Located in: Sports
Posted on: September 11th, 2011 No Comments

Listful Thinking – Why we are born to love sports


I’d like to tell you an inspiring sports story, on par with “Invictus.” It’s fast-pitch softball season, 2006, and a skinny blond girl with big, frightened eyes is up to bat. The count is full, and it’s clear from the way she squares her shoulders that she knows this is it. The pitcher windmills her arm, the ball sails across the plate, the batter swings and misses. She’s crushed.

But what’s this? Her teammates look gleeful as the catcher fumbles, then drops the third strike.

“Run!” they yell, so she does. She runs like every high school horror is chasing her and makes it by a long shot, but when she looks up, her teammates are furious.

“Stephanie,” they sigh. “We told you to run to first base, not the dugout.” Thus ended yet another scene in my confusing relationship with sports.

I don’t spend any time thinking about sports. I skip the section in the paper because I don’t understand anything I read. Sherlock Holmes knew nothing about politics or literature because they had no bearing in his life, and the same can be said about the rules of every game I’ve been taught. I’ve used up the space in my brain memorizing helpful, significant things like the lyrics and choreography to “Ice, Ice Baby.”

There are a lot of possible reasons for my aversion to all things athletic. It could stem from years of painfully awkward exclusion in gym class, because I’m a noodle-armed cliche who hates to move. It may come from the experience of watching a teammate completely lose her mind in a non-funny, extremely frightening way in the middle of a softball tournament. And I won’t discount the possibility that it was never a choice — I was simply born this way and I’d like it if you could all accept and love me for it.

Here’s where things get silly: even after all those hours of not thinking or caring about anything athletic, I love sports. I may not know an offensive tackle from a vulgar piece of fishing equipment, but when I’m cheering in the stands it doesn’t matter. Sports are civilized warfare (except for UFC fights, which are some kind of awesome Paleolithic battle), and when it comes to love and war, you don’t need to understand the rules. Competition means conflict, and conflict gets us on a gut level that we can all feel.

That evocative emotional appeal is why watching my first wrestling match transformed me from a nerd reading on the bleachers to one of the loudest fans in the gym. It’s why a friend and I whole-heartedly plan to become angry hockey moms when CMU’s team is back in action.

It’s why movies like ‘Rocky’ take home the Oscar for Best Picture and why we stuck around to see a 60-year-old Sly fight one more time, 30 years and 4,000 steroid injections later.

That’s why I can’t say I hate sports, regardless of my athletic ineptitude and my inability to memorize stats or even basic plays. It would be a damned dirty lie for me to tell you that I don’t stand in the bleachers getting caught up in the rush of the game, whatever the game may be.

There’s something powerful about hundreds of strangers rallying behind a group of people who are performing to the best of their abilities, winning or losing. You feel like you’re a part of some huge, perfect moment. You worry you’ll never feel that way again. It’s passion incarnate, standing on a field or a court on a beautiful night, cheering so loud your voice gives out because you’re young, and you’re strong, and you’re alive.
I’ll feel that way right up until I slip and fall off the stands.

ssummar@mavs.coloradomesa.edu

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