Don't Throw that Ball, That Achy-Breaky Ball...

The world of sports is a mystery to me, one that I do not in any way try to solve. I neither understand sports nor am I drawn to watching them. Kathy, however, likes to watch games. Baseball is her favorite, but she also watches football and basketball (and perhaps some others) all while seemingly knowing what is going on.

Though she is very considerate about not commandeering the TV for a game (if there is something I want to watch) I think it is only fair that she have adequate big TV time, so I try to encourage her to watch games in the living room. It's no big deal for me because I am trained at how to live with a sports fan.

You see, during a past life when I was married to a die-hard Dallas Cowboys fan, I developed the skill of being able to sit in front of a TV for significant periods of time, apparently watching a game with rapt attention. Not just sitting and staring - I also move my eyes along with the action and sometimes exclaim softly in response to the crowd. Only, I'm not actually watching. No, I'm pretty much planning art projects, making shopping lists in my head, or thinking about what I want to have for dinner. Not just a skill, but a well-honed skill.

Out of habit, I found myself doing this while "watching a game" with Kathy. Thing is, I forgot to explain it what I'm actually doing. So, she'd remark on something that just happened on screen and I'd respond with, "Wha?? Huh? I'm sorry, I missed that." What I actually missed was the entire game, of course.

I finally explained that while I look like I watching, I'm not really doing anything of the sort. I'm sure it is a little disturbing once you know what's really going on in my head, but she said she was okay with it. Except, sometimes I'd fake her out and suddenly comment on something in the game and then she'd think I really was paying attention. But, no such luck...I appear to do this when I'm changing tracks on the music in my head. I'm still not paying attention!

Well, when she was watching basketball playoffs a couple of weeks ago, I decided to make more of a deliberate effort to watch with her. After all, it was broadcast in high-definition, and you know how I am about HD TV. I will admit that I was fascinated at how easy it was to understand what was going on with a basketball game. It's not at all like football, a game where I'm pretty sure players get points based on how much they hurt someone else or how gruesome their injury is.

On a commercial break, Kathy mentioned something about when you play basketball in school. I said I never did that. She asked if I played softball or something. I realized that I had to be more specific.

"I never played any sport. Ever. By junior high school, I was excused from physical education for the rest of my school years." (This may provide more insight into why I was so perplexed at my shoulder injury.)

"No P.E.?" she asked.

"None," I said. "I never went to a game, either." I'm sure that explained a lot. A LOT.

However, past cluelessness aside, I still wanted to broaden my horizons and show some interest in the things that matter to Kathy. More than what I had been doing, like learning the occasional sports fact so I could casually ask, "so what do you think about so-and-so getting traded? " comments over dinner. Okay, that was mostly to watch her expression.

So I settled in last night to watch the last few innings of the Giants-Diamondbacks game with her. Of course, my mind kept toddling off every few minutes to work on a system administration problem in my head, but I would continually guide it back to the game. At least the Arizona team had a good font on their uniform. And the snake head logo was kind of cool. But when a player walked toward the camera and his jersey wrinkled a certain way, it looked for all the world like he was a member of the Arizona Whacks and I started giggling inappropriately. (Sorry, D-Backs!) I'm so uncool.

In an attempt to get serious, I listened more closely to what the announcer was saying. Unfortunately for me, he was talking about breaky balls, and that just pushed me over the edge. I started laughing away and said, "I'm sorry, I just can't get that song out of my head."

"What song?" Kathy asked.

I immediately launched into an enthusiastic rendition of the Billy Ray Cyrus song, "Achy-Breaky Heart," sung to the words:

Don't throw that ball
That achy-breaky ball
The most important throw you know.
'Cause if you throw that ball
That achy-breaky ball
I'll pick up my bat
And I'll go home...Woo!

When I finished, Kathy stared at me. "Um, where did that come from?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. "It was just playing in my head and wouldn't stop. It's a baseball parody song, isn't it?"

She shook her head slowly. "I'm afraid you made that up, all by yourself."

That's when I realized it just wasn't going to work for me. I just don't have the sports gene. I looked back at the screen, my eyes flitting in response to the action, and started planned how to redecorate the art studio.

Ah, now that's better.

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