notsopeaceful | Entries tagged with the sports jerk

Keith and I go in circles and cycles. We're fine, we're great, he's sneaking me into the studio after hours and teaching me to read the TelePrompTer before taking me out for fries at 3 a.m. And then we're a hundred miles apart and he's telling me I'm too young and he's too old and I should go get drunk with Tim and Tara or get felt up by Eric while we smoke and listen to Metallica.

Well, okay, he didn't say the last part. But he knows that's what I'd be doing if I weren't with him. And it's not that the idea of doing those things is wholly unappealing or anything - I do them whenever I'm not with Keith - but there is only so much cheap tequila and weak weed and Master of Puppets a girl can take. Sometimes I want to have deep conversations when I'm not stoned and when I'm miles away from Linds's boyfriend's roommate's dirty socks.

We're in one of those cycles where I'm too young and Keith is too old and - I'm not supposed to know this part - his friend from New York thinks Keith is in love with me or something because he hasn't gone on a date since September. I don't have words for how dumb that is, mostly because I haven't gone on a date since September either, and I'm definitely not in love with Keith.

But Keith is acting like he has to prove it by being a jerk. He always has to prove he knows something; he can never just know it. He is trying to get me mad enough to make me walk away. I don't think he realizes I am too stubborn to do that unless he tells me point blank to get lost. I don't think I would do it then, either. I enjoy giving him a hard time, plus I know he wouldn't mean it. He's going to get over this in a couple of weeks. He better get over this in a couple weeks.

I really hate his friend.

mood fed up

It's a school night and it's kind of a drive, but I just dropped some stuff off with Keith. I've been crashing at his place on weekends - "staying at a friend's" in teenager-to-parent speak - and last week he asked if I wanted to just leave some stuff there.

The question wasn't out of the blue. I'd been taking stuff with me, and I thought it would be easier to just leave it in the green machine's trunk. Turns out when you do that for a week your clothes end up smelling like exhaust fumes. He let me borrow a shirt to sleep in, but he is the one person I've met who actually physically dwarves me. I got sick of waking up all tangled and threw it on the floor at some point during the night. I usually wake up before him - he sleeps, I've never been a sleeper - so I was making coffee and walking around in my (dirty) underwear, thinking I had a good hour before he got up, right until the moment I heard him clear his throat from across the room.

Mortification promptly ensued on both our parts. I think it took an hour for us to be able to be in the same room. We still hadn't worked our way up to looking each other in the eye when he said something like, "You should just leave some clothes here." What the hell, right? I already had a toothbrush there with my name on it - no, really, it has my name written on it in Sharpie. It seemed like a good idea when I was wasted. Keith informed me the following morning that I had done so well lecturing him rather passionately on things he wasn't allowed to do with my toothbrush.

When I dropped my stuff off with him tonight - he was still at work - I gave him a similar lecture regarding things he is not allowed to do with my clothes. When I was done, he looked at me and said, "What am I allowed to do with your clothes? That might be easier to remember." I told him he could do my laundry and he pointed out that would require touching my underwear.

I still don't know what the right response to that was. This whole thing is weird.

I have a sports jerk and I don't know what to do with him. I don't think he knows what to do with me, either, so at least we're on the same page. But when I got home Friday, there he was, using the sportscast to repeat what I had told him outside the locker room about why I was on the bench for the whole match.

So when I saw him at Saturday morning's game, which I was allowed to play in and which we did win, I snuck up behind him, tugged on his shirt, and said, "Can I talk to you? Off the record this time." It was strange, one of those things you do because you feel funny if you don't. He was there, I was there, I had to say something, especially since he kept looking at me.

I know it's his job to watch the game and I know I have a reputation for being the girl who does stuff worth watching - in particular stuff that usually hurts the next day - but not like this. You don't have to stare at me constantly to know when I eat floor. But whenever I looked up, there he was, looking back. He makes it hard not to be obnoxious - I waved at him before my jump serve (which happened to win us the game, doubling the quotient of obnoxiousness in the process and earning me a "what has gotten into you" from Coach. I figured "Keith Olbermann" would have been a bad answer on many levels and opted to take the question as rhetorical).

One thing I found out, though, is he's covering girls' volleyball until states are over. Someone had something happen so he's doing them a favor or whatever and taking over their assignment. So unless we blow it, I'm going to be seeing a lot of him. Like I said: I have myself a sports jerk.

