The idea that sports mean as much to me as they do seems
silly sometimes when I step back and think totally logically about things. It’s just a game, grown men being paid to
play with a ball while there is so much else going on in this world to care
about. But that’s never rung true to me;
it’s more than just a game, it’s a means of communicating, of bringing a group
of people who may never even give each other the time of day outside of this
venue a reason to hug, high five, or console one another. The relationship that generally starts this
illogical love, and the one that certainly did for me, is the relationship
between a father and a son.
My dad and I have watched sports together for as long as I
can remember. When I was three years old
I was the proud owner of a Cubs Buster t-shirt after the Padres had taken down
the Cubs to advance to the World Series.
In 1994 we spent the two weeks before the Super Bowl canvassing San
Diego for the best Chargers gear we could find, convincing ourselves that Stan
Humphries and Natrone Means could defeat Steve Young and Jerry Rice. Instead, we could only watch helplessly as the
49ers demolished our beloved team. In
2004 we watched the Padres win their first game in their new home of Petco
Park, beating the Giants in extra innings.
It’s about more than just the games too, it’s about the nachos and
cotton candy and ice cream, about singing take me out to the ballgame, about
bringing your glove hoping for that elusive foul ball, about getting tired and
resting your head on dad’s chest just for a minute but “No, I’m not tired, I
don’t want to go home yet.”
To this day my dad and I talk about sports every Sunday
night. Whether it’s the Padres,
Chargers, Bruins, Aztecs, Phil Mickelson or simply a random game that
captivated both of us, there is always something new, something we’ve never
quite seen before. We can be 120 miles
away from each other but still be yelling at our televisions at the same
time. It’s our bond and it’s amazing and
it’s more than just a game.
When Connor was born 3 years ago I knew that I couldn’t wait
to watch games with him, to talk about why the Padres didn’t switch their
pitcher at some point, or why the Chargers didn’t blitz with the game on the
line. We’ve taken him to a game or two
each season since he was born, but this past week was the first time that I
could feel he was really
watching. On Wednesday night we had the
good fortune to get tickets for the Kings vs Ducks playoff hockey game. Connor actually went to one game last year
and had the miniature Kings jersey to show for it, so we both suited up and
headed to Staples Center with Mom and Owen.
Connor sat on my lap for the whole game asking questions the
entire time. Now, granted, some questions
were more along the lines of “Why is everyone yelling so loud?” or “Can I have
more fries?” but there was also “Why are they running into each other?” and
“Did we score a goal?” I got to watch
his eyes follow the puck, see how much fun he had waving his rally towel around
like a crazy person, and hear him scream “Go Kings Go.”
There will be many more games in our future, soon Owen will
be asking his questions right along with Connor and Connor may even try his
hand at answering. All I know is that I
used to think I was so lucky that I had a dad who would spend so much time with
me teaching me these games, teaching me how to win, how to lose, how to
care. This wasn’t entirely wrong, but I’m
now thinking he was pretty lucky too.
There’s not much better than watching a game with your son.
