Benny Jay: Life With Me

My wife and I are eating dinner in the bar of a restaurant that's got the corner TV turned to the Bulls game.

I'm talking with my wife, sneaking peaks at the game and eating a hamburger. All at once! Talk about multi-tasking.

The only trouble is that these two guys are sitting between me and the TV. They're wearing secret smiles and are leaning over the table so their heads are close together like they're sharing some delightfully intimate conversation. Right away I suspect their enjoying some sort of illicit rendezvous.

Not that I care -- really. But I can tell they're a little uneasy with me staring their way. Every time they look up they see me looking at them. Only I'm not looking at them. I'm looking at the Bulls -- who are losing, by the way. Can't this team ever win a game!

I want to tell them that I don't care about their rendezvous. It's just that they're in my line of vision so I can't watch the Bulls game without looking like I'm watching them. I wish they weren't sitting there. As a matter of fact, I have half a mind to ask them to switch tables....

Suddenly, I feel one of those uncontrollable urges that comes over me from time to time to have a conversation -- any conversation -- about the Bulls. So I ask my wife: "Who's your favorite Bull?"

I can tell she's thinking it over. She's probably trying to remember the name of one -- just one -- player so she can answer the question.

Finally, she says: "Noah."

I'm impressed! Joakim Noah. What an esoteric choice.

"Why?" I ask.

"I like his hair," she says.

Ah, yes -- the curly, shoulder-length hippie look.

"Okay," I say, "who's your second-favorite Bull?"

Pause.

"I don't like the Italian...."

"The Italian?"

"Yeah, you know -- Noce or whatever...."

"You mean, Andres Nocioni?"

"Yes, him. He plays too frantically...."

Now I'm really excited. I mean, even though she didn't answer my question, it's like we're actually having a real conversation about the Bulls.

"Well, he's Argentinian, not Italian. And he doesn't play for the Bulls anymore -- they traded him to Sacramento. But, okay, you don't like him. But who's your second favorite Bull?"

Long pause. I mean, five seconds at least. Then she says: "That new guy -- from Chicago...."

"What's his name?"

"I forget...."

"I'll give you a hint -- it's a flower...."

She's looking at the menu. Then she looks up and says: "Should I get dessert?"

The abrupt change of topic catches me by surprise. "What?" I ask.

"Should I get dessert?"

"Nah, we got cookies at home...."

I figure we've exhausted all she's got to say about the Bulls for the night. So I go back to trying to avoid eye contact with the guys at the next table, while sneaking looks at the game.

We pay the bill and gather our coats.

"Rose," she says.

"Huh?"

"Derrick Rose -- that's my second favorite Bull...."