Bush-League Frankie

My wife always criticizes me for... um... (Well, what doesn't she criticize me about. Let me start this sh*t again.)

I never cared for my wife's male friends (her friends' husbands and boyfriends). No. It's not a jealousy thing. I just found that I was getting a "Home Team/Away Team" vibe, and I was the Away Team.

Mrs. P: We're going out with Joop and Jeep.
Prego: 'great.'
Mrs. P: (groan) Why do you hate my friends?!
Prego: I don't hate 'em. I just don't usually like their boyfriends.
Mrs. P: Well, try to be nice, anyway.
Prego: I always do.


Months later, my wife was offended at some remarks made at the Joop and Jeep household; you know... racist undertones and all that. I felt vindicated for having my patented bullsh*t detector dial on "11."

Chalk one up for the Away Team.

One of her other friends also came equipped with an accoutrement I didn't quite care for.

Mrs. P: I don't really like him either, but they're married now.
Prego: So?
Mrs. P: So try to be nice.

Months later, they divorced. I am no longer obligated to 'be nice' to him. I'm not going to go out of my way to be an *sshole, or wish him ill will. I just won't invite him over to play checkers and watch the dog shows on ESPN2.

I won't try to hit him with the car on a one-way street, either.

Now regardless of which camp one finds himself in or team you might be on, I've always felt there is unwritten code of conduct/honor for men to follow.

Example:

A female friend of mine, Josephine, has a son with an ex-boyfriend Caligula.

Prego: Hey, I ran into Caligula over the weekend.
Josephine: Hmmm. (disapprovingly) He said he had a 'medical problem' this week. Where'd you see him?
Prego: At Hank's Bar.
Josephine: We're having 'issues'.
Prego: Oh... (jokingly) Did I say Caligula? I meant Nero.
Josephine: It's all right. Was he with a blonde?
Prego: (poker-faced) Nope. He was with a couple guys he says were his roommates.
Josephine: Oh.



Code of f*cking conduct. He was with his roommates and the skanky-*ss blonde.

I didn't have to go to bat for this guy. Sure, he's all right, and he's kind of in my camp and all -- but to use a hockey analogy:

When Zdeno Chara was tangling with Vincent LeCavalier last month during the NHL playoffs, LeCavalier was clearly beaten and in a vulnerable position and nearly prone on the ice. Chara could have easily taken a couple shots to teach him a lesson, but instead he held his fist tightly clenched and cocked over his head until he allowed the officials to separate them.

I thought of myself as Chara, since I could have easily swung the fist directly into Caligula's face by ratting him and the blonde skeezer out.

I'm particularly strict in following this code, since in my young and wild days I lost a college sweetheart when some Claude Lemieux motherf*cker with an overwrought sense of justice clocked me in the jaw. Apparently, he felt it was his moral obligation to inform my beloved that I had a few trysts on the sly.

That's what's known as the 'buddy pass.' Allow me to demonstrate with the following highlight reel.



If you'll notice, Philadelphia Flyer RJ Umberger received a 'buddy pass' from his teammate Niko Dimitrakos, only to get leveled by Buffalo's Brian Campbell.

Substitute me for Umberger and the significant other for Campbell and you'll see what the 'buddy pass' is all about. Basically, a teammate sends a pass that puts you into a precarious situation. Kind of like a quarterback sending a pass to a receiver about to get clocked by three defenders.

"Thanks, buddy."

The effects of the concussion I received lasted several years.

I'm now older budweiser, skating with my head up. Sure, I keep my nose clean, but that doesn't necessarily protect me from an errant 'buddy pass,' which I was nearly the recipient of this week... from a motherf*cker with no code.

In order to clearly set up this scenario, I have a brother who has a striking resemblance to yours truly. People mistake us for each other all the time. My 'acquaintance' Frank is apparently one of those myopic types who can't tell us apart. Frank's wife is an old friend of my sister's, who is now friendly with my wife.

Frank: I saw Prego today at the park.
Mrs. Frank: Really? Was he with the kids?
Frank: No, he was with some blonde.
Mrs. Frank: Mrs. P?
Frank: No.
Mrs. Frank: Are you sure it wasn't his brother?
Frank: It was Prego.
Mrs. Frank: O-Dog and Fletchmonster's father? THAT PREGO? YOU'D BETTER BE SURE, BECAUSE I'M ABOUT TO CALL MRS. PREGO NOW!!!
Frank: You're going to call her?
Mrs. Frank: YOU'RE GODDAMNED RIGHT I'M GOING TO CALL HER!
Frank: Um... ...maybe it was his brother.

Needless to say, the call was made. Not as an indictment, but more of a humorous anecdote that Mrs. Frank wanted to share; which in turn, Mrs. Prego decided to share with me.

"Heh- heh."

There are three possible explanations for Frank's egregious infraction and breaking of the code:

1. He's a complete f*cking idiot and didn't know better.
2. He was under the sad impression that his wife followed the code. (Women don't. The b*tches play by a completely different set of rules...) and
3. Motherf*cker wanted to throw me to the wolves.

In either of the three scenarios, my regards for him have plummeted.

Dude, you have no code. Turn in your testes at the door. You are hereby relegated to Clay Aiken status... Or to use a sports metaphor again... Your ass just got sent down to the minors. You don't have what it takes for this league.


Skate with your heads up, brothers... and more importantly, follow the code.