Often, my dad and I really bonded over the games. Like any child and father to any sport. We screamed and cheered and screamed again. For this to be ok and even furthermore, done INside the house, and if it to be ok with MY mother was another reason to scream even harder.
The glory-the adrenaline of winning and being on the side of the winners was something so tremendous I didn't know what to do with myself but jump-
Up and down.
And scream.
Now-
pass a decade and some change and I'm still exactly the same way.
Funny enough, I don't watch sports anymore. A basketball game will cross my path a few times a year and it's like a reflex: scream.
SCREam my brain continues to egg me on. My fists begin to clench and my teeth are already grinding. No matter who the opponent team is all I see is Sun. I hated the Phoenix Suns like I hated the dentist when I was a kid. And when you get a root canal at age 6 because you wanted to feel the breeze pass through your hair locks down the hill while seated on the handlebars of your cousin's bike only to kiss the concrete with your two front teeth-you really do not like the dentist or his damn chair.
So forever I will see the Suns and Charles Barkley as my lifetime sports-arch nemesis.
Factor in: movies. Sports movies.
I'm a fanatic. A fanatic mess.
You all know I love movies. I'm even marrying movies in the form of a writer/director named Alex. I was pretty bad before Alex and I've gone off the deep-end post-Alex and post-moving-to-L.A.-and finding many other movie nerds worse-if not-just like me.
My favorite all-time movie is Remember the Titans.
But I never watch football. It's not that I hate it-I just don't really get jazzed about it.
What's great about "movie magic" is their ability to take the best plays, the best suspense of something you really only see in the like the last 5 mins of any real-life sports game and they elongate it for roughly 120 mins. Holy balls.
That's a drug for yours truly.
Hello, my name is Andrea Galvez and I'm addicted to watching sports movies and cheering.
And screaming.
Now, finally factor this: The Fighter starring Mark Wahlberg and Christian Bale as the famous boxing brothers from Lowell.
I never-and I mean never-watch boxing. I watch more football than boxing.
But The Fighter-dear Lord-The Fighter nearly had me out of my seat with my clenched fist in the air grunting a "hellyaymof*****!"
I will buy that movie when it goes on sale because I need to see it in the comfort of my own home where I can freely curse out all my good cheer.
I cannot start to describe the agony it was to watch that film in silence.
Why God! Why!
Plus, for some reason a Sunday matinee showing of The Fighter was the Burbank Senior Citizen's activity of the week. There were way too many older folks in the theater to make me comfortable of the fact that a Boston obscenities marathon sprinkled with graphic violence inside and outside of the ring was about to run.
Nevertheless... I'm sorry, I couldn't contain myself.
Honestly, I allowed only like 40% madsportswoman out.
The clenched fists were the first to go (sorry Alex's fingers).
Then came the gasps-and the mumbled grunts.
Then the "come on!"...but again, at 40% it was more like a "come on." (No exclamation point).
There were a few "awwww....."s and "ayyyyyy....."s
I looked and then didn't. Covered my eyes and then stared.
In the end, The Fighter was awesome. It's seated now, right under Remember the Titans in a comfortable 2nd place on my top movie list of forever.
But what was a true shame was the fact that I couldn't-in good courtesy conscience-jump.
Again, I love to scream and then jump!
Up and down.
The Fighter had my inside-rude-inconsiderate-self jumping up and down through all the credits.
I was in the back row- I could've jumped. Curses.
My recommendation for your next weekend trip: your local theater, The Fighter, and your inside-mad-hops.
It's worth the 12-15 dollars.
That's something to jump up and down for...
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