“Come ON,” they pleaded. “It will be SO MUCH FUN! Tailgating, grilling out, drinking beer at the game, cheering with the crowd…”
“Hold
up,” I said. “Cheering – no. That’s what I hate the MOST about sporting
events – besides having to watch the sport itself – the noise. I’m not going.”
“Come
ON!” My friends were relentless. “You’re
with US! It will be fun! You’ll have fun – we’re ALL going! You don’t
have to do anything – we will do it all!”
“Nope. Nope nope nope. I will end up doing something. Do you know my husband? He will find something for me to do. Plus, you are not new here. I HATE SPORTS! You know me.
HATE.”
My
husband stood idly by, smile on his face.
He’d had this conversation with me before. My husband lives and breathes sports –
playing, watching, going to games, talking about teams, watching sports
news. The sport doesn’t matter. He even watches the OLYMPICS, for goodness' sake. Who does this?
On the other hand, I am holding out hope that all sports will be outlawed someday, or
at least that all the sports stadiums in the world would vanish, or
that we will find a parallel universe that only non-sports people will
have access to.
Maybe
it’s because sports have been shoved down my throat so much that I have
developed a deep-seated aversion to them.
My husband’s over the top love of sports has, in effect, ruined them for
me. I have seen so much baseball
basketball wrestling football golf hockey in person and on TV against my wishes
that a squeak of a shoe on a court, the low roar of a crowd or one word
of a shouting commentator sends me out of the room immediately. Maybe it’s because I have hosted so many
sports-centered parties in our home that eventually end with me doing all the
work because everyone else is so wrapped up in the game. Maybe it’s because I’m not a natural
competitor; I don’t care who wins or loses.
Maybe it’s because I’m against the amount of money that sports figures
make. Or maybe it’s just because I
don’t get it.
Whatever
it is, I was NOT going.
So
I’m not sure how it happened that I found myself in the front seat of my
husband’s car, friends piled in the back, on my way to a professional soccer
game last weekend.
I
admit, I looked forward to hanging out with my friends – we always have a good
time. Upon arriving to the stadium
parking lot, we scored free hats in return for answering a questionnaire about
our computer experience. We ate delicious
food that I didn’t prepare, although it was touch and go at home before we left
while my husband wandered around and asked me a thousand times what we were
doing about food and drink. “I don’t
know,” I said over and over. “I was told
that I didn’t have to do anything.”
“But…
I thought… I mean…” he stammered.
“You
thought I’d step in and take over like I usually do,” I retorted.
“No,”
he started.
“Yes,”
I finished. “That’s exactly what you
thought. This is not my deal. By the way, what sort of arrangements did you
make for our kids while we are away this evening?”
*
* *
During
the game, I was astonished to find out that our entire section would not be
sitting down at all. That it was
customary to stand the whole time. As I
wistfully looked at the empty seats all around me I hoped for something to
do. Luckily, my friends know how to take
care of me and it was suggested that we do a beer run right away before I
started to cry over not being able to put my feet up for ninety minutes.
“Did
the game start yet?” I asked. “Yes,”
they replied. “It started ten minutes ago.” Soccer is confusing, I thought
to myself. As I tried to make sense of
what was happening on the field, I decided that counting the players was as good
a place to start as any. I noted that
there were two different uniform colors - red and black. Our team was supposed to be blue. Why do the net guards have white and
turquoise on? And who are the guys with
the yellow shirts? “There are 25 people
on the field,” I announced.
“Yes,”
said my patient friends. I peered into
my cup. The beer wasn’t very good. The guy next to me was into the game,
swearing and yelling and chanting and cheering and generally hating me as I
inched my way closer to the railing so I could at least lean on something if I
wasn’t allowed to sit down. I stole a
look behind me and there was a woman with white hair. She was yelling. I wonder if she has grandchildren, I thought.
I
heard drums. I leaned wayyyyy over and
followed the sound. The crowd started to
sing and chant along with the beat. There
was a guy with a beard in the next section, beating on a drum that I couldn’t
see. I wondered if he took requests. I wondered if anyone had ever fallen over the
railing.
More friends came. I kissed them hello as if they were an oasis in the desert. How was your day? How was your drive? Did you know that there are 25 people on the field? Do you need a beer? Thirty minutes had passed. Fifteen to go until halftime. Do they call it halftime in soccer? My husband was six rows behind me with the other husbands, oblivious to my presence and not caring about my pain.
Halftime. More beer. Bathroom break. Man, my hair was a mess.
The
second half of the game brought something new to watch – a man on the field
nearby who was playing an elaborate game of follow the leader with some guys
wearing yellow mesh shirts. When he ran,
they ran. When he jumped, they jumped. The group hopped like a bunny and skipped
around cones, single file. I was entertained.
“Who
are they?” pointing to the group. “Are they cheerleaders?” “They are players,” my friends responded. “The leader is Warm-Up Guy. He warms them up in case they have to play
soon.” Then my friend said, “This is my
favorite part of the game.”
