Andy Murray. Now there's a Brit I can really get behind. He's an excellent athlete though gangly and unlikely to make the cover of GQ, not to mention a hot-headed and fierce competitor. In other words, right up my alley. After every intense point that he wins, I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for him to scream "Freeeeedooooommmmmm!" a la Mel Gibson at the end of Braveheart.
In case you haven't picked up on it, Noah and I have been watching the U.S. Open. Apparently two straight weeks of me fawning over young male tennis icons has him a bit perturbed, because he felt it necessary to remind me that he was a ping pong god in his heyday, and crowned as such by none other than a college-level tennis player.
Also, Noah has occasionally attempted a pseudo-Scottish accent, after which he looks directly at me to see if I'm impressed. After four years of marriage, I'd be more impressed if he stopped farting under the bedsheets. But I'll take what I can get.