I pride myself on my ability to stay calm through anything without getting flustered. When Deserae’s feeling especially feisty, she gets a lot of joy out of testing this ability through poking.
Literally. She will physically poke my belly while saying the words, “Poke…Poke…Poke.”
“Stop! What are you doing?”
“I’m poking you!” she will say with a giant smile on her face. “Are you getting annoyed yet?”
It takes much more than that to fluster me. A few pokes can’t compare to Calm Dustin’s kryptonite: Playoff Dad.
My dad does not care for sports, and he does not get why other people do.
“It’s just grown men throwing a ball through a hoop.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Woohoo.”
“I know.”
“And then if they win the whole thing, then what?”
“They have a parade.”
“A parade? Woohoo.”
“I know.”
I think all sports fans have someone like this in their lives. Unfortunately, you don’t usually find out who they are until they sit next to you at a Super Bowl party and proclaim that they “HAVEN’T WATCHED ONE MINUTE OF FOOTBALL ALL YEAR.”
Oh, OK. Cool.
They then proceed to provide helpful commentary through the whole game.
“YOU’RE A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE. HOW CAN YOU BE SO FAT?”
“THAT’S A PENALTY?! WHEN I PLAYED IN SIXTH GRADE, THAT WAS CALLED GREAT FOOTBALL.”
“I WISH I COULD GET PAID MILLIONS OF DOLLARS TO MISS FIELD GOALS.”
The solution to the chatty non-fan problem is simple: no more Super Bowl party invites. When you’re a kid, the Playoff Dad problem is a little tougher. Throughout the regular season, living with someone who doesn’t care about sports isn’t too bad – he just ignores the TV as he walks through the living room. But during the playoffs, this person sees you getting worked up during games, and it bothers him.
Your dad is the person tasked with teaching you life lessons like “electricity isn’t free” and “don’t leave your shoes at the top of the stairs where someone can trip over them.” The playoffs are just another opportunity to teach a life lesson: don’t base your happiness on watching grown men play with a ball.
Playoff Dad introduced himself during the Cleveland Indians playoff runs of the 90s. While walking through the living room, he’d notice me balled up and rocking back and forth on the floor in front of the TV. Instead of passing by like normal, he’d plop down on the couch and provide commentary designed, I think, to help me care less about baseball
“ARE THOSE PANTS OR TIGHTS? WHY DON’T THEY JUST WEAR TUTUS NEXT YEAR?”
[Whistles circus music as the Indians commit another error, allowing the tying run to score]
“HOW MUCH DO YOU WANT TO BET HE BLOWS THIS SAVE?”
Poke. Poke. Poke.
Not only would I have to deal with another disappointing end to the season every year, but I’d have to do it while listening to poorly whistled circus music. It was very traumatic. The best part of having my own house is the ability to stand in front of the TV and shout at the top of my lungs without worrying that someone is sneaking to the remote behind me to switch the channel to PBS at an inopportune time.
When the Cleveland Cavaliers made the NBA Finals a few weeks ago, the first thing I did was look at the schedule. My heart sank when I saw that Game 2 was to be played on Sunday night, the exact time Deserae and I usually go to my parents’ house for homemade pizza night.
“We cannot go,” I told Deserae.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“You haven’t watched a playoff game with my dad before.”
“We can always leave at halftime if you want.”
“My head might explode before then.”
Against my better judgment, we went.
As the Cavs and Warriors battled back and forth throughout the first half, my dad showed surprising restraint. During halftime, Deserae leaned over. “Do you want to watch the rest of the game at home?”
“No, this is fine.”
About halfway through the fourth quarter, it became not fine.
It was “poopy pants time,” as my cousin Tim likes to say. The Cavs were clinging to a slim lead, while I was living and dying with each position with my body draped over the arm of the couch and my face two feet from the TV. This was too much for Playoff Dad to bear.
“You know they’re going to lose, right?”
No response. Just then, J.R. Smith missed a 3, and the Warriors ran down the court for an easy bucket.
“That’s what happens when you shoot 3s all day.”
Cleveland called a timeout and ABC went to commercial. At that instant, I realized 3 things:
- The Cavs were going to lose.
- I had forgotten to record the game at home, trapping myself on that couch until the end of the game.
- Playoff Dad was just getting warmed up.
They came back from commercial with a close-up on Iman Shumpert. This was the first time Playoff Dad had noticed Shump’s hair.
“Wow.”
Oh boy.
“Buckwheat hair!”
Mmmm, maybe kind of? Nope.
The Cavs spent the rest of the game squandering an 11-point lead, while I spent it listening to my dad say “Buckwheat” as many times as possible.
The clock neared zero, and my face neared 1,000 degrees. I stopped caring who won. The only thing I wanted was for the game to end so I could get in the car and scream, just please no…
…“OVERTIME!” Mike Breen said as LeBron’s gamewinner missed its mark.
Oh nonononononononono
If you did not watch overtime, you missed the five most stressful minutes of any Cleveland fan’s life. And if you did not watch the game in my parents’ living room, you missed a five-minute presentation by Playoff Dad entitled “Why Driving to the Basket Is Important.”
With a minute to go, Calm Dustin finally broke.
“He’s scared. He’s scared to go into the paint. Look, he’s just fooling around. Dribble dribble dribble. 8, 7, 6…”
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
The Cavs finally, mercifully won. I melted on the couch. Just before ABC went to commercials, they showed the schedule for the rest of the series.
Game 5. Sunday. 8 P.M.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” I said to my mom.
“I understand.”
LIFE LESSON #72
You can care about sports or you can watch the game with my dad, but you cannot do both.