June 27, 2002

     My wife sometimes thinks I'm weird. I think I'm perfectly normal. My 5-year old daughter thinks so, too. Well, she's just 5.

     Let me explain. (I'm about to unleash ton after ton of useless information so proceed at your own risk).

     I am not sure if there is any woman alive who understands sports and truly comprehends the joy of watching it. Please don't call me a sexist, I am just stating a fact. There are a lot of women playing sports but I doubt if they can actually sit in front of the TV and endure 48 minutes of an NBA (National Basketball Association) game. (That's actual game minutes. Plus commercials and timeouts, it's about 2 hours). My wife has this two-minute mindset where she has only two minutes to endure the face of Shaquille O'Neal before she leaves and say, "I can't stand him". (She did make a comment once that Kobe Bryant's new haircut is cool in another "two-minute" span). On the other hand, I watch with her through the whole episode of Friends. She truly appreciates that even if she knows that I don't find anything funny on that show and I only watch because of her (besides I do think that Jennifer Aniston is cute).

     But I understand why she doesn't watch basketball games with me. That's why we have 4 (this is not a typo) TV sets in the house. I watch the games most of the time with my daughter and here comes the scary part. By the time my daughter was 4, she knew the starting five of the Los Angeles Lakers and their jersey numbers. She turned 5 a few days ago and I can sense she now appreciates the beauty of the "pick-and-roll". By the time she's 7, and at the rate she's going, she'll probably understand the intricacies of the "triangle offense". If I ask my wife what shape is a basketball and she answers something other than round or circle, I won't be surprised.

"Never, ever, ever, ever give up the remote. Women can't handle the responsibility -- it's like they become afflicted with Temporary ADD."

     This is where it gets weird. My wife thinks my obsession with basketball is somewhat excessive. As hard it is for me to admit it, she has a valid point if somewhat exaggerated.

     She only talks to me during timeouts because she says I don't respond when a game is on-going. Your other senses are closed, she would say. She has also noticed that I don't blink during a game. Now, that's just too much. She's probably making it up.

     I was watching a late-night Laker game (most Laker games are played on the west coast) in bed thinking that she's asleep. I turned down the volume so as not to wake her up when suddenly she burst into laughter. You were shaking, she told me. It was a real close game, but if ever I was shaking, I hardly noticed it. It's hard to make those things up.

     Two weeks ago, and if you have a pulse you know this, my team, the Los Angeles Lakers won the NBA championships again. That was a relief. It was a tough trip to the championships this time, especially facing the stubborn Sacramento Kings in the West finals. This year's playoffs was the most anxiety-filled for me (sweating, tension, tachycardia, you name it). My wife said she has never seen me this anxious since, well, I was courting her, visiting her, and meeting my future father-in-law for the first time.

     I was never good at playing basketball so I just content myself by watching it and learning about it by not actually doing the physical part. I could have been a very good player except maybe for this height thing. And maybe the running thing, too. And the jumping thing. You can also throw in the 'slow reflexes' thing.

     In Psychiatry, they call it projection. Or maybe compensation. I don't know. I'm not sure. I was never good at Psych (well, I was never good at practically everything). Although, I'd say I was wrongly convicted of cheating (I can't speak for the 'hundred or so others') during our finals exam in Psychiatry, and got the same grade as the 'hundred or so others'. (Memo to professors: Don't let your helpers and baby-sitters watch final examinations for you. They have enough chores at home.)

     It's like this - there was this varsity basketball player who was no good in the classroom and hated his nerdy classmate so much because he always did good during examinations. He then challenged him to a one-on-one game on the basketball court to get even.

     I can only play the nerd part.

     Nevertheless, I tried to involve myself in basketball during my undergraduate and Medicine years. I tried coaching both our men's and women's team in inter-class and inter-year tourneys. I did real good considering nobody else would take the job.

     If I have to choose, I'll coach the women over men anytime. The timeouts smell better. I mean, a lot better.

     It was a welcome development that during the recent NBA championships, my wife tried to understand my tension-filled moments. "If you lose," she said, "I'll give you hug. That will lessen the pain a little bit." Oww. That was nice. She hates the Lakers, but she did not smile and looked serious when she said that, so I thought she was sincere. In return, I promised not to make comments anymore about her collection of Dr. Marten's shoes.

