Shortly after Father’s Day, my wife told me that it was always difficult to pick out a card for me. “You don’t play golf, you don’t fish or hunt, you don’t tinker with the cars or the yard, you don’t watch sports. All you do is read and write, and they don’t have any ‘To a well-read Dad’ cards.” Fortunately, I like goofy humor, so it’s not a total wash for her.
She’s right, though, I don’t do any of those things. I never got into hunting, I think fishing is the second most boring thing on the planet – after golf – and I never saw the point in watching other people play sports. If you like football, fine. Go play it. Spending a whole weekend watching one game after another is a pointless waste of time.
I really don’t understand the fascination with pre-game shows, either. Now you’re watching someone else talk about other people playing the game before it’s even been played. They’re not going to be revealing any secrets about the game, showing sneak previews or spoilers. They’re just offering their best guesses about how the players will perform. They’re doing exactly the same thing every sports fan does, only it’s being televised, and they get paid
way too much money for it. It’s excruciating to watch them drag out maybe fifteen minutes’ worth of information over a two-hour show. And the interviews are so generic, they may as well be left out.
“Coach, you just hired Bobbie Chowder. How do you think he’s gonna do for you this season?”
What’s the coach going to say? That he thinks Bobbie is going to severely handicap the team and cost them the shot at the title? Of course not. He hired him because he thought Bobbie’d be an asset. Why else? Then they turn to the player.
“Bobbie, what are you going to do now that you’re here in Podunk?”
“Well, I’m just using the Podunk Ponies as a stepping stone to the better franchises. I needed some pro experience, and I figure I can run circles around everyone else here, so I stand a better chance at pumping up my stats without getting injured. Once I’ve moved up, I’ll use my popularity to land a couple of sneaker endorsements, release a rap album and try my hand at acting. Six years, tops, and I’m out.”
Wouldn’t that be refreshing? But no, we get the same “I’m just here to do my best for the team.” pabulum.
Maybe I’m overanalyzing this, but I’ve never understood the slavish dedication to one particular team. If it’s your Alma Mater, sure, I can appreciate that, but other than that, there’s no rationality behind it. People say they like the coach, but they don’t change teams to follow the coach’s career. Or they like particular players, but again, they’re still rooting for that team even after the entire roster has changed several times. I just don’t get it.
And the feuds. Good lord. The “traditional” enmity between teams is ridiculous. People pump it up to the level of clan warfare, particularly at the college level. When I lived in South Carolina, you were either a Clemson Tigers fan, or a Gamecocks fan. I was apathetic to both, but whenever I saw some Southern Belle wearing an “I Like the Cocks” shirt, it
was sort of compelling. People insist that they “hate” the Pioneers, or the Fighting Cephalopods, or whomever it is that they take turns with in winning the Big Games, and the Pioneers say that they hate them right back, but the fact that both schools are still standing leads me to doubt everyone’s sincerity. “But it’s just a game,” you reply. Exactly my point, folks. Settle down.
I know people who have entire rooms in their homes dedicated to a particular team. Everything in the room has the team logo on it, and all the furnishings are in the team colors. That’s a bit obsessive, I think. I know one family that puts up a Christmas tree decorated solely with team ornaments. That’s more than a bit frightening.
I’m in a college town now, and every so often, we’ll have a Game Day in the office. People are encouraged to wear the school colors. Those few that don’t support the locals will show up in the opposing team’s colors, and there is much hearty ribbing amongst them. Meanwhile, I’m hoping that I don’t accidentally dress in the other team’s colors (I don’t keep track. Surprise.), because if I’m accosted by someone wearing an “I BLEED PURPLE” shirt, I’m likely to stab them to ascertain. Playoffs are the worst, because if “we” win, everybody is insufferably smug, and if “we” lose, everyone bitches the rest of the day.
I’ve thought about keeping up with some obscure (to the average American sports fan, anyway) sport like petanque, just so when people ask me if I saw the game on Saturday, I can inundate them with unfamiliar names, complaints about perplexing infractions of incomprehensible rules, overexcitement about narrow wins, or soul-crushing grievances about narrow losses. If they try to tell me that it’s not worth all of the drama, I’ll at least have them on record next time they want to try and attack me with player stats or Instant Replay glory days.
Then I’ll give them a carreau.
Scientists breed world’s first mentally ill mouse
