For the record, I wasn't the first to suggest that WNBA stands for Waiting for the (real) NBA (season). I do admit, however, that the only reason I watched the recent Women's National Basketball Association All-Star Game was because, with the regular NBA preseason four months away, I could watch a pickup game at the Y and be happy.

These are truly the dog days for male sports fans. Hoops is on hiatus, and so is hockey. The NFL season is getting close, but not close enough.

Thrilled as I am that my New York Mets are still playing meaningful games at this point in the year, it's hard to get pumped up for day after day of shrug-scratch-swing.

It's the time of year when I find myself straining to find entertainment in sports I'd otherwise ignore.

Did I really watch all those Wimbledon matches? Do I actually give a bleepin' birdie about any golfer other than Michelle? (Really, haven't we all have our fill of Phil?)

As an American male sports fan, I'd probably be wearing a bag over my head right now for actually caring about the World Cup — that is, if my favorite Frenchie, Zinedine Zidane, didn't redeem the whole thing by launching a tete offensive against that Italian dude.

What I'm craving is the physicality beneath the strategy and skill.

At this point, I don't care if Ray Lewis is a jerk (trust me, he is); I'd hug the man if he'd just show up on my screen Sunday morning and flatten someone. I need to see Ben Wallace swallow someone with his 'fro.

And so I find myself turning to the WNBA, where the dunks are pathetic but the war in the paint is often as nasty as anything you'd see at the Rucker. I'd sooner snatch whiskers from a grizzly than take one to the hoop against Houston's Tina Thompson.

Trust me, I know whence I write. As a whelp sports reporter, I covered scores of women's athletic games and saw up-close and over-the-table personal just how powerful the female athlete can be.

And while it may be true that physiological differences make it more difficult for women to reach the same standards of speed and power as men, the average high-level female athlete would make the average male sports geek look ridiculous in serious play.

I have vivid memories of former UH players Fran Villarmia and Da Houl dribbling circles around me in pickup games.

And, through some miracle of medicine, I somehow also recall the time WNBA great Yolanda Griffith chased a loose ball to the sidelines then leapt over the press table, clearing a computer monitor and a half-dozen water bottles before landing square on top of me. (Who knew she'd be wearing perfume?) Next thing I remember, Lisa Leslie was picking me up by the armpits and slapping me on the butt.

A fan was born.

Reach Michael Tsai at mtsai@honoluluadvertiser.com.