If I think I possess the slightest hint of manliness, the notion can be shredded by going for a blood test. Like I did this morning. The nurse wraps a tournequet around my upper arm, asks me to clench my fist (“Uh, not so tight”), and then begins tapping my forearm, searching for a vein. Tap tap tap tap. Can’t find one. Let’s try the other arm. Tap tap tap tap. Hmmm. Oh, there’s one.

Meanwhile, I avert my gaze, unable to watch, feeling just a bit light-headed. Already.

“I’ll use a baby needle,” she tells me with a smile. Because I’ve been telling her what a wimp I am, and that my otherwise understanding wife laughs at my wimpdom when confronted with blood tests.

I feel the poke. I try to keep my mind on something else; don’t remember what. Then another poke. “Okay, you’re done,” she says.

“That was easy,” I say with bravado.

And then a cloud descends. I feel faint. The nurse must have drained at least a couple quarts from my arm. She tells me to cough deeply to increase blood pressure, and to put my head back. I comply. Another nurse brings me a glass of water. “You’re not the first to feel this way,” they tell me. Yeah, right. They keep talking to me. Don’t be in a hurry. Would it help to lay down? We have a bed in another room? Looks like your color is coming back. Don’t leave until you’re ready. We don’t want you fainting in the car. These are women who have had babies, trying to keep a grown many from keeling over because he got poked with a needle.

About 15 minutes later, I feel good enough to stand, which I do bravely. And once standing, I feel good enough to leave. I thank the kind ladies, then head out to my car. They told me I should go get something to eat, something sugary. So I went to Bob Evans and ordered pancakes.

I like listening to Mike & Mike, the ESPN show on weekday mornings. They often give their picks for upcoming football games, and do it in terms of “the odds.” They talk about “the spread” and say things like, “I’ll take Green Bay and give you the points.” Or they’ll take the points.

Here is my admission. I don’t know what “the points” refers to, nor do I understand the concept of “the spread.” I guess I’m just not a gamblin’ man. I’ve never bought a lottery ticket, don’t know how to play poker, and though I’ve “played the slots,” it was a one-time thing in 1988, the only time, as an adult, I’ve been to Vegas.

What’s more, I don’t know if I WANT to know what the points and the spread are all about. All I care about is who Mike thinks will win, and who Mike thinks will win. Beyond that, they can takes the points against the spread all they want.