We lost.

It's okay, I guess. It's double elim, so we're still in it, just with one strike already against us. One completely avoidable strike - the other team wasn't all that good. Spike, spike, spike. That was all they did the whole game. Not that I blame them. When you know your opponent's best digger is on the bench, you're going to make them dig every chance you get.

Yeah. Coach benched me over that fight with Paul. Great. Punish the whole team because my ex-boyfriend thought volleyball practice would be a good time to fight. "Next time, walk away," Coach told me. Right. I've been playing on the varsity team for four years. I was the first junior to make captain, and I held onto that this year. Coach T has had a lot of time to get to know me. He knows I don't walk away.

After the game, I found myself a corner of the locker room and stayed there until after everyone else had left. The even turned off the lights. There is something decidedly pathetic about groping your way through an unfamiliar locker room in the dark, but it was exactly what I was in the mood to do.

I wasn't expecting to step out of there and find the sports jerk waiting for me. Oh, I knew he was there - after a point, I couldn't watch the game anymore, so I didn't have anything better to do than watch (and, okay, make faces at, but he made faces back, so it wasn't that immature of me) him and his camera guy. I just... wasn't expecting him to be lingering outside the locker room door. It seems to me that there should be strict rules about sports reporters and high school girls' locker rooms. And there should also be rules that prevent me from being happy to see him... and that keep me from being disappointed when I find out he has to go back to work.

He didn't put up much of a fight.

I don't - not Keith the sports jerk. Paul. Paul the ex-boyfriend jerk.

It's funny, really. I surprised even myself when it happened. We were in the backseat of his car, doing what you normally do in the backseats of cars, and it just... happened. I don't even remember what I said, but I remember... I remember almost jumping away from him, I remember putting my shirt on, I remember pulling my jacket closed, and I remember the look on his face. He had no idea. He was stunned. And I walked away, and I think - I think I must have hitched a ride back to where I left my car.

I sat in my car for an hour, parked by the television studio. It had that cold, empty car feeling, the way cars do after you've left them alone all day. They feel lifeless. They feel dead. It's a strange feeling - it always makes me want to turn the key and the floor it. But I sat there and waited for the sports jerk. My parents thought I was supposed to be out all night for Paul's birthday; I wasn't going to waste a curfew-less night.

Yeah. I broke up with my boyfriend on his birthday, then I went to pick a fight with a sportscaster - a sportscaster who didn't want to fight. I got in his car and he still wouldn't fight. Talk, debate, buy me pancakes, sure, but not fight. Wouldn't apologize, either, but he wouldn't fucking fight with me. I told him I broke up with my boyfriend and he took me to the park to play catch. Who the hell does that?

He owes me a fight.

Today I learned that I am secretly a middle-aged man. I have ballpark hotdog heartburn - or possibly the local sports reporter is a jerk heartburn. That is: I was on the TV machine again! Without getting handcuffed!

The handcuffs will come tomorrow, after I see the sports jerk again.

What an ass. I knew from watching him with my dad that he was an ass with a big head - in both the literal and metaphorical senses - but he seemed nice enough in person, if considerably dumber than he appears on the sportscast. (Paul said he was staring at my chest, but Paul says that about everyone. I keep telling him that just because he has a thing for flat-chested tomboys doesn't mean the rest of the world does. Do they teach guys to be jealous in MCJROTC?) And then I saw the interview.

So now the entire Bay Area thinks I am a (male) juvenile delinquent who has AIDS and hates the A's. Fantastic. Wonderful. I am delighted beyond words, although words are what I fully intend to have with that big-headed sports moron tomorrow night. The AIDS thing and the j.d. thing from the other week, fine. Shoddy reporting, but my only complaint is the one about losing my car for two weeks. But to make me look like I hate the A's and am unsympathetic towards Canseco's plight from earlier this season? I will not stand for this. Paul thinks I'm overreacting and should be more upset about the AIDS thing than this, but this is baseball we're talking about. This is serious business. A little perceived slander never hurt anyone - well, not me personally - but you do not turn me into a caricature of a fair-weather A's fan. I've been loyal to them since I was first able to escape my father's pro-Angels brainwashing at age seven.

Maybe this does constitute slander.

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June 2010

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