I Know Where I Stand With Craig Carton, Next To A Radio
I am a divorced woman in my forties living a solitary suburban life. With no decent proposals, including seeing Turk hurl baseballs, to hold my interest or anything else of me, I have developed a school girl crush on Craig Carton. He says he once was a back up third baseman for the Phillies minor league system. Now he is my radio man from the FAN. I am always game to go for a radio wave ride with Craig.
I have been without a relationship for over three years. I do not count the illegal alien, from Kazakhstan, who I met on Ludlow Street, in lower Manhattan. He never held my hand, but wanted to marry me. Or the old friend who dutch treated me to a meal in Hell’s Kitchen. Forget the Lower East Side cub who wanted a cougar until the sun rose. Before I go to bed alone, as I have given up on real men, I make sure the am/fm alarm clock is set to Sports Radio 66 WFAN NY at 5:55 AM. As I slumber, I dream of my cowboy. Craigy once said he gets turned on by a woman in a jersey. In the morning, I get all dolled up wearing one. It has become my obsession, to quiet my dogs, so that Craig Carton’s voice will be the first I hear every morning.
It is a love hate relationship, unlike the man who knew nothing about baseball but everything about how to break my heart by not returning my hopes. Radio lover does not tell me I need to lose weight. I do not tell him to stop looking at other women. Sometimes I do get a bit miffed when he talks about his “tournament of babes.” Out of jealousy, I change the station. I know he is married and I am trying to learn to share him with another woman. I do not need to hear C.C. get all excited when it is not about moi. Though, like a good airwaves companion should be, I always come back to Craig.
I, occasionally, need a break from yelling at my radio husband. I do not appreciate his attempts at guessing a woman’s bra size. I have been known to screech at the radio. The other day, a neighbor asked, “Everything all right?”
As my marriage unraveled, Shea was my sanctuary, a place where I was respected for my baseball knowledge. I was given the name Mrs. Wendell by the stadium’s ushers, when my now twenty three year old son and I would go to games. I started off life, just like Craig, a Mets fan. In 2001, we stopped having team common ground. A girl from Queens, I left Shea for Vets Stadium via the Jersey Turnpike and never turned back. Now unmarried, I am wedded to my Phillies.
I took a lot of flack for being a fan of not just an out of town team, but one that has infuriated my hometown. A baseball friend will not talk to me. My ex-husband introduced me to Yankee Stadium. I would later call that place purgatory because I wanted to be elsewhere. My child taught me about this nation’s pastime. He is an AJ Burnett fan.
I do not think about what my voice over husband looks like. I imagine his appearance is just fine. It is Craigy’s voice that gets my heart intoxicated. Never saw him on television, cable bill would climb too fast with those emotional moments. I do not know if another man can do for me what his wild vocal musings do. I just want to run my fingers through his voice. I wonder if he knows we have pillow talk every morning.
After what seems to have been way too many times calling for a sane person, I got through to my radio hubby. On hold for twenty minutes, I was going to have a boom box interlude, my version of phone sex. Shaking, with phone to ear, I smacked my lips with gloss in anticipation. It was Craigy, me and millions of listeners, my very own public booty call. He pegged me a “dopey Phillies fan.” By waiting so long to speak with my radio husband, I deserved that commentary on my life. He demanded I blow him a kiss. I obliged. He kissed me back. He told me to call anytime.
I wonder if I should stay with the unattainable male on the radio as my romantic interest. At least I know where I stand with Craig Carton, next to an available radio. Or should I take an adventure with a different kind of impossible testosterone specimen, one, maybe, lurking within reach.