.

Whether it’s my worthless major, my distaste for spectator
sports or my penchant for Smirnoff Ice, Hector’s refined
Euro-flava offends her preconceived notions of manliness and she
lives for reminding me.

Yes, despite my heterosexuality, sipping beer does make me
noticeably cringe. (Although in fairness to me, I go straight to
the king ““ King Kobra 40 ouncer, that is.)

And yes, to tell you the truth, I could care less about
spectator sports just as long as Nor Cal doesn’t win. (Nor
Cal people think they are all that, but they’re not; in fact,
they’re not even a little bit of that.)

If only my friend could see that there is more to manhood than
tight Wrangler jeans and cheering the Packers.

“Your worldview is sooo parochial,” I retorted.
“And you’re a stupid head.”

My friend summarily dismissed, my thoughts turned to more
pressing matters, primarily the underlying paradox of spectator
sports.

Opposing fans are fundamentally united in their mutual hatred
for each other. Both sides live vicariously through the modern
gladiators on the field, taking each yard won or lost to heart.

In terms of fundamental character traits, opposing fans have so
much in common. Yet they hate each other because by some historical
accident one likes the blue team while the other likes the red. But
were they to share a friendship in spite of this, they would no
longer share a slavish devotion to the local sports team and its
necessary hatred for “the other.” Therein lies the
paradox ““ that die-hard fans are closest when furthest
away.

I’m all for appreciating watching athletes perform to the
best of their abilities, but there’s a gal I like to call
“Life” waiting for me outside the TV room, and
I’m aiming to court that lass.

Here’s an idea: Instead of cheering people for doing
stuff, try doing some stuff yourself.

In and of themselves, I have no problem with spectator sports as
harmless escapism. But here in the good ol’ U.S. of A., who
can’t identify the third-string quarterback of the 1994
Buffalo Bills, ergo my friend’s complaint about my lack of
interest in the Yankees-Sox “classic” matchup? I guess
I wouldn’t be so estranged from spectator sports if I could
at least relate to the people on the court.

I mean, remember the beginnings of the NBA? The games consisted
of a white, 5-foot-9 guy in glasses dribbling down the court with
one hand and then taking an underhand shot while nine other
similarly short and balding white guys tipped their fedoras.

With my own athletic shortcomings, these are the kind of people
I could see a little bit of Hector in.

Hector sees something special inside you. Show Leano that
the twinkle in your eye means something at
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