On
Not Being Interested In Sports
By
Charles Kraus
I don’t speak the language of
sports. Though I am not exactly shunned
for my sacrilege, many consider this gap when sizing me up. I am other.
I am incapable of appreciating athletic contests, and do not understand
the fuss, the excitement, the heartache, the nuances, rules and jargon
associated with tossing the old pig skin.
When such subjects are the topic of conversation, I often feel I’m a
visitor to some exotic land where natives are trying to speak to me about
urgent matters, only to discover I am unable to comprehend. Pretty soon, my associates wander off, a
little frustrated, somewhat bemused, often irritated. I’m the fool who has not been capable of
grasping the significance of yesterday’s player trade.
This is a life-long problem. In school, teachers and students often
discussed sporting events. They seemed
equals – 12-year olds advancing facts and opinions with conviction never
displayed when class was in session. The
dumbest kid in math class might have been the smartest, or at least most
compelling, when talk turned to baseball statistics. I remained silent until the subject changed.
In the military, enlisted men and officers
lived in different worlds – separate clubs, separate dining facilities, strict
rules segregating swabbies from officers and gentlemen. This firewall prevailed during war and peace,
but not during sports-focused bull sessions.
I recall that during my Navy
days, a certain mess cook was encouraged
to walk the golf links with the brass, speaking his mind about Monday Night
Football. I was ordered to remove
cigarette butts from the field so the game could progress.
Sports are a great equalizer. People of all ethnicities, religions,
economic circumstances, sexual orientations – opposing counsel, political polar
opposites – call time out from conflict to chat about Rose Bowl predictions.
“How about them Sea Hawks?” defense
counsel said to plaintiff’s counsel during a short recess in what might
otherwise be a contentious morning.
Overhearing the discussion, the judge offered a nonbinding non-judicial
opinion.
I was going to be ironic by calling
this piece Strike Five, my thought being that since there were only four
strikes allowed to the fellow at bat, adding that extra one would quell any
doubts regarding my noncompetitive naiveté.
My wife pointed out that four downs was the rules in football. Baseball allowed three strikes. We are very compatible.
There is a perverse pleasure, a
snooty one, no doubt, in my aloof attitude.
I don’t participate in games – neither as a player nor a fan. It’s a defect. I’m baffled by the intensity of enthusiasm
sparked by recreational competition.
As we journey through our lives, we
learn about a ourselves, our likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, interests,
fears, joys, opinions, passions. Early
on, I realized I was klutzy. That when I
intended to throw the ball to my father, it would land in the bushes. That when Dad threw it back to me, there was
a good chance it would avoid my hands, but not necessarily my head.
I anticipated liking baseball. Little boys were supposed to like it. Heaven knows, I tried to like it. But I did not succeed. The very first book I recall reading – way back
in the early 1950s, was Lucky To Be A
Yankee, by Joe DiMaggio.
The truth be told, I did not find
Mr. DiMaggio interesting until a few years later, when he and the playwright Arthur
Miller vied for the affections of Marilyn Monroe. That was quite a game.
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