Tag Archives: sports

Lots of mammals would kill to have my thumbs

This summer I want to see if I can get the four-year-old interested in sports. We signed him up for an introductory sports class at the YMCA last fall. He enjoyed all the running around, but he was not great at the parts that required him to do something purposeful with any kind of ball.

dunking practice

Learning the one-armed slam dunk. Who needs fundamentals when you can power slam?

If he turns out not to like sports, that’s fine. But he probably should have the benefit of the exposure before he makes his final decision. That exposure should probably include more than seeing his dad watch sports on TV.

His favorite sport from his class was soccer. Of course it was. Let’s just say I don’t love soccer. Evolution gave me opposable thumbs for a reason, and I don’t think that reason was to award the opponent a free kick every time I try to use my special thumbs during a game – oh, sorry, I meant match, not game.

Oh well, if he wants to play soccer, we’ll play soccer. But we may also sneak some basketball in as well, so I can really shine the spotlight onto my awesome thumbs.

I love basketball, which is not to say I was ever great at it. I gave up playing organized basketball after 7th grade when it became clear that I would always be one of the guys who gets to play the last 30 seconds of a blowout.

Basketball is a game requiring self-confidence, and once you become the player at the end of the bench nearest the exit, it’s hard to imagine what self-confidence is, or to be able to pronounce it. That last half-minute of a lopsided game is ample time for you to dribble the ball off your foot and miss three layups. Even if you play competently in pick-up games, you will shoot the ball off the side of the backboard when the world is watching.

dribbling practice

Learning the double dribble technique that will earn him a comfy spot on the bench. He’s got all his daddy’s thumbs.

I did make a last-second shot in one game, though. I caught an inbound pass and hoisted a 15-footer that bounced around the rim before falling through at the buzzer. My teammates, all of them who weren’t already in the locker room, mobbed me. It was quite a celebration. We won that game by 27 points, but it would have been a measly 25 if not for my late heroics.

My wife ran track in high school. Her race was the 100 meters. This was the only distance she ran because she couldn’t figure out how to run and breathe at the same time and that was as far as she could go without air. I think she also tried out for the swim team, but her breathing techniques and water didn’t mix.

Neither of his parents are in any shape to coach the boy to stardom. But, he doesn’t need to be a superstar. He doesn’t even need to love sports. All he really needs to do is quit asking to watch Cartoon Network when I’m fully involved in a college basketball tournament game.

Football, putting the kids to bed, and other rough sports

My boys are too young to know much about sports, but they do have an eerie sense for knowing when my interest in what’s on TV has intensified. Something in their childhood instincts alerts them that Daddy wants to watch the game, and they know it’s time to go feral.

My sports season runs from fall to spring, headlined by football and basketball and seasoned with a sprinkling of hockey. Summer has its baseball, and occasionally the Olympics, but those don’t get me psyched up to watch them on TV, which is why my kids are relatively quiet during this period. Daddy can watch all the reruns and reality shows he wants in peace. As it turns out, he doesn’t really want to watch any.

The baby was born in spring, at the end of the sports season. Until recently, he has been a remarkably quiet, contented infant. Through the whole summer, he has been all smiles and giggles. His deep thoughts have been interrupted by tears only for the most sensible reasons. That was the off-season baby.

Scene at football game in early 1900s

With these new wide-screen TVs it’s almost like you’re right there at the game.

When I sat down to watch the first big football game of the year, the baby’s long-dormant sensors fired. Suddenly, I had a loud and proud infant, in mid-season form. He began to whoop and holler, cry and whine, like the most notorious of his breed. Then came the four-alarm diaper blowout.

His big brother joined him in his antics, putting on a show of his most distracting and annoying behavior. The normal consequence of this display would have been for him to go to bed early. On this evening, early would be in the middle of the second quarter. I’d have to endure him until halftime.

Halftimes are too short for parents battling the delaying tactics of preschoolers at bedtime. From having to pee, but not until after several minutes of standing at the potty, to trouble with the tooth brush, everything took longer than the eons it takes at normal bedtimes. Of course, the book he selected for his bedtime story was a nice thick one, with paragraphs and everything.

Third quarters are overrated anyway.

At least I didn’t have to put the baby to bed. Mommy would see to that, when he was good and ready to settle down and be put to bed. For the time being, he was really into this football game. His passion was so intense that his deafening crying could hardly be eased by either parent.

Eventually, the baby wore himself out  and accepted the call of slumber. I think the game was over by then, but I find it difficult to remember. I don’t remember much about the game at all.

I hope my boys grow up to be ardent sports fans. Enjoying sports may eventually grow to become an experience that we can share. More importantly, when I am old and senile, and no longer know or care who’s playing, I plan to cling to just enough reality to go to their houses during Super Bowls and Final Fours and blow up my Depends undergarments like Armageddon.

Buxom woman holding football

My problem may be that I am not enough of an imposing figure. Nobody gives Big Bertha any guff when she tells the fellas to simmer down so she can watch the ballgame in peace.