In fairness, I don't completely hate basketball. I attended the University of Maryland and catch their games whenever I can. In college, I even once slept out overnight for tickets to their games, and, since then, I've filled out a bracket or two, pretty much blindly filling in names. "The University of Minnesota’s mascot is the Golden Gopher," I’d think to myself. "I like gophers."
But the concept of watching some obscure team play some other obscure team simply because it’s the Big Dance holds no appeal for me.
Jon, though, isn't the type of guy to do anything halfway. Just as he makes it a point to read every last article in the New Yorker like it's homework, he checks ESPN's website as if his life depends on it. And it’s a quality I usually kind of love about him.
So I try to understand when he needs to conduct an in-person meeting with his fantasy league to discuss strategy before their "draft."
After all, this three weeks of madness is an American tradition. In more magnanimous moods, I'll even allow that it's a ritual, really—a way he connects with his friends and family and coworkers. And how selfish would I be to stand in the way of male bonding?
Besides, last time, as Jon never fails to remind me, his betting prowess paid for a nice dinner out at a French bistro. So I guess this means I just have to choose my romantic moments with as much precision as he does his bracket picks. April 2, after all, is Red Sox opening day.
We had just sat down to breakfast at a quaint Connecticut inn last Monday morning, during a romantic midwinter getaway. The fireplace was roaring. Calming new age music piped softly, and our innkeeper was busy preparing us a small feast. Perfect, I thought. It was precisely the kind of escape I'd imagined when we planned the trip weeks ago.
Jon turned to me and smiled. "Can you hand me the sports section?" he asked.