Almost
on cue, the crowd started singing a song about Warm-Up Guy never going out on
the field. I felt bad for him a little,
but figured he hears it all the time, is in incredible shape, gets to play
follow the leader for money, and decided that he’s probably good with the song
about him. With new excitement, I tried
to focus on the game and at that moment, one of the players kicked the ball
into the goal. I jumped up and down with
the crowd and looked at the score to see who made the goal, having given up on
figuring out which team was which long ago.
To my surprise neither score increased.
Someone said that the goal didn’t count.
Then
I cursed and decided that I officially hate soccer.
After
the game, while the rest of the crowd was busy staring into the sky at fireworks,
I saw soccer players on the field signing autographs, a tradition that fills me
with as much curiosity as finding meaning in watching sports. At once, a player whipped off his shirt and
threw it to a fan. I accepted this as a
challenge, and as I scoped out the few players that were left to see if I could
get the attention of one of them, I saw him.
Warm-Up
Guy.
“Hey! Warm-Up Guy!”
my friends and I yelled. He
looked up and waved. “You are my
favorite part of the game!” gushed my friend like a teenage fangirl. “I just love you!” I sensed we were running out of time. All of the soccer players had gone. “GIVE US YOUR SHIRT!” I screamed.
He
sort of chuckled. “Hold on, I’ll get you
a different one,” he said, and ran off.
My
friend squealed at me. “Do you think he’ll
be back?” she asked. “Probably not,”
said one of the husbands, who had joined us. “He’ll be back,” I assured her. “He
said he was going to bring another shirt.”
Several
minutes later, with no sign of Warm-Up Guy, the husbands were getting
antsy. “Come on,” they whined. “No,” I
said. “He’ll be back.” Just then, I saw a familiar figure scanning
the crowd.
“There
he is! HEY! WE’RE RIGHT HERE!” I
screamed. He grinned and threw us the
shirt. My friend let out a sound not
unlike a primitive war cry from a tribal nation. Her excitement was palpable as she inhaled
the shirt and held it up to her bosom as if it was the wedding dress she had
dreamed about since she was a girl. “AHMAGAH! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! WARM-UP GUY GAVE ME HIS
SHIRT! THANK YOU, WARM-UP GUY!” We fell over each other, laughing and
screaming.
I
guess soccer isn’t so bad, after all.
*******
Hah, I love the shirt!
ReplyDeleteI was immersed in all things sport when I worked at Nike.
I haven't watched a game of any kind since I left in 2009. :)
That is the life I wish I led: no sports, no problem.
DeleteThis is the best recap ever. I vote more sporting events for you, just for the recaps (just kidding.)
ReplyDeleteThey would eventually devolve into this: Going to game. Surliness. Beer run. Surliness. Bathroom break. More surliness. Checking time twenty times. Asking when it's time to go fifty times. More beer. Surliness. Riding home in car, complaining about how long sports games are. Professing to never watch live sports again. Surliness.
DeleteMy mother feels your pain. She has precisely the same reaction to any form of sports, at least those not involving any of her grandchildren playing. :) And my eldest has the navy blue version of that jersey, courtesy of his other grandparents...when he opened the package, my first reaction was to be glad he's a boy! :)
ReplyDeleteYour mother and I are one and the same. I will watch sports when my children are playing. I will even watch sports when my friends' children are playing. But if the players are adults and/or are getting paid to play, I'm out.
DeleteI am sorry but I only like soccer because my daughter plays on a team.
ReplyDeleteThe whole World Cup thing was lost on me.
But at least you got to drink.
I can't drink at my children's sporting events because it is "frowned upon".
Geez.
There are several liquors which are clear and look like water when contained in a plastic water bottle.
DeleteSo I've heard.
Standing up for the whole thing? What kind of nonsense is that?
ReplyDeleteI love to play sports (some of them) but could definitely do without watching them (unless one of my kids is playing). This does sound like fun, though - the friends, the beer, the strange men's shirts.
I was very upset when I found out the "no-sitting" rule. Very. Upset. It was fun when I was able to distract my friends from watching.
DeleteYes it is so bad!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you agree.
Deletehaha! I love the shirt and the photos of you and your husband.
ReplyDeleteThis would so happen to me. I can't stand sporting events. I get antsy for snacks. And now in the land of smartphones, I may or may not just sit on my phone the whole time, should I go to a sporting event.
Snacks and drinks are crucial and help dull the pain of having to be there.
DeleteThe reasons I wasn't on my phone were: a) I couldn't sit down, and we were in the front row, and I hate being conspicuous like that b) my friends were there and they were good at entertaining me.
I would have screamed for the shirt too..because if I have to sit through this (and have messy hair I should get something for that...a hot guy's shirt would be appropriate. ;) )
ReplyDeleteyou make me giggle, daily. I read you and say, "She's just like me, only she says it...." Hee.
I wish I had known about the shirt thing earlier, because I would have collected shirts from as many players as I could. If you and I would go together we'd have to bring a bag to hold them all. But of course that will never happen because I informed everyone we were with that this was a one-time thing. ;)
DeleteThat shirt says "bimbo." o_O
ReplyDeleteI saw your pictures and I was dying, and confused, and I'm so glad you cleared up the situation. That sounds like torture. HA
I think the Bimbo name is so cute, but of course it is a brand of bread, which makes it cute AND yummy. And lessens the torture. :)
Delete