Idiots Write About Sports

So we have on the Indians-Reds game this morning, but mostly as background noise. I am puttering around the Internet, checking this and that blog; my wife is reading a book, any one of the bazillion books she’s spirited away from the L.A. City Library.

Nevertheless, at a critical juncture in the game, the Indians bring Arthur Lee Rhodes into the contest — the same Arthur Lee Rhodes who in his one-year stint as a member of the Green and Gold did everything in his power to squander late-inning leads short of asking opposing batters where they’d like the next fat pitch to be.

We do not like Arthur Lee Rhodes one bit, no sir.

So Arthur Lee Rhodes’ entry into the ballgame is announced. And my wife — my lovely wife who has made my concerns her own, who has accepted my particular idiosyncracies, and who has vowed bloody vengeance against my enemies — looks up from her book, makes a lemon face at the televised image of Arthur Lee Rhodes and wordlessly, icily shoots him the bird from the comfort of our couch. She immediately returns to her book.

I do not believe it is possible for me to love her any more than I could at that moment.

Wow, domestic bliss. I have to check my tongue whenever the Cubs play the Dodgers, or as they did last year, the Angels in interleague. But I shouldn't complain. She suffers my manias gladly, goes to games with me, *scores* them, f'r chrissakes, and even appears eager to attend spring training. There is luck, and there is great luck.

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