Wednesday, September 06, 2006

radio radio

In the past, Metsgrrl would have rather stuck a fork in her eye than listened to sports talk radio. I remember when WFAN first went on the air - didn’t it replace a country station? - and all I could think was: wow. Talking about SPORTS all the time? 24/7? How is that even possible?

Now, understand that I *like* talk radio for certain things. I used to stay up and listen to Art Bell back in the late 90’s (and still love turning it on to hear about what’s going on in Area 51 these days).  Back before I could afford a tape deck in my car, it was a tried-and-true method to stay awake by listening to right-wing talk radio in the middle of the night. I love the concept of radio, how it’s free, how it goes everywhere, how it brings together people who would never otherwise encounter each other.

But talking about SPORTS? All the time? How would that even be possible?

Last summer, TBF introduced me to the concept of the Fan. First it was, “Let’s see if we can hear Willie’s manager’s report on the way to the game.” It was fine with me, even if I didn’t understand much of what he was talking about. Then, I was treated to the post-game phone calls, which I enjoyed from the whole human-interest and personality angle, because I certainly couldn’t appreciate what they were talking about. I could, however, amuse myself at TBF’s rantings at morons.

This year, however, it all changed. My late night insomnia was now entertained with 66WFAN instead of Coast-to-Coast AM. And, mostly, it was entertainment, because as all of you of course know, maybe one caller out of TEN actually knows what the f they’re talking about. I learned to appreciate the difference between the likes of Steve Somers, Tony Paige and Richard Neer (the latter which gives me slight deja vu, having grown up listening to the old WNEW-FM back-in-the-day). I don’t develop the requisite hatred toward Mike and the Mad Dog, but instead nurture an ennui, if you will, because I decide I just can’t spare the energy to go there.

TBF, however, needs to declare 660 off-limits occasionally. He will yell over, “Don’t turn the Fan on tonight, Melky Cabrera just hit a walk-off home run.” One night, we were falling sleep; all is peaceful. The cat is curled up at the end of the bed. The radio is on TBF’s side of the bed, and all I can hear is “Jeter” “Yankees” and I’m not paying attention, until…

TBF sits upright in the dark.
Now I’m wide awake. “What’s wrong?”
“Hand me the phone.”
“What?”
“I’m calling the Fan.” He gets out of bed.
“No, you’re not.”
“They’re IDIOTS. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Too small. Throw ‘em back. Not worth it.”
He grudgingly assents and gets back in bed.

But the real sign of the times was the night I was falling asleep and TBF comes to turn out the light and turn down the radio, and apparently in my sleep I mumbled something about the idiots calling to criticize Willie on a night he actually did a good job.
“They’re stupid.  You should call,” I mumble.
“Shhh. Go to sleep, Mets Grrl.”

Right now, I am sitting up writing this, because TBF is on hold in the bedroom, waiting to talk to Steve Sommers, about our favorite household subject, the pitching rotation for the playoffs. The pressing issue is, of course, is that Mr. Mound Dawdler has significant seniority on the Mets, but TBF feels that the manly thing to do would be for said turtle-pitcher to approach Mr. W. Randolph and tell him that he should not be part of the playoff rotation.

If any of my friends really knew that this is how we spent our evenings—no, wait. They’d NEVER believe me.

But you do, don’t you?