Mouthguards were the only awesome thing about field hockey. Boiling the plastic, shoving it in your mouth even though it was still burning hot, and then biting down to create the perfect protection for your thirteen year old brace face. Standing in my kitchen getting ready for the season, those were my fondest memories of playing field hockey. Otherwise field hockey is the worst. Do you know how hard it is to sing “More Than Words” with a moth-guard in your mouth while wearing a kilt in 20 degree weather and having a 150lb eighth grade girl from a parochial school charging right at you? It’s a miserable experience, especially if you are a sport-spaz like myself.
I hate sports. All of them. I am bad at playing them, I don’t care about winning, and I am generally underwhelmed by athletes and the mystique of the sporting industry.
I happen to have a rocket for an arm, but that does not make up for my lack of interest or lack of ability to run without feeling like my lung is going to birth an alien. If sports ceased to exist, I would not notice, I would not care and life for me would not skip a beat except for the fact that I married the ultimate fan.
Peter loves sports in a way that I sometimes worry that his version of “Sophie’s Choice” would be your family or The Jets and we would all be dead. We are currently in the period of the year that I like to refer to as “fucking torture”. Basketball season is wrapping up with March Madness AND the pro season is still going, hockey season is rocking and baseball season has just begun. Peter is in heaven and I want to fling myself from our roof so I don’t have to be subjected to the sounds of the roar of the crowd. There was actually one night this week that he was flipping between four different sporting events.
My dad just turned 60, and to celebrate my brother and I took him and his wife to a Nets game at Barclays. They were all excited about the game, I was excited about the food court. Everybody wins. During half time the Nets dancers come out and do their thing, and I was on my phone googling “Barclays architectural influences”, when all of a sudden my beer spilled all over me and all of the people around me. Apparently it was the time of the game where the Nets Robot comes out with his super huge t-shirt cannon and shoots t-shirt bullets at the fans. Well, the t-shirt bounced off the proscenium, my dad’s wife’s knee and into my beer. This was the last bit of evidence I needed to know that sports are truly not for me.
Owen is showing signs of being a meathead in that he knows three words and one of them is “ball”. He also grunts and says “dat” when football is on. Fortunately he is also showing signs of being really into dancing, the kid can’t control himself when he hears music. He shakes his little body like a salsa dancer. Alice runs like the flash and scales the sides of mountains like she is a tree monkey / puma. As any mother would be, I am extremely proud of their athleticism and skill. I just hope that neither one gets really into sports. I will have a really hard time caring. Hopefully they will both getting into glass blowing or something equally awesome that won’t require me to sit on a folding chair in the cold protecting my cocktail from flying balls.