Benny Jay: My Secret Porn

About ten minutes before dinner, I’m sitting in the living room, reading a magazine, when I suddenly need to know. I chuck the magazine and head for the stairs, careful not to make a sound. But my wife — her sixth sense tracking my every move — knows something’s up.

“Where are you going?” she calls out from the kitchen.

“Nowhere….”

“We’re eating soon — don’t disappear….”

Her last few words cut off as I sneak into my work room and close the door. I walk to the desk and turn on my computer.

“Benny!”

It’s my wife.

“Yeah?”

“Dinner….”

“Okay….”

I think she’s bluffing. I think there’s at least another five minutes before the food’s ready to be served. Enough time to feed the beast.

I click to Sam Smith. He’s this ancient writer — even older than I am, if that’s possible — who writes a blog about the Bulls. Think about it — that’s all he does. Follows the Bulls all year long! Some guys have all the luck.

He’s got a new entry — a few thousand words on the summertime NBA Rookie League. My eyes gleam with expectation — oh, yeah, come to papa!

I know this is sick. I know this is a disease. I know I need psychological assistance. The regular season’s been over for months — anyone with a brain has moved on. But, me? I gotta know: What did James Johnson do in last night’s Rookie League game?

I follow the prompts to a box score.

The NBA Rookie League is rag-tag series of meaningless exhibitions played by scrubs and wanna bes in empty gyms in Vegas. They don’t even wear real uniforms. It looks like something out of the local YMCA. And James Johnson is a rookie forward from Wake Forest University. I don’t follow college basketball so I’d never even heard of him until the Bulls took him in the draft. Now I need to know more about him — more, more, more, more….

I scan the box score. Johnson: 16 points, 8 rebounds, ten fouls.

Ten fouls! What the hell is that all about? How can you have ten fouls? You’re kicked out of the game after six.

I go back to Sam Smith. I race through his column unsuccessfully looking for an explanation. I scurry to another website. Miraculously, I find a sentence that explains that players get ten fouls in the NBA Rookie League.

Okay, fair enough.  But how many points did he score before his sixth foul? That’s key. That tells me how points he would have scored had this been a real game.

“Benny!”

Uh-oh….

“Yes….”

“Supper….”

“Okay….”

“Now….”

“Right….”

I go back to Smith, hoping to find an explanation of when Johnson scored his points.

“Dad!”

It’s my younger daughter. My wife got her in the act.

“Yes….”

I scan the column — nothing! I silently curse — damn, Smith, you call this reporting?

“Your food’s on the table!”

“Here I come!”

I turn off the computer, bound down the stairs and hustle into the kitchen to find a steaming plate of pasta at my place.

“How come you always disappear right before dinner?” my wife asks.

“Uhm, good,” I say, ignoring the question.

“What were you doing up there anyway?”

“Ugh, nothing,” I say.

That’s for sure….