Man Crush

I admit it—I have a man crush. And no, I’m not talking about Justin Timberlake. (Why does everyone think I’m kidding when I ask for a life-size anatomically correct J.T. doll every Christmas?) The tender dude-feelings I have are directed toward someone else. And I have even talked to him.

I reckon I’m a pretty simple feller. I was born and raised in Caldwell, Idaho, so I have not had many brushes with certain types: the famous, the rich, the actor, the professional athlete. So when Dude (that's what we will call him) moved in down the street from me, I was pretty stoked (the seeds of man crush were planted, you could say). See, I found out Dude was a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals. At first I wondered if that meant he was on one of their minor league teams, or threw BP or something, but it was the real deal. Starting pitcher for the Cards. The 25 man roster and everything.

After meeting him one night down at a pick-up basketball game at our church, it was decided Dude would come and play on our church basketball team. Not a very big deal or anything. Just a lousy 'league' with a bunch of riff raff, hacks, and guys who had wrestled in high school. But with Dude on our team the games were no contest.

One night Dude was straight killing it from outside. He must have made fifteen three-pointers. The other team was pissed, and not for the regular reasons (too many fouls, bad refs, people saying "Crap!" too much). They were actually angry at Dude because he kept raining three-pointers. Our team would get a rebound, throw an outlet pass, head up court, and look for Dude. And once he got it, he was money. It was sick. Never saw anything like it before. But I didn't know I was crushing yet.

There was a mid-season tournament for our league as well. One Friday night, we played the first two rounds--the rest of the tournament would be completed the next day. After our Friday night games, Dude said, "Hey, let's all meet at Perkins tomorrow at 6 a.m." Maybe I need to clarify here, but we are talking about six-in-the-morning-on-a-Saturday; this is a sacred time for me. I will be sleeping at this time on any Saturday of the year. But at 6 a.m. the next morning I was there, throwing down my pancakes and omelet, and I am pretty sure Dude paid the bill. He was reeling me in.

Apparently Dude thought enough of my "skillz" on the court that he asked me to play on his city league team that year. I felt like a high school girl getting asked to the prom. I used to hate the way Dude liked to warm up for the game, though: he would throw the basketball overhand to me from about fifteen feet away. His arm was so strong it hurt me every time I caught it, but I never said anything. I didn't even complain when Dude recruited a couple of former players from Boise State's men's team; my playing time diminished greatly, but I was happy to be there.

It finally hit me one night when I got a phone call. It was Dude, and he just wanted to shoot the breeze. As we talked I found out he was drafted by the Orioles and pitched for them in 1996. How cool is that? He knew several of my favorite players on the team. He didn't like Davey Johnson (I forgive him that). He was thinking about moving to Florida. Anyway, we chatted for a while as I lay in my bed next to my wife, and when we hung up I sighed with satisfaction. I looked over at my wife and she was laughing at me. She never said a word, but I could tell from her look she thought I was ridiculous. And then I knew.

So, yes, Dude moved to Florida, but he is back in town now; I have seen him a few times on TV and heard him on the radio. And I am still waiting for him to call.