Yay for Sports!

Mom's love for the Iowa Hawkeyes is likely the reason I wanted to go to Iowa City. She was a fan! I was always impressed and amused how much my mother knew about sports when I was young. She was passionate about watching football and basketball –– of the collegiate variety. I was more of a "what's the score" type of gal as I walked to the kitchen to get a snack.

Fast forward to the present. As everyone does, I eventually became my mother. I'd like to say I became a true sports fan as a freshman in college when I went to my first football game. I did become a fan. A fan of tailgating. It was a rarity for me to make it through an entire game in my college years. I even had class with football and basketball players. They were pleasant and normal students, just like me. I certainly didn't feel starstruck. I certainly didn't feel a need to ask them about their upcoming games or talk to them about a great play they made. I was nothing like a certain middle-aged woman who met Caitlyn Clark in a bathroom in Iowa City last winter and didn't want to let her leave. (That woman was me.)

I know so much about sports now, it's almost ridiculous. Ask me what a Nickleback is. I'll tell you that it's not just a popular band from the 2000s. Let me explain to you the pick and roll. I can! So sure, my husband has tutored me on these things, but not only do I understand a few  positions and plays, I enjoy watching them! As long as the team we're watching is executing and winning. And by team, I mean the Hawkeyes.

Has there always been a sports fan within me? Lying dormant through my formative years?

My sister-in-law and I have discussed this phenomenon, because something similar happened to her at a certain point in her life. This phenomenon being a sudden and sincere interest in that world of sports in which our husbands have long been a part of.

Here's the sweet and simple explanation:

Kids.

Once you have kids, you become a cheerleader –– no matter if they love sports or dance or drumming or singing or drawing. When your kid enters a competition, you're all in. Your heart is a pitter-patter, and you want nothing more than for them to succeed. To win! And of course, you're heartbroken if they don't. Probably more heartbroken than they are. But it's a mother's job to cheer on her kids no matter what. I would argue it's a father's job as well. From my experience, however, a father prefers coaching over cheerleading. Whether cheering or coaching on your children, it all seems to come to a halt when they graduate high school. The calendar frees up. Laundry is done in, like, one evening. And you can only watch the same movies over and over again so many times.

So, what better way to fill that newly-drilled hole in your heart? Sports! Not only does it seem to give you purpose by cheering on a team that needs you, but it gives you a compelling reason to shop for fan gear. And if you're lucky? Your team will never graduate.

Go Sports!

In Centerfield

Softball. Baseball.

Those were the only youth sports when I was young, that I remember anyway. When I asked Mom if I could go out for softball, she convinced me, in that loving tone of hers, that softball was probably not my sport. As it turned out, "my sport" ended up being piano. With my father being a motorcycle guy, and a mother who had her fill of chasing older brothers' fly balls her entire childhood, I grew up knowing very little about America's pastime. 

Then I met Doug. He told me he played town team ball. I said, "Oh! I'd love to come and watch you play softball sometime!" He was quick to set me straight. "Baseball. Not softball. Baseball." 

Now, I wasn't completely clueless. I had attended a few high school games. But the summer of 1991 was my first real education of the sport. Admittedly it started off as an excuse to watch my cute new boyfriend in his uniform. I'd drag my high school buddy, Jill, along. (Her Mom did not talk her out of playing softball.) Jill taught me terms like "warning track" and "tag up" and "full count" and "cleanup hitter." I learned a lot that summer! Most notably? How a slice of lime completely enhances the taste of Bud Light.

Fast forward a few years, beyond Doug's town team baseball days. Doug taught me more as we watched and attended MLB games where concessions of hot dogs, popcorn and nachos trumped all the Michelin restaurants of the world. By the time we signed our kids up for tee-ball, I knew important things about the sport. Like the Yankees were the devil. 

Little League was our first foray into "extra-curricular" activities for our children. It didn't take me long to adopt the mindset of every parent who watches their kid play a sport for the first time. You know the mentality: "My six-year-old clearly has talent! Is it too early for colleges to be scouting?" By Middle School, both of our kids were done with summer ball. They had other pursuits. 

