Monday, October 03, 2005
Monday Lite: Score!
As much as I'd like to, I've avoided turning this blog--even just periodically--into a sports blog. I watch a sickening amount of sports, mostly because a) I like it and b) sports-watching never ever results in sweat or exertion of any kind, like other dangerous activities such as, say, grass mowing or child-rearing. In the event that I can choose, believe me, I do.

Plus I realize that the range of interest in my own sport-team-following proclivities do not necessarily reflect the general interests of my readership. Many of you, for instance, are chicks. The rest, Y-chromosome bearing or otherwise, have the misfortune of being born elsewhere and are thus deluded into following the ridiculous teams that represent your sad little area and not mine.

For instance, did your (by default) local NFL team beat the two-time defending Super Bowl Champions 41-17 yesterday?


OK, is your favorite baseball team about to open a playoff series at home against the New York Yankees tomorrow?

No? Really? Again?

I guess your teams just suck. Sorry.

But I keep myself humbled through sports as well. With my own kids playing soccer, I have had those moments now where I have had to make the harsh mental transition from my-kid-is-really-amazingly-good-at-everything-he-tries to oh-my-God-I-think-my-son-may-be-retarded. It's a rough switch. It usually occurs right around the time you put them in competitive sports again--and this is the problem--other children against whom your own kids can be prepared.

Other kids? Two deft touches on the ball as they streak across the field and then shoot into the center of the goal from 10 yards out.

My kids? Get annoyed when the ball rolls up and hits them in the legs and thus interrupts their vigorous regimen of nose-picking. One hand has a digit two knuckles deep into his nasal cavity and the other has what must be a very uncomfortable--and very public--grip on his junk. The best a father can take from such a scenario is that maybe his son is ambidextrous.

Better or worse, that's my boy. Maybe he won't be Pele after all. And no, I don't mean the Hawaiian volcano goddess. Although I'd still be proud if he chose to go that way.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.8



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