by Leanne Coffman

Created on: February 08, 2009

The first photo ever taken of me was in a microscopic, pink Cubs hat, lovingly placed there by my indulging father. I was about two hours old. From that point forward Dad took it upon himself to indoctrinate into his daughter a fierce love of sports. I am not certain at what point his example and my own passion took over. But it took, alright.

Not only does a zeal for the Cubs burn brightly in my heart, other teams and sports have been added over the years. I don't count seasons by months or weather, I calculate them based on sporting events. It's not spring, it's March Madness. When the leaves turn, and the days become crisp, I know football will be heating up. Winter? Hockey pucks soaring across the ice. And so on. I envisioned a life partner/teammate just as zealous, sharing this sporting fever with me.

But it's kinda funny how Cupid doesn't take notes from us when he is doling out pheromones.

Mark, my significant other, is the polar opposite from a sporting fan. When we first met, my initial attraction to him was largely due to his biceps and warm smile. I assumed he spent hours in the gym or involved in some competitive sport honing his frame. Based on his testosterone bearing rack, it never occurred to me a) he just grew that way naturally and b) he doesn't care anything at all about sports.

His tastes run toward loftier things; reading, museums, art. All of which I also can tolerate and sometimes even enjoy, but not with the fervor of my beloved games, matches and playoffs.

My passions at times totally befuddle poor Mark. I think his vision of a soul mate was a woman hanging on his arm sighing and whispering in hushed tones in front of a Cezanne. Then there's me. A beer drinking, obscenity screaming girl obsessed with sports. If I were to describe art, my first thought would be titled, "Miracle on Ice" circa 1980.

We were bound to end up with some differences. I believe early on in our dating we were amused by each other's diversity. Those art museums visits were enlightening. Discussing Ayn Rand over Chardonnay proved intriguing for me. I was charmed by his intellect and social graces. Mark was delighted by my passion. He termed my knowledge of teams, plays and volumes of stats stored in my brain as "adorable". It seemed as the old adage proclaimed, "opposites attract".

However, those old adages never tell you how to survive post initial attraction.

The first time I realized we might be having some trouble was during a particularly brutal boxing match. I looked

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