Benny Jay: Fit Me For A Straitjacket

I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.

As you may recall, last time I didn't watch it. This time I'll watch it but I won't care. I'm serious. I'll be indifferent. I'll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch up on "Clockers," Richard Price's novel. Every now and then I'll look up just to, you know, check on the score....

I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I'm too excited to read. I'm on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I'm telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I'm working the refs, telling them to call it both ways -- "he hacked, ref -- he hacked" -- and not just against the Bulls....

I'm alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she's sleeping....

Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he's not watching, like he's got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he's watching. I bet he just wants me to think he's not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn't care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn't want me to know that he's as big a loser as I am. But, I'm on to you, Milo. I know you're watching. Oh, yes, I know....

At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open -- and I mean, absolutely all alone -- behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him -- of all people -- open for a three?

That's it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he's one of those guys who doesn't care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I'm really not some weird guy who's obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am....

On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that's what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don't sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature....

When I get home, I think -- I'll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that's good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby' Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby -- cause he's fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him -- the big fat pig. What can I say -- it's the playoffs....

It's a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I'm Derrick Rose and I've just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we -- the Bulls -- are running away with the game. I know I need help. I'm sure there's a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby....

Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who -- no! -- is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He's open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open -- again? Noooooooo....

In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can't bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I'll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I'll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can't believe I didn't think of this before. And so I go -- in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out....

Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three -- good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime....

The Bulls score first. They score again. There's a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span....

Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston....

I jump up and down. I sing, "Go Bulls, go." A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they're finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.

"Finally, Joakim," the announcer is saying, "what about these fans?"

"Off the hook," says Joakim. "Off the hook."

If he only knew -- lord, lord, lord, if he only knew....

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...."

Benny Jay: Mom Breaks The News

I'm on the phone with Milo, the world's smartest man, and we're doing what we've been doing too much of lately. We're going down the list of reasons for the long, sad slide of our beloved Bulls: Larry Hughes is selfish, Ben Gordon's short, Joakim Noah's flaky, Tyrus Thomas is inconsistent, Vinny Del Negro can't control the team.

We switch subjects to Barack Obama.

"Do you think he's really a good basketball player or is everyone who plays against him just afraid to guard him tight?" I ask.

"Well, Benny, think about it," says Milo. "How good can he be? He couldn't start for his high school basketball team in Hawaii. Hawaii, Benny -- it's not known as the bastion of good basketball. That's like a black kid from Detroit moving to Tokyo and not being able to start on his Japanese basketball team. That would be an embarrassment."

The other line beeps. It's my mother. She's enraged.

"Who is this witch?"

"What witch?"

"That lady...."

"What lady? I need more information...."

"Don't be fresh...."

"You mean, the new senator from New York?"

"Yes...."

How did I possibly know what she was talking about?

"She's a Blue Dog Democrat," says my mom.

"What's that?"

"That's a Democrat who's always a Democrat no matter what...."

"I thought that was a Yellow Dog Democrat....."

"That's what your father said...."

I go online and read the news story on the New York Times web page. "Her name is Kirsten Gillibrand, she's from outside of Albany and she's a moderate Democrat...."

"That's ridiculous. We don't need anymore moderate Democrats -- we need liberals. What'sa matter with liberals?"

"They're trying to reach out...."

"To who?"

"Republicans and....."

"Bullshit, we don't need Republicans. Let the Republicans pick Republicans. When do the Republicans reach out to us. These Democrats are such wimps. What's the matter with that governor in New York?"

"He's just trying to be like Obama, ma. You know, Obama says: `There are no red states and no blue states -- just the United States."

She ignores me: "Look on that thing and tell me if she's pro-choice...."

"What thing?"

"You know -- that thing where you look things up...."

"You mean the Internet?"

"Yes, that thing...."

"Okay, mom...."