Sports Fans

I have to admit it, I'm not an athlete. I am as far from athletic as Joseph was at being the biological father of Jesus. It's just not possible. At four feet ten inches tall, I command no athletic presence and never wanted to. Once, in high school, the cheer leading coach asked my mother if she would consider allowing me to try out for the team. Once my mother found out the coaches use for my ninety pound body at the top of a lift, she declared a resounding, "NO!" I did, however, grow up with a respect for sports and those that have the God given talent to play them.

Growing up in New York City, baseball was in my family's blood. With annual trips to Yankee and Shea stadiums, I have fond memories of falling asleep long before the "good stuff" ever happened. My mother hated all sports except for baseball, while my little Italian-American grandmother loved all sports and giggled when my Italian born grandfather shouted at the television with such zeal, "You salami," and then fell off the chair. (Too much zeal.)

Well, as I grew older and boys no longer seemed repugnant, I fell in love and married a football fan. Oh, the agony. I had no idea about football. As most people would have done, I tried to understand the sport. I just didn't understand why the players had to hit one another so hard and why were they so angry? It seemed primitive. But over time, he wore me down, and I have grown to enjoy the game. Our little one loves to watch football with her Daddy, mostly because she likes to see her Daddy smile and cheer (and make silly faces and fall on the floor when the team does something displeasing). He even likes baseball and watches it as well.

I have a sinking suspicion that our little one will one day join a sport. She should. And I will, once again, be out of my realm. What else is new. I suppose that's all part of the game, the parenting game that is; being able to put your needs and comfort levels aside for the good of your children.