The Dude was out of town this week.  This usually means I do extensive household projects and indulge in watching even more chick-flickage than usual.  “Sense and Sensibility,” “Pride and Prejudice” — okay, Jane Austen anything — but you see where I’m going.  I really thought I knew the ultimate in chick-flickage.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, I was booping around the dial, and as there was nothing on TV thanks to the writers strike and coverage of the New Hampshire primaries (that’s what the Internet is for, fer crying out loud!), I found myself deep in HD land with sparse pickings from which to choose.

But then I see “We Are Marshall” is playing on HBO HD.  Yay, think I, Uplifting Sports Film.  As The Dude and I are both well into our ohmyGodhas”FridaysNightLights”jumpedtheshark? mode, I was ready for some good ole fashioned football as metaphor.

What I was not ready for was bawling my freaking eyes out for the entire hour and a half of the film.  And as I was dabbing the tears from my eyes for the umpity-umph time, it occurred to me that I should not have been surprised.

See, the thing that I finally twigged to after lo, these many years, is that the biggest tear-jerkers aren’t chick flicks.  No, little precious, they’re sports movies.

Yes, our macho, testosterone-laden men are secretly huge suckers for the most shameless emotional manipulation available known to well, man.

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