Last night I came up to our office to do a little noodling around on the interwebs. I found the Great Guy I Married ensconced in out nursing-glider-turned-tv-and-video-game-chair, his PS2 arrayed before him, clicking happily away on one of those super-detailed sports games. Hockey, to be exact. I guess he was practicing up in case he was called to the ice in today’s US v Canada gold medal match.
As I was surfing, I heard the sound of his clicking escalate to frantic speeds. Ah, I thought. The game is reaching a crucial moment. Perhaps it’s a power play. They’re storming the crease! He might need to take out the goalie! (Yes, that was the full extent of my hockey jargon. Why do you ask?). I turned around to see what was transpiring.
Two fake players were fighting. Gloves off, pounding each other.
I’ll never understand boys.