"This year, Jeter is hitting at 300, 25, and 90."
If I'm watching ESPN (read: at knifepoint), I’m not processing the dialogue. The words are English, some even familiar to me. Bat, run, score. Many are vaguely homoerotic.
“He’s pounding it into the endzone.”
I go from tuning it out to cocking an eyebrow.
“He’s the best tight end we’ve ever had!”
"You need a power hitter batting clean up and a speedster to lead off."
Men get what that says. They speak the “mancode.”
It worries me that I don’t understand, because perhaps more is being passed along in “mancode” than just sports statistics. I could envision a world where men are secretly plotting to take over my womb and grow HGH-infused superbaby athletes. Maybe this is how the Taliban took over and forced the women into burquas? I’ve read “Handmaid’s Tale.” I know how this stuff can sneak up on you.
Why must a man choose his favorite sports teams at age 8, and then stand by those athletic enterprises for the remainder of his existence? That’s as an awfully important decision to lay on a third grader. This decision will affect a good bunch of your Sundays, your spring, and the newspapers you read, and what type of cable package you have to order from Direct TV.
What if the team owner packs your team with one-armed zombie pedophiles? You are going to have to defend those players, right or wrong, because they are on Your Team. This rule goes beyond “Mancode” to Manlaw. Thou shall not abandon any sports team chosen before puberty.