ON THE LIMITS OF MALE EMPATHY

Observation. The male is only capable of so much empathy. If you want to know precisely how much, watch guys in their weekly basketball game and see how quickly the attention accorded an injured teammate gives way to a palpably impatient desire to drag the guy off the court so the game can resume. Unless the injury is life-threatening, the grace period of concern seldom extends beyond 60 seconds --with audible expressions of put-upon displeasure beginning at the 30 second mark. There might be a Walt Whitman or two in the group who are willing to tend to the wounded a little bit longer, but those 90 seconds guys are rare as springtime snow. I have learned this in my Wednesday night game from both the injured and the inconvenienced perspectives. But, truth be told, more from the former than the latter. (In fact: A number of guys from our weekly Wednesday night game have been going to Vegas every year during the NCAA tournament to play ball, bet on ball and do some other stuff. This year, for the 5th anniversary of our March Madness outing, all the guys were given jerseys. Mine was number 206—for the number of bones in the human body, a ridiculous percentage of which I have broken in the course of our years playing together. Other noteworthy jersey numbers included 401K for our representative suburban pater familias, 1.5 for our friend who was born with one arm that extends only to the elbow (but who is a remarkably good player nonetheless) and 10 to the 6th power (I don’t know how to type exponents on this keypad) for our internet millionaire friend who retired sickeningly early to pursue life as a “leisurist.”)

Anyhow, the point is that it’s a good thing women are around to introduce a little bit of nurturance and compassion into the world. Imagine if kids only got 30 to 60 seconds of attention whenever they were sick or hungry before their mothers felt the need to get back to their jazz-ercising. Okay, okay. I know some mothers are like that. But still, on balance, they’re much better than men in this department. And without them, precious few boys would survive past the age of 6 to grow into the gloriously self-involved, brutish, insensate piggish creatures they’re meant to be.

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I should note the strange exception of my friend Loren; A man so empathic (or perhaps simply confused) that he has been known to refer to thrilling victories by his beloved Detroit sports teams as "heartbreaking."

"Why heartbreaking?" I ask. "They won!"
"Well, you know, for the other team."

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Posted on 11/11/2005 ( Permanent Link )
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