THE ATLANTA DREAM.

Apparently, This Is a Real Fucking Thing.

I woke up this morning thinking it was going to be a perfectly normal Saturday.

Coffee. A little exercise. Maybe read something interesting. Enjoy life.

Then somebody in one of my group text chains decided to ruin the entire fucking day.

He sarcastically asked:

“Anybody doing anything for the Dream game?”

I stared at my phone.

The Dream game?

What the fuck is the Dream game?

Is this some new Atlanta charity event? A fundraiser for children? A celebration of Martin Luther King?

Is somebody having a dream?

Are we supposed to interpret it?

Should I bring a pillow?

Then it hit me.

THE ATLANTA DREAM.

The WNBA basketball team.

Apparently, they’re playing in some sort of championship game.

Holy fucking shit.

I had no idea anyone was still playing basketball this time of year, much less women.

Perhaps most disturbing, apparently people actually watch this shit.

Not accidentally.

Not because the remote fell between the couch cushions.

Not because they’re being held hostage in a sports bar where somebody lost the remote in 2017.

They intentionally turn on their televisions, locate the WNBA, sit down, and watch.

For TWO FUCKING HOURS.

I would rather undergo prostate surgery without anesthesia while the surgeon explains his political views.

And that’s not even my first choice of things I’d rather do.

I’d rather spend Thanksgiving at a vegan restaurant listening to a four-hour lecture on the emotional trauma experienced by carrots.

I’d rather watch a documentary about the invention of drywall.

In German. Without subtitles.

But I digress.

Being the incredibly thoughtful, supportive, community-minded individual that I am, I immediately responded to the group.

“We should find a lesbian bar with a television. With the right satellite angle, there may actually be a way to stream the game.”

I thought this was a remarkably constructive suggestion.

After all, I was trying to solve a problem.

And that’s what I do.

See a problem. Find a solution.

Unfortunately, finding a television broadcasting the WNBA may require the assistance of NASA, three electrical engineers, and somebody who still remembers how to operate a satellite dish.

I imagine the conversation going something like this:

“Excuse me, bartender. Can you put on the Atlanta Dream?”

“The what?”

“The Dream.”

“Is that a cocktail?”

“No, it’s a basketball team.”

“College?”

“No. Professional.”

“Men?”

“No.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

At this point, I would expect the bartender to quietly press the panic button under the counter.

Within minutes, six police officers would arrive.

“Sir, we’ve received reports of a man attempting to access an unauthorized sporting event.”

“Officer, I just wanted to watch women’s basketball.”

“Jesus Christ. Have you been drinking?”

“NO! THAT’S THE WORST PART. I’VE BEEN SOBER FOR SIX FUCKING DAYS!”

And there it is.

The connection.

I’ve been off alcohol for nearly a week, and apparently my friends have decided to test the structural integrity of my remaining sanity.

First, I gave up Italian and French red wine.

Then I started drinking nonalcoholic wine, which tastes like someone washed a grape in a public swimming pool.

And now I’m being asked to organize a viewing party for the Atlanta Dream.

WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?

I am 63 years old.

I’ve worked hard.

I’ve raised a family.

I’ve built businesses.

I’ve paid taxes.

I believe I’ve earned the right to spend my remaining years without being involuntarily exposed to a WNBA viewing party.

Look, I have absolutely nothing against the women playing basketball.

God bless them.

I JUST DON’T WANT TO WATCH THEM!

And before somebody starts screaming that I’m sexist, let me clarify something.

I don’t want to watch men’s professional bowling either.

Or competitive cornhole.

Or synchronized swimming.

Or two grown men playing pickleball while screaming “LET’S GOOOOO” after every point.

There are certain activities that are absolutely wonderful to participate in and absolutely fucking unbearable to watch.

Like somebody else’s vacation videos.

Or your neighbor’s child playing the recorder.

Or a 90-minute PowerPoint presentation explaining the company’s new expense reimbursement policy.

But the truly terrifying part of this whole experience is that somebody in my group actually knew there was a Dream game.

Think about that.

One of my friends apparently has access to WNBA scheduling information.

He may have an app.

He may receive notifications.

HE MAY HAVE A FAVORITE PLAYER.

This is how friendships end.

Today it’s “Anybody watching the Dream?”

Tomorrow it’s “Anybody want to come over for the WNBA draft?”

Next week he’s wearing a jersey.

By Christmas, he’s explaining salary-cap exceptions and asking if I want to split season tickets.

I’m calling his wife.

This man needs an intervention.

And here’s my biggest concern.

What happens if the Atlanta Dream actually win?

Do we have a parade?

Does the mayor close Peachtree Street?

Do thousands of people descend on downtown Atlanta?

Does Chick-fil-A offer a free sandwich?

Will the governor declare a state holiday?

Will there be commemorative merchandise?

Can I buy a championship hat?

WILL ANYBODY KNOW WHAT THE FUCK WE’RE CELEBRATING?

I can already picture the victory parade.

The players riding through downtown on a double-decker bus.

Confetti flying.

A police escort.

And 11 people standing on the sidewalk wondering if there’s a movie being filmed.

One guy yelling, “GO DREAM!”

Another yelling, “WHAT DREAM?”

A third asking if the MARTA bus is running late.

And me, standing in the distance, wondering how a perfectly good Saturday became a hostage situation involving women’s basketball.

Anyway, back to my original group text.

To the gentleman who asked if anyone was doing anything for the Dream game:

Thank you.

You have reminded me why I love my friends.

Not because we share interests.

Not because we agree on everything.

Not because we have similar taste in sports.

But because, even at this stage of our lives, you can still send one innocent-looking text message that makes me question the entire evolutionary progress of mankind.

So yes.

Let’s get together for the Dream game.

I’ll find the bar.

I’ll bring the snacks.

I’ll even wear a team jersey.

But I have one condition.

THE TELEVISION STAYS OFF.

And somebody brings me a fucking glass of nonalcoholic wine.

Because apparently, my life has become so completely ridiculous that drinking fermented grape-flavored disappointment while pretending to watch women’s basketball now qualifies as a social event.

GO DREAM!

Whatever the fuck that means.

P.S. If anybody knows what channel the game is on, please keep that information to yourself.

Some things in life are better left undiscovered.

Like what really happens inside a hot dog factory.

Or why your hotel room has a black light.

Or the fact that one of your closest friends apparently follows the WNBA.