Craig Carton

Craig Carton: The pretend boyfriend I've never actually seen

I'm a 40-something divorcee, and I've fallen for a man I adore. Too bad he's a voice on sports radio

Bonnie Bernstein
April 15, 2011 12:01AM (UTC)

I am a divorced woman in my 40s living a solitary suburban life. Over the years, I've had to let go of a few thrills, like watching now-retired Turk Wendell -- the man who turned me from a Mets to a Phillies fan in 2001 -- hurl baseballs. But with no prospects, and Turk still stubbornly unaware of my existence, I have developed a schoolgirl crush on New York sports radio host Craig Carton. He's a Mets fan, but he says he once was a backup third baseman for the Phillies minor league system. Good enough for me.

I have been without a relationship for over three years. I do not count the illegal alien from Kazakhstan, who I met on Ludlow Street in lower Manhattan. He never held my hand but wanted to marry me. Or the old friend who dutch treated me to a meal in Hell’s Kitchen. Forget the Lower East Side cub who wanted a cougar until the sun rose. I have given up on real men. But before I go to bed alone, I make sure the AM/FM alarm clock is set to Sports Radio 66 WFAN NY at 5:55 a.m. As I slumber, I dream of my cowboy. It has become my obsession to quiet my dogs each morning, so that Craig Carton's voice will be the first I hear when I wake.


It's a love-hate relationship. My radio lover does not tell me I need to lose weight. I do not tell him to stop looking at other women. Sometimes I do get a bit miffed when he talks about his "tournament of babes." Out of jealousy, I change the station. I know he is married, and I am trying to learn to share him with another woman. Though, like a good airwaves companion should, I always come back to Craig.

I occasionally need a break from yelling at my radio husband. I do not appreciate his attempts at guessing a woman’s bra size. I have been known to screech at the radio. The other day, a neighbor asked, "Everything all right?"

I don't think about what my voice-over husband looks like; I've never seen him on television. It's Craigy’s voice that gets my heart intoxicated. I don't know if another man can do for me what his wild vocal musings do. I just want to run my fingers through his voice.

After calling the station way too many times for a sane person, I got through to my radio hubby. On hold for 20 minutes, I was going to have a boombox interlude, my version of phone sex. Shaking, phone to my ear, I smacked my lips with gloss in anticipation. It was Craig, me and millions of listeners, my very own public booty call. He pegged me a "dopey Phillies fan." By waiting so long to speak with my radio husband, I deserved that commentary on my life. He demanded I blow him a kiss. I obliged. He kissed me back. He told me to call any time.

I wonder if I should stay in this safe world where the only romantic interest in my life is an unattainable male. At least I know where I stand with Craig Carton -- next to an available radio.

But sometimes I think I should take a chance on a different kind of impossible testosterone specimen, one, maybe, lurking within reach. 


If you have a story about how pop culture saved you, send to, or blog your story on Open Salon and tag it "saved by pop."

Bonnie Bernstein

MORE FROM Bonnie Bernstein

Related Topics ------------------------------------------

Baseball Life Stories Saved By Pop Culture Sports


Read Now, Pay Later - no upfront
registration for 1-Hour Access

Click Here
7-Day Access and Monthly
Subscriptions also available
No tracking or personal data collection
beyond name and email address


Fearless journalism
in your inbox every day

Sign up for our free newsletter

• • •