Ahem, ok. First of all, I would like to congratulate Hutch on this new site and concept. I think it's brilliant. I would also like to congratulate her on the size of her huge balls. Yes, her huge balls. There are not many people who invite SurferWife to contribute to a site AND say, "Don't censor yourself." On top of that, she is allowing me the first post, after hers. Talk about just throwing shit against a wall and seeing if it sticks.
Alright, so I am really here to give you a little insight into my sports life and how it came to be. As much as I enjoy speaking of Hutch's private parts, I'll discontinue that now. Like many, my dad watched sports. I always remember a baseball or football game blaring on the boob tube and me whining incessantly for him to change it over to Rainbow Brite or MTV because the Rock With Me video with Michael Jackson's sequin suit was probably on one of our 13 basic cable channels. To which my dad would respond, "No, The Superbowl Shuffle is about to re-air. Besides, I don't want to get up to change the channel."
There you have it. My love of watching sports grew out of being a child of the 80's with no remote control and sheer laziness on my mine and my father's part.
As I got older, I found I couldn't take my eyes off the kid in my class who could play any sport and play it well. In jr. high, I would miss my bus in order to stay and watch the baseball team practice. I would walk down to the beach to watch those same boys do Jr. Lifeguards and then head out for a surf afterwards with their friends. In high school, big shocker, I dated a football player who also surfed.
And then there was The Surfer. I was smitten at age 12 with my future husband. He didn't play organized sports because he was an ocean guy and his number one love was a good wave. How very Dylan McKay of him. *Swoon*
As any good groupie would do, I studied and learned all these sports that these hot guys played. Go figure, I actually enjoyed watching these sports. When a gaggle of us girls would go to a high school football game, I actually watched and cared about the score and the plays and well, their butts. I'm pretty sure I was every boy's mother's worst nightmare.
Enter Karma, Stage Right.
I have a son. I have a very athletically inclined son. He plays tackle football and baseball. He surfs real waves on a real board and just completed his first session of Jr. Lifeguards. While my heart swells with overwhelming pride at his abilities, I am realizing I am raising THEEEE boy that I set my sights on and didn't stop until my claws were firmly dug in.
I will slap a bitch. I don't care if she's 9.
This is my son, Jason, whom we shall refer to as The Ace from here on out. He's a pitcher and 1st baseman. A linebacker and fullback. A surfer and swimmer. You give the kid a ball or any tool required to play any sport and he can do it. And do it well. You will find posts from me highlighting his sports. Probably mostly about the idiotic parents I encounter on the sidelines, because let's face it. That's the juicy shit.
In addition, you will find me posting on The Surfer and his triathlon skills. He's one of those guys that completes a half ironman with a damn smile on his face. Meanwhile, I am his number one fan in the crowd, hooting and hollering with Dorito crumbs chillin' in my cleavage. Thanks to him, I feel fat, will follow and report on all things Surfing (ASP World Tour), Triathlon, and Hockey. Go Red Wings. Yes, I am from San Diego. I know I just said hockey. And Red Wings. Just go with it, ok?
Lastly, you will find me posting about the Chargers. Scratch that, you will find me passionately cussing out Norv Turner. Life as a Chargers and Padres fan is not an easy one, but someone has to live it.
With booze in her hand.