But we remained a baseball family. Every year, we religiously watch baseball classics: Fever Pitch, Major League, Bull Durham, Moneyball, 42, Trouble with the Curve. (There are more we don't catch every year, for all you Field of Dreams fans.) The baseball formula works beautifully in cinema. It's sooooo feel-good! And it provides us a plethora of lines that speak to life itself. "Careful kid, they'll break your heart." or "How can you not be romantic about baseball?" 

Some of my favorite family memories took place in Kaufmann Stadium (Kansas City), Target Field (Minneapolis), Busch Stadium (St. Louis), and at the stadium of stadiums: Fenway Park in Boston. The Green Monster where the soundtrack of the Dropkick Murphy's doesn't leave your brain and fans loiter to celebrate well after the game has been won. 

There are many things to love about this game. Some say it's too long. Too slow. Too boring. But the pace of the game and the patience required to watch is one of the best things about it. For a person who can rarely sit still and has five million things jumping around in her brain, baseball is the best. Watching and waiting for a hitter to smash the ball out of the park forces me to do something I rarely do: be present and live in the moment. 

During harvest, when Doug is in the fields and the kids are gone, I turn on the TV to listen to a baseball game. There's something soothing about the dull roar of the crowd and the smooth voice of the broadcaster announcing "the 2 and 2 pitch." And when there's a perfect catch, a strikeout ,or a grand slam, I cheer with delight! Because we all need something to cheer for that's not political or divisive, even if you happen to cheer for those damn Yankees.

Something to Believe In

I'm a Hawkeye. My mama raised me that way. I married a guy who claims to be more of a Hawk fan than me even though I actually graduated from there. He argues that his emotional outbursts during games are proof of his loyalty. Just because I don't have as much testosterone to incite anger doesn't mean my heart isn't on the verge of exploding every time I watch our black and gold competitors! No matter, we do agree that we are quite blessed to have two children who pledged themselves to Herky the Hawk, giving us every reason to trek to Iowa City. (We're also blessed that our kids are healthy and smart and beautiful and yadayadayada.)

My fandom has regained a certain momentum since we no longer have kids to watch from the stands. (Kids that we birthed, I mean. You know, the kind that allows you to leave work early without judgement from others.) Mostly, I like to watch the Hawks. But I really could cheer for just about any team and any sport, except the Yankees (obviously). At this very moment, I happen to be watching women's soccer, as I'm sure most everyone is. Go USA! After experiencing that period in 2020 that confined us to Netflix, Prime Video and the Food Network, I really, really appreciate watching live games. (Doug would argue that replays are better, as long as you know that Iowa has already won.)

The other night I was talking to Alex on the phone, while watching a basketball game. I had to confess this as I was making "OH NOOOO" responses to positive things she was telling me. Doug was gone to a meeting, and my daughter was like, "Wow Mom. I have to give it to you. You're watching basketball and you don't have to?" But here's the deal. I like watching sports. I have always liked watching sports. I learned at a very young age that I was too uncoordinated to play just about any sport I tried.  I was (am) a horrible athlete, so I'm terribly fascinated by people who know how to do things like catch a ball. They make it looks so easy! 

Most recently, I've become completely absorbed in college basketball, watching any "Big10 Journey" that features an Iowa player. It's hard not be a cheerleader for just about anyone when you watch a kid who grew up dressing up like Spiderman and fighting with lightsabers (much like your own kid). It's even harder not to form an attachment and deep empathy for that same kid who has fought cancer. I dare you to watch this and not become a Hawkeye fan. Come on you ISU fans, watch it....

It's been a rough year, as we all know. We're edging toward March Madness–the month we were deprived of last year. It was a dark and sad and scary month. And while we're not out of the woods yet, I encourage every one of you to sharpen your pencils, pick a team, any team, and get yourself ready to complete that office bracket. Forget about all the strife in the world and let yourself get lost in the games. And most of all, find someone to cheer for. Sure, the team might break your heart. But then again, they might not. And there's always next year.

Bleeding black and gold...