If you know me in “real life” or have taken even a passing glance at this weblog in the past six years, you’ve obviously gleaned by now that I am not, in any way, shape or form, a sports fan. Never is this more evident than around Super Bowl time. With my own city having one of its teams in said contest this year, Super Bowl mania seemed to attain a shrill new level of inescapability, and folks found it nigh on inconceivable that I wasn’t at all enthused about the “big game.” What made that difficult for me this year is that it’s not that I just don’t care about football, it’s that I actively, virulently and pointedly dislike football. And then some.
“Geek chic” may have become all the rage in recent years, but it’s basically all a shallow pose. It’s not that I take pride in having been an genuine geek or a nerd (some will argue the nuanced distinctions between these two terms, but that’s a debate for another day), but it was no act. Growing up, I was that guy. I read comic books, played “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons,” loved music and art, had an upper musculature similar to Kermit the Frog’s and probably threw like a girl. I wasn’t athletic in the slightest and I harbored no desire to be so. I didn’t give a damn about sports, had no interest in watching them – let alone playing them – and was pretty appalling at them when I tried. As it happened, peers of mine who were athletically-inclined frequently took it upon themselves to single out those of us who weren’t. There were a few of us, but there was no actual strength in our numbers. Suffice to say, there was a pronounced antipathy between the two camps that frequently spilled over into physical hostility. I’ll let you guess which side was generally victorious.
So, yeah – guess what? I hate to generalize, but I hate jocks. Always have. Always will. I know, they’re not all bad – and people shouldn’t be broadly dismissed because of their individual predilections. Not every sports aficionado is a dim-witted, knuckle-dragging, meat-necked date-rapist, but all too often, the terms “jock” and “bully” have been pretty much interchangeable. I’m sure you’d find a whole mess of folks who’d agree with me on that point.
But, I moved on with my life, as we all (hopefully) do. Two of my college roommates were football players. Hell, I even pitched for the TIME Magazine softball team for over a decade – and managed to get to a level of … well, maybe not proficiency, but at least to a point where I wasn’t embarrassing myself (although I’d point out that I joined the team exclusively for the reasons of socializing and not for the purposes of demonstrating any prowess on the pitching mound .. that was just a gradual accident). But the marks on my psyche left by oppressive jocks and (what I see as) pig-headed American sports culture in general were indelible. And I doubt I’ll ever change my tune about that.
But this isn’t really about me. Years later, I’m now the father of two little children. My daughter Charlotte came home from school about two weeks ago with a very colorfully designed cut-out of a football helmet. Evidently, her class was given blank outlines of football helmets and they were instructed to design them accordingly, presumably in anticipation of the Super Bowl. As such, little Charlotte’s football helmet came home endearingly covered with incongruous flowers, smiley faces and peace signs, which – to my mind – is as it should be. Since I hadn't conditioned her to pick a team or root for anyone particular, she didn't "go blue." What I wasn’t thrilled about was how football had somehow sneaked into her scholastic indoctrination.
Being that neither myself nor my wife are sports fans (to put it mildly), my kids practically never hear about professional sports at home. They just don’t play that much of a role in our lives. I think it’s crucial that my kids are active and participate in every aspect of their schooling (and that completely involves athletic activities), but I don’t particularly think that means I have to instill an awareness – much less a reverence – for professional sports in them. Obviously, if they pick it up themselves along the way, that’s out of my hands. But I’m sure as hell not going to force-feed an appreciation for something that I think already has a stifling stranglehold on our culture. We've actually discussed getting our son Oliver (age 5) involved in a soccer program. As much as I was never a particular fan of the game, Oliver does exude the sort boundless energy that might make it a great, fun outlet for him. Maybe he'll be into it. Maybe he won't. We'll see.
As a father, though, I'm trying to stay on the right side. I think my biggest fear is that I'll turn into simply the equally egregious opposite of the overbearing sports dad. I mean, what's the difference between outfitting one's little children in sports jerseys and black band t-shirts? In both instances, it's the projected tastes and wills of the parent, right? I need to not make professional sports a taboo in my household. But I still can't help myself from making those afore-mentioned associations.
Who knows? Maybe my kids will end up being ::::shudder::::: sports fans!
I kinda doubt it.
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