     I was just glad that she was working during Game 4 of the NBA Finals when the Lakers won for the third straight year. It was close to midnight, my daughter and I wore our Laker jerseys, made some purple and gold confetti, some championship banners, and paraded around the house. If she saw that, she would've sent me immediately to therapy.

     I was reading a piece recently by someone who calls himself The Sports Guy. He tries to help men preoccupied with sports deal with issues. I'm taking an excerpt from one of his recent pieces because it really hits home.

     A letter-writer wrote: "Why can't women work the remote control? In my house, to be able to watch a sporting event (like, I don't know, Game 4 of the NBA Finals), I allow my girlfriend to watch something else during the commercials (so she gets to catch the highlights of... oh, I don't know... let's just say, for example, "American Idol"). If I have the remote, I can flip back to the game within two seconds either way of the game starting up again. Women have no such sense -- they randomly flip with no understanding of the commercial break, so we miss parts of the game. It's a real problem. So why can't women work the remote?"

     Here's The Sports Guy's response: "Never, ever, ever, ever give up the remote. Women can't handle the responsibility -- it's like they become afflicted with Temporary ADD. For one thing, when holding a remote, women lose all track of time (there's no rational explanation for this, other than that they turn into the guy from "Memento"). They also can't remember the actual buttons on the remote. They could be using it for 100 straight hours and it still seems as if they're trying to operate a spaceship."

     "But here's the biggie: Women can't get easily thrown off track. When they start flipping channels, they try to adhere to that "Hey, I only have two minutes mindset," but then see George Clooney talking to Jules Asner on E!, so there's 60 seconds right there -- just them staring at George, like they have a friggin' chance in the world. Then they see Jules and instinctively despise her, so they ask you if you think Jules is cute, and when you say yes, they come back with something sarcastic like "You would think she's cute" or "Yeah, it's really tough to look good when you have nine people doing your makeup and hair and pampering you; I'm sure she looks great in the morning."

     "Then they get angry, and suddenly five minutes has passed and you're trying to swallow your own tongue. Plus you're missing the game. Not good times."

     I told you. It hits home. If you know what I mean.

     There is a secret to a harmonious and successful relationship. I have always believed it's not compatibility between two individuals but rather the ability of one person to understand the differences he or she has with another. Like fingerprints, no two individuals are the same. But that's a subject for another day. And another column.

     As I was sorting through the championship shirts I purchased recently, my wife commented, "Sooner or later, the Lakers will lose, how will you deal with that?". I responded, "I have dealt with losing a lot of times before. I'll try to deal with it."

     It may sound absurd, but don’t be naive. Even heroes have the right to bleed. I may be disturbed, but won’t you concede. Even heroes have the right to dream.

     It’s not easy to be...me.

     I know. You heard those lines before.

From the Inbox

     From reader L.A., "Hi. I'm not a doctor but I keep returning to your website because of your articles. They're so funny :))))"

     You are definitely smarter than any doctor who thinks otherwise :).

More help for the less-fortunate

     From Dr. Jessie Villareal (1987), "Your column about Kadil was inspiring. We did meet during his surgical mission in Guimaras in the operating room. I took up orthopedic surgery at WVMC in 1994. At present, my work is geared towards uplifting the poor handicapped children in Iloilo and Guimaras. I operate on a lot of clubfoot cases, cp's, congenital limb deficiencies in the different district hospitals in Guimaras and Iloilo, provide them with free prosthesis, braces and walking aids. Like in Mindanao, we have a lot of disabled in Panay and Guimaras alone. We have to do something about it, for that's what WVSU ALUMNI stand for. I'm into this project since 1994 and a lot of children have been helped and their future assured. My only request is that it has to be low profile. So, if any alumni would like to ask some help regarding prosthesis and orthopedic aids, you can call on me."

     Dr. Villareal's e-mail address is at drjessie@iloilo.net. We will keep track of Jessie's future projects.

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     The author's e-mail address is at drgarcia@wvsumedaa.com

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