Indulged

Last night, I met up with J. to watch the Syracuse/Clemson NIT quarter-final game.

I think we all know how it turned out. (Or maybe we don't, since it was the NIT, and who watches NIT games, other than Syracuse alumni and the group of drunk Englishmen at the bar who befriended us and became temporary college basketball fans? In case you fall outside of those categories, the good guys lost.)

Syracuse was behind for almost the entire game, but managed to play a little more aggressively and go on a bit of a scoring run late in the 2nd half. Coincidentally, this occurred while I was listening to a story that J. was telling instead of watching the television.

Because I am weird, I became convinced that in order for Syracuse to win, I needed to not watch the rest of the game. And so I deliberately turned away and ordered J. to continue telling stories, preferrably on the same subject matter. This lasted for about 3 minutes, until I demanded to know what was happening in the game.

J. then spent the next 20 minutes or so narrating the game for me, while I alternately squeezed his hand and leaned my head against his chest. Not only did he describe the game, he noted baskets made by my favorite players (that 'white punk kid' and the 'tattooed dunker-guy') and actively rooted for Syracuse.

When it was over, and I had stopped swearing, he bought me a drink and deflected the unsympathetic questions of the aforementioned Englishmen. It's not often that you connect with someone who not only defers to your oddities, but actually participates in them.

I think he's a keeper. For now.