elizaskinner.net - the jambox

I don’t really like sports. I’m not saying that I hate them, but I’ve never really gotten into it enough to be a fan. Watching sports to me is like watching a cat bat around a tinfoil ball, but less cute. I can try to empathize with the cat, project all kind of hopes and investment onto it’s battle with the ball, but ultimately I don’t really care what happens. A cat with a mouse? That’s different - that would be more akin to watching a bar fight though, so the metaphor is getting way off track.

It’s not for lack of trying, either. As a kid I tried and tried to get into baseball. Living in a town with a shitty minor league team doomed my effort from the get, though. Later I dabbled with an interest in hockey - ice sports are exotic to southerners, and they beat each other with fucking hockey sticks! But the fights weren’t regular enough to keep my interest through the rest of the game. When I moved to New York, Mike Piazza won my heart during a playoff interview in which he explained why he was still playing even through he had three broken fingers, and I got back into baseball. I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the city’s exhausting fervor, so I got bored again.

So when friends want to go watch some sport I usually find something to read until they’re done. This past weekend, though, Will’s college friends invited us to come to brunch and watch the marathon with them. I was torn: I love really brunch, and am still fascinated enough by Will to find his old friends intriguing - but besides that there are about 8,000 things I’d rather spend my Sunday doing. This sort of attitude was not likely to endear Will’s friends, so I put on a brave face and went to watch the goddammned marathon.

At first I begrudgingly clapped for the runners as I watched the dog across the street play with a stick. Will and his friends started discussing the phrases written on the runners shirts - things like “Go Bob Go!” or “Run Lisa Run!” - which I hadn’t even noticed. I guess you’re supposed to yell at them. I saw a girl with “Katie” written on her arm laboring up the street, and figured she’d written her name there for me to read, so I yelled out “Yay Katie!” And she turned and her face lit up! Whoah! I helped!

I started rabidly yelling every name or phrase I could read, like a five year old. The runners would smile and wave or pump their fists at the sound of their name. I was everybody’s friend! Every now and then I’d wonder if perhaps some of these people were hateful and awful, that I was cheering for bitches and rapists, but the only ones I disliked were the ones with headphones. I wondered why we didn’t do this all the time - we should all write our names on our chests and cheer for each other! I mean, I wasn’t actually cheering for jobs well done - I don’t know if they’re doing well or not. I’m just cheering for them trying, and to give them some spirit to get through - couldn’t we all use a little of that? People? Are you with me?!?!

I became addicted. After an hour or so I had to be pulled away, and even then I kept wandering back to the street to yell a few more “Go Frederico!”s and “You got this Sue!”s I felt bad leaving my new marathon friends on their own. But like when I’d let my mom give away my old stuffed animals, I told myself they’d be ok without me, and that they’d find another little girl to love them.

I think if baseball players pumped their fists when I shouted their names at games, or if basketball players shouted “woooo” back at me, I’d like sports a lot more. Come on guys, what do you say? You’ve already got your names written on you, I know you want me to yell them….

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 8th, 2005 at 2:00 pm and is filed under Most Popular Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.