I’ve had to, because it’s NBA playoffs time.

To understand this, you really have to understand my past: I really, really love watching sports. In my house, I’m the one who wakes up on a crisp fall Sunday morning, stumbles out into the family room, sees my husband watching C-Span and then I’m the one who mumbles: “Dude! Eagles are at Dallas! We’re missing the pregame!”

The Sports Illustrated subscription is in my name. I had a poster of Johnny Bench over my bed as a high school freshman, and not some cheesecake shot, either, but a shot of him standing up in full gear to make the throw to second. (My cheesecake poster was Mark Spitz wearing his medals.)

And, to really cement the deal: I regularly watch golf. On TV.

But my favorite sport has always been basketball. It’s fast-paced, indoors (handy when you have allergies) and is a sport I’ve actually played. (I’m not much of an athlete; I’m like Chauncey Gardener. I like to watch.)

And I loved me some Suns. I’ve watched *them* for years, even during the drug scandals back in the early 80’s. Lived and then died of anguish during the famous (and what many cognoscenti say was The. Best. Game. Ever.) fifth game against the Celtics in 1976 in Boston Garden where the Suns lost in triple (TRIPLE!) OT. Was in the building when Paxson sunk the three-pointer to lift the Bulls in another heartbreaking game six.

It was traumatic enough, living or dying each spring and early summer with the Suns. Every year I’d start, despondent, afraid to hope, and then damn their eyes they would start winning and get gritty and hang in there and pull it out one more time only to fall in some series or another, dashing my spirits yet again.

But I was always willing to do it.

Until I hit the wall in 2007. In a playoff game I’m trying my best to forget, Robert Horry threw Steve Nash into the scorer’s table and Boris Diaw and Amare Stoudemire jumped off the bench when the ref didn’t call jack and the league suspended Boris and Amare.

Suspended them. For an entire, and unprecedented, playoff game.

And then, just days later, Kevin Garnett put his hands on the ref protesting a call during a game and there was no call.

Let me repeat: KEVIN GARNETT PUT HIS HANDS ON THE REF. No call.

And I was done.

There is no justice. And while I can’t expect human refs to be perfect, I can at least expect them to be mildly consistent.

The last shovelful on the grave of my enthusiasm (RIP 1974 – 2007 “She loved well, but not too wisely”) came when Tim Donaghy confessed to fixing NBA games as a ref and David Stern actually wants me to believe that Tim alwaysalwaysalways acted alone and no other ref would ever think of doing something like that, despite Donaghy’s repeated and damning accusations.

So I’m hiding, watching the games from the corner of my eye and trying not to care, the way you watch your ex-husband on a date, laughing and enjoying himself and flirting playfully with some blonde, and feeling the same way you would even if you had been the one who wanted the divorce.

And then you come home to your memories and pull out your list of reasons that reminds you why you left him in the first place (and you put in your purse just for moments like this) and the first line always reads:

KEVIN GARNETT PUT HIS HANDS ON THE REF AND THERE WAS NO CALL.