by Karey White

Created on: January 21, 2009   Last Updated: January 28, 2009

"Yes!" I scream, as I leap triumphantly from the couch, spilling a large bowl of buttered popcorn and Junior Mints (my favorite sports snack) to the floor. I pump my fist in the air as enthusiastically as a black-clad goth at a Marilyn Manson concert. Ray Allen has just scored a basket that I'm sure will ensure a victory over my least favorite team in all of sports-the Los Angeles Lakers. Now, if you're a Lakers fan, please don't be angry with me. My heart has belonged to the Boston Celtics since I was a little girl, watching the Lakers and Celtics rivalry with my parents and seven brothers. I come by my rabid Lakers loathing honestly.

I look around, searching for someone to share my unbridled joy. My eyes fall on Dave, my sweet husband smiling up at me over his laptop from his end of the couch. He's obviously amused. I must admit the smirk is rather irritating and I bemoan the fact that I must celebrate this wonderful victory alone. There are so many days when I miss the mob mentality of watching a basketball game with a room full of fans just as vocal as myself. Instead, here I am, watching a fantastic game with a good-looking and long-suffering husband who is now catching up on the news of the day on his computer. Not SportsCenter news, but real, the-world-hangs-in-the-balance news.

"Did you see that shot?" I ask, crawling under the coffee table to retrieve the remote control from where it landed during my victory dance.

"Sorry," he says. "I missed it."

"Watch this. It's so great." I rewind the tivo and watch Ray shoot the beautiful shot again. I sit on the edge of my seat in anticipation, appreciating it as if it were the first time I've seen it. I look over at Dave for what I'm sure will have to be proper awe given the beauty of the shot.

"Great shot," he says, obviously trying to muster up some enthusiasm. Then he turns back to the laptop.

"Honey, watch this. Look how he fakes out Kobe," I say, rewinding it again, pleading him to understand the sheer bliss it brings me to see Kobe out-juked.

"That's great." He's seen all he wants to see. You see, he doesn't really care. How he cannot care, I'll never know, but somehow he really doesn't. He doesn't appreciate a spectacular slam dunk. He probably thinks a triple double is three scoops of double fudge ice cream. He doesn't have the sports attention span to follow the intricate threading of the ball through the players on a beautiful assist. His interests lie elsewhere. I guess I can't hold it against him. I knew

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