From time to time I have amusing encounters with Sporty McSportsnut. You see, Sporty isn’t a single person, no, but many persons. He could be the guy in the bar, or the guy at the gas station, or the guy in the cubicle next to you at work. Tonight, he was the guy in the Italian restaurant where I took my lunch break.

As I walk into the restaurant I see a group of sportsfans in the corner sitting rather close to the only TV in the place–a 50ish inch old 4:3 rear project deal.

As you might expect, The Game is on. Because that’s the kind of place this is. And that’s what guys want to watch. It’s football, I can see that much. And that’s where my interest ends. I don’t care about football. I don’t care about sports. So I just sit down in the back of room and play with my mobile phone.

You know the guys, you’ve seen them before. Moustaches, sportsteam jerseys, pitchers of beer, drunk, loud, obnoxious, women with nowhere to run and no options–stuck with the sportsguys.

Just then, something fantabulous and awesome and exciting happens. The pack erupts into cheers and clapping. The men jump out of their seats and high five each other (or try to, rather, they missed). I glance their way, but say nothing. My face expressionless.

One of the guys, suitably drunk, takes a few steps towards my table. He notices that I didn’t join them in their revelry. He reveals a shit-eating grin. He smells blood, or so he thinks. A fan of the other team perhaps? A chance for him to ‘rub it in’, or something? Whatever, I never understood this part of The Game.

“Not a fan of the (insert name of his team here) I take it?” he asks, with his hands on his hips, shit-eating grin still on his face. Gloating, beaming, hoping to ‘get my goat’, or something. Fuck, I don’t know. Whatever, Sporty.

I look at him with a puzzled look on my face. “Huh? What do you mean?” Knowing full well what just happened in The Game, and what I’m about to do.

You see, there’s something you might not know about The Tom Bissell. I know how to push Sporty’s buttons. I know how to find that one thing that pisses him off, and then mash the fuck out of that button. I mean it. This is *my* version of The Game. This is how *I* play. It brings me great pleasure.

Sporty is still standing there, but now his shit-eating grin is gone. He cocks his head to one side and gestures over his shoulder towards the TV. “You know, The Game. The play. What just happened? You know?” shaking his head, exasperated.

His world begins to dissolve before his eyes. Could it be that someone on Earth doesn’t know or care about The Game? Even worse, could this guy sitting before him not know about football? Worse still, sports? Panic begins to set in.

And I’m trying so hard not to laugh. I love playing my game with the Sportys of the world. I’ve perfected my act through years of practice, you know.

“The game?” I ask.

“THE Game,” he replies. “Hello? This is planet Earth? THE GAME.”

I’m snickering hysterically inside. Snorting, even. And yet my face is icy calm.

“Oh, the game. Ha ha, oh, sorry, I, uh… I don’t care about football.” My words cut like a knife. He’s flabbergasted. He doesn’t know what to do.

“So, what do you like, chess?” He thinks he’s funny. He tries to relate football to chess. “So what just happened is, like, the guy just missed a field goal. It’s like, he lost his Queen.”

I don’t care about chess, either, and so he fails miserably. I shrug.

After awhile he gives up. I’m obviously not interested. Oh my fucking stars and gardens, this guy really doesn’t care about football. Shaking his head, defeated, he returns to the pack.

And I allow myself to smile, and enjoy the best raviolis I’ve ever eaten.