Sports and other dangerous hobbies

As a single mom, I sometimes feel guilty that my hobbies and interests have become Mark's hobbies and interests. He loves shoes, tabloid magazines and good gossip waaaaay more than your average 10-year-old boy should.

I try to balance out the things I like to do with the things he likes to do, and he likes sports. So this week, we went to TWO professional sporting events.

Saturday we went to the Dodgers game. He loves baseball and the Dodgers, but he was more interested in his root beer float than in the baseball game itself. We had incredible seats (thanks, Vic!!), and the guy two rows ahead of us even caught a foul ball (I've never been that close to a foul ball before). I was still pumped on the adrenaline of almost being killed by a rogue foul ball (ok, not really) when Mark asked if there were any more cookies left.

Our second event was a pro hockey game. We ate junk food for dinner and smuggled in trail mix with M&Ms in it. Security tried to take it away, but I uttered the D-word and the guard immediately said, "No problem," and ushered us past.

The kid next to us wasn't so lucky; Mark was mortified as security took the kid's whole, unopened giant bag of M&Ms away.

"He should've said he had diabetes, too," Mark said.

"And the M&Ms were for his lows?" I chuckled. "Somehow, I don't think it would've worked."

We ran into friends at the arena (what up, Devin!), and were having a blast before the game had even started. We found our seats and prepared for a fun night of hockey.

Let me just acknowledge at this point that I know nothing about hockey. I know there are three quarters, and I also know they aren't actually called "quarters" but that's where my knowledge ends. I almost screamed "Hit the ball!" a couple times, but remembered it was really a puck. But whatever, we didn't need to know what was going on to have fun.

Mark's favorite part was when a Duck player crashed into the other goalie, and sent him sliding into his own net. "Goal!" Mark shouted.

He also liked when an inflatable sheep floated around the arena during intermission. The sheep released coupons to the crowd below. However, because of where the coupons came out, it looked like the sheep was...well, urinating coupons on to the crowd. This was my opportunity to take the high road and be a good model for Mark, and I failed miserably. We were both in hysterics, and vowed to run if the sheep came near us.

Mark ate his trail mix, and the M&Ms inside gave him a burst of energy. He wrestled with me, and I reminded him that some people actually came to watch the game, not a hyperactive little kid. He settled for a less distracting round of thumb-wrestling.

We stayed through the first two not-quarters, and then it was time to take the little sports fan home to bed. The Ducks hadn't done too badly while we were in the arena, but by the time we reached our car, the Coyotes scored another goal off them. By the time we got on the freeway, the giant electronic sign said the Coyotes scored again! So we saw two goals in the arena, and two outside it.

All in all, it was a fun night. I'm no sports fan, but I love an event, and hey, the tickets were free. So you can't beat that, not even with a giant urinating sheep!

It's all a matter of perspective

Sometimes I get frustrated when Mark can't follow simple instructions. I'll ask him to feed the cats, and he'll respond with a funny story that happened at school. I'll repeat my request, and he'll ask me how great white sharks thrust their jaws out of their mouths to bite their prey. I'll ask a third time, and he'll respond with some snarky comment, then, "Geez, I'm doing it! Why do you always get so mad?"

But now I've realized exactly why he can't follow my instructions. It's not that we don't see eye-to-eye, it's that we're looking in completely opposite directions.

We went to an Anaheim Ducks hockey game last night. I was excited because I'd never been to a pro hockey game before; I'd only been to semi-pro games for the Long Beach Ice Dogs, and I only attended on $2 beer nights. (Hey, after two or three beers, I become a rabid fan of any sport!)

Mark was excited because he got to stay up late on a school night. He didn't really care where we were going.

We found our seats, and I pointed out the Ducks, in black, and Tampa Bay, in white. I reminded him we were rooting for the black team.

Within minutes, the players were violently slamming each other into the glass walls.

"Oooooh!" I grimaced after one slam. "That's gotta hurt!"

"What does?" Mark asked.

"That guy just slammed the other guy into the wall," I said. He shrugged; he hadn't seen it.

Two minutes later, Tampa Bay tripped a Duck, and the perpetrator skated off to the penalty box.

"Serves him right!" I told Mark. "He blatantly tripped that guy!"

"What guy?" Mark asked, in a refrain that would come to haunt me as the night grew on.

The next offense was something called "high sticking" which I took to mean as raising the stick too close to someone else's head in a threatening manner.

I shook my head, as Mark professed to missing that incident as well.

"Are you even watching the game?" I asked him. "See that big oval of ice in the middle there? With all the hockey players skating around? Are you watching that?"

He shrugged and asked if there were any peanuts left.

Maybe he just wasn't into hockey. He counted the number of referees on ice, and was telling me how many when a fight broke out.

"There are three--" he started but I interrupted him by yelling, "Ouch!"

"Ouch?"

"Yes, ouch! That Duck just punched the other guy in the head!" I shouted. I pointed out where before Mark even asked the question.

"Oh!" Mark answered. I thought he'd say something like, "That's gotta hurt!" but instead, he corrected himself by saying, "I mean FOUR. There are four referees on the ice!"

"Did you even see the guys fighting?" I asked, and Mark nodded. I'm not so sure he did, though.

He did wake up at the end of the quarter ("Period," I corrected. "There are three periods." "Whatever," he replied.) That's when the Zambonis came out, and when a human hamster ball contest took place on ice.

"Look at 'em go!" he yelled. "They keep falling!"

Mark also loved the giant inflatable sheep and the yellow submarine that floated around the arena. But he immediately lost interest again as soon as the second period began.

He sighed loudly, and I glanced at him. He sat up immediately and feigned interest -- he could sense his bedtime depended on it.

"Ummm, what do they call the guys in the goals?" he asked.

I don't know much about hockey, but I knew this one. "You mean the goalies?"

He nodded. "So, they have to stop the ball?"

"The puck," I answered. "The flat, round thing is called a puck, not a ball."

"Whatever," he said dismissively. "I'm just gonna call it a ball. They hit the ball--"

I stopped him. "Wait, when you play baseball, do you say, 'I hit the football outta the park'?"

"No," he laughed. "That's dumb!"

"And you wouldn't say, 'The quarterback just threw the baseball to the wide receiver.' So it's not whatever."

"Fine, the puck," he conceded. "Does the puck..." He trailed off, his original question forgotten.

The second period ended around 8:30, and I thought about staying until the last one. But Mr. Fidgety beside me had downed his bottle of Gatorade and desperately needed to use the facilities. I figured now was as good a time as any to leave on a high note.

And I realized why Mark never follows my directions, even when they are as clear as a giant ice rink with every seat in the house pointed at it.

He's too busy worrying about things like peanuts, inflatables, and...whatever.