A few months ago, a friend watching a college football game texted The Sports Critic. “Look at those cheerleaders!” Actually, I’d better not.
Granted, they are attractive, as young women go. But now that The Critic is literally (and I am literally using that word correctly) old enough to be the father of a college cheerleader (or several), it just seems wrong to be eyeballing those lasses.
Attention Grabbing
That’s true even though the college cheerleaders’ outfits (skimpy) and their actions (hopping around as if those outfits were on fire) are designed to draw my attention. Enjoy yourself, girls. I’ll be in line at the Men’s room for the fourth time this quarter (I should probably have that old prostate checked out).
That depressing thought reminds me that I am OLD. It also reminds me of a time this Fall when I got off my couch and actually attended an NCAA game at nearby Maryland. The game turned out to be a boring blowout (you cannot spell “over-ranked” without “Syracuse”) and I spent most of the second half just trying to get myself on TV. ESPN is full of critics, but hasn’t yet featured The Critic, so I have to make do with what coverage I can get.
ESPN Here I Come
So some friends and I ended up “stalking” the ESPN sideline reporter. A quick Google search indicated she’s married to an NBA player, and she was lovely. She seemed interested in interviewing a few of the remaining Syracuse fans about how they had traveled so far just to watch their team lose. I thought she missed a more interesting story: an interview with the mother of the award-winning Syracuse kicker, who made the squad as an unrecruited walk-on. But maybe that’s too critical of me.
Anyway, during her interview, The Critic positioned himself on her right hip, hoping to be on camera (if only in the background). Alas, the camera shot right past me, so there’s no visual evidence I even attended the game (that may be for the good, anyway. It was such a poor performance, I would have burned my ticket stub {I’m old enough to remember those, even though cheerleaders aren’t}, if I had gotten one instead of a barcode on my phone).
Quarterbacks Get All the Good-looking Women
This cheerleader aversion isn’t necessarily a new thing for The Critic. The first time I realized I was getting old was during the 2013 National Championship game. Everybody remembers the moment when prominent 104-year-old man Brent Musburger raised a stir by commenting on the looks of Katherine Webb, the girlfriend and future wife of star quarterback A.J. McCarron.
At that very moment, The Critic was thinking, “wow, that’s an attractive woman!” but I wasn’t looking at Ms. Webb; I was eying the woman next to her, who turned out to be Dee Dee Bonner, mother of said Alabama quarterback. Even then, the Critic was age-appropriate in his ogling. And for the record, Ms. Bonner is still quite lovely, having aged better than The Critic has in the years since that game.
Where is all this headed? Assumedly at some point The Critic will stop ratcheting up the age of the women I find fetching. Although Helen Mirren looks pretty good in a bikini at 70, so maybe that’s in my future after all. But she’ll never be a cheerleader again.
Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory
Now, there is one exception to all this. When watching, say, “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” it’s perfectly ok for The Critic to pause the film at strategic points and admire the poolside view provided by a particular red bikini.
Why? Because even although the (lovely and talented) Phoebe Cates was 17 in that film, The Critic was 17 when he watched it that year as well. The magic of Hollywood means I’m always 17 when I’m staring at Phoebe. Thank God for film.
She, also, has aged very well, by the way. Call me, Ms. Cates. There’s still time to improve your diving skills.
