MESA MUSINGS:

My 9-year-old grandson, Ethan, is a huge sports fan. We frequently watch games together on TV.

He lives in North Carolina, so mostly we watch games on our respective televisions and share the experience via telephone. During one of our first viewings, he realized that I was getting my TV feed about six seconds before he was. At first he thought I was prescient, as I’d call out baskets and turnovers before they happened on his screen. Then he figured it out.

“Opa,” he observed, “you’re getting the game first because people in California are rich.”

Ethan can recite — from memory — the batting averages of every New York Yankee for the 2008 season. He’s got a whopping 20,000 baseball cards and is a rabid North Carolina Tar Heels football and basketball fan.

So a few weeks ago we’re watching an NCAA Tournament game at his home in North Carolina and, during a timeout, on comes that creepy his-and-hers bathtubs commercial marketing a certain men’s pharmaceutical product. Coincidentally, just prior to the commercial break we’d exhausted our debate as to whether it is appropriate for a team to go into a zone defense when the opposition is clanking three-point shots (I said yes; Ethan thought a zone might take away some defensive intensity).

It was deathly quiet as the aforementioned ad played out on the screen. I froze. Oh, God, get me out of this moment. Please! I’ve never spent a more excruciating 60 seconds in my life. Beads of sweat began to form on that flat, dull surface above my eyes.

Midway through the commercial my grandson looked at me. “So, Opa, what’s up with the bathtubs?”

“Yeah. Kind of stupid, hey buddy?” I lamely replied, concluding my comment with nervous laughter.

Pause.

“Opa, what’s E.D.?”

“Huh?”

Trying desperately to hold things together, I was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Say, buddy,” I improvised, “why don’t I rip open a bag of Cheese Doodles for the second half?”

Ethan, obviously, isn’t the target-demographic for the little blue or yellow pills. I am. So, why — because he happens to be a sports fan — should he be subjected to such claptrap? Why can’t an older man and his grandson enjoy an athletic contest together on TV without encountering cheesy sexual references? (OK, I won’t even mention Laker Girls or Cowboys’ cheerleaders!)

Seems we sports fans are inundated with messages about sexual-performance products, natural male enhancement formulas and hair growth tonics. Seriously, is there any species in the cosmos more insecure than the human male?

Attention Madison Avenue execs: Some of us gents watch these games with inquisitive young minds, and we don’t cotton to the idea of addressing questions about gnarly four-hour side effects! We have precious little time allotted us to enjoy our adolescent sons and grandsons. Please don’t make them grow up before God — or nature — intended.

I therefore humbly request that Pfizer put its “Viva Viagra!” (Elvis must be turning over in his grave!) cowpokes out to pasture. (Suggestion: Perhaps they could go to stud much like War Admiral or Seattle Slew!) What agency anointed the broadcast media the official clearinghouse for every intimacy issue that rears its head in our culture? Some issues should be left to pastors, therapists or workout partners to address. If a guy needs some, uh, assistance in the bedroom, well, he should privately consult his urologist and not sing homage to his condition on national TV.

Meanwhile, permit us real men to raise our sons without unwarranted premature sociosexual exposure.

JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays.