A Sporting Chance

Those who have known me since way-back-when will not be surprised when I say I haven't always been a sports fan.

In fact, truth be told, I'm only a fan today because I live with two sports-crazed men, one husband, the other son. When other topics were touchy for them, sports has always come to the rescue. They can kibbutz for hours about players, coaches, teams, referees, the draft, and pretty much any topic that is news on ESPN.

During my son's growing-up years, and to this day, the two of them sit at opposite ends of the couch, groaning, shouting and, on those rare days when God smiles on Cleveland, fist-pumping and woo-hooing.

Over the years, I have learned to appreciate many sports. I can follow football, baseball and hockey. Not so much basketball or soccer. And, while I don't get nearly as wound up as my two cabin mates, even I wept in frustration at the conclusion of Game 7 of the 1997 World Series. (I still want to curl into the fetal position when I think about it.)

While I mark milestones with things like, "Oh, that was the year we bought those ceramic mugs from that artist in Occoquan," Mr. G. can pinpoint any occurrence in our lives based on the sporting event that took place at the time. This includes, but is by no means limited to, the day we got married (Stanley Cup, Game 3, Campbell Conference Finals: Detroit 5, Edmonton 2) and our first trip together to Niagara on the Lake in 1986 (Ohio State Lost to Washington, 40-7).

The past few years, Mr. has had his friend, John, over to witness the carnage every Sunday afternoon during Browns season. By the end of last year, neither one had the stomach for it. We would find other things to do, occasionally turning on the radio, grimacing, and turning it off again.

To my guys, sports is more than, well, sport. There's a passion that, although I don't always share it, I do understand.

Mr. always says, "A bad day at the ballpark is better than a good day almost anywhere else."

And I have to admit there is nothing quite like sitting in the sunshine on a summer afternoon, munching a hot dog slathered with stadium mustard, watching a baseball game unfold lazily before me.