The Sports Skeptic gets sucked into the 4th quarter
Texas 41, USC 38
Nice one, Longhorns!
Now, I'm not really what you'd call a big sports fan. I spent a couple of years doing traffic on a sports talk station here in DFW - didn't learn much about them then, and haven't learned much since, either. If you were to ask me how's so-and-so-team doing this year, or did I see the blah-blah-blah game last night, all you'd get would be a blank stare.
Last week while shopping, though, I bought a Michigan hoodie - just because it was $7.98 and there's the added bonus of Iggy Pop, the MC5 and Michael Moore being from there. Only thing is, onlookers now assume I know every intimate detail of the goings-on of the Michigan team. Enough with the madness already. But tonight's UT/Southern California game kicked ass. There's just something about my home state winning the goddamned Rose Bowl championship - and the band striking up "The Eyes of Texas" that makes me think, "You know, there really are worse places to be from," despite the rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth Jeezo factor and a governor who should shoot his hairdresser point-blank.
Aside from the HBO documentary Playing The Field: Sports & Sex in America, there have also been a few other moments in my life when the aesthetics and adrenaline of athleticism just made me all higgledy-piggledy and agog at the wonders of human agility.
I've spent a couple of tipsy afternoons watching the Wimbledon matches in the pub with friends - in the tiny northern English town I lived in for three months, the one named after a sheep's bum. I so wanted Mary Pierce to win, but she was still having off-court problems with her father that year and I don't think she even placed.
And the Olympics are boss - especially the gymnastics, swimming, and figure skating, just as long as they're not skating to Air Supply or Celine Dion. And whatever happened to that luscious little French skater Surya Bonaly? What a dish...
Speaking of intrigue on the ice, my first hockey game was a Dallas Stars Stanley Cup playoff game, and by the time that was over and done with, I was thoroughly spent, completely caught up in the moment. I'd gone in hoping for fisticuffs and blood droplets on the ice, but the camraderie of the fans is what struck me that day - everyone drunk and in a festive mood, decked out in their jerseys and face-paint and not giving a damn about making complete asses of themselves. My game date - an amazingly sensitive and brilliant pianist from a family of geniuses, whose late father was Fort Worth's medical examiner - also had these little customs, like wearing a certain pair of socks for home games, another for out-of-town games, and and he didn't shave on game days, either. He also had several talismans, including a toy Zamboni that went with him onstage every time he played, and if you touched it, woe be unto you, Baby. I'd never met anyone like him, and because of him, I think I could handle it if someone were to hook me up with a couple of free Stars tickets.
In her book Working, Dolores French mentions that it's rude not to root for the home team. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean to go ahead and cheer for 'em if they can't seem to deal with their domestic violence and cocaine issues, so I won't be able to tell you the first thing about the goings-on of The Team Whose New Stadium I Didn't Vote For. I'm still pissed off about that.
Nice one, Longhorns!
Now, I'm not really what you'd call a big sports fan. I spent a couple of years doing traffic on a sports talk station here in DFW - didn't learn much about them then, and haven't learned much since, either. If you were to ask me how's so-and-so-team doing this year, or did I see the blah-blah-blah game last night, all you'd get would be a blank stare.
Last week while shopping, though, I bought a Michigan hoodie - just because it was $7.98 and there's the added bonus of Iggy Pop, the MC5 and Michael Moore being from there. Only thing is, onlookers now assume I know every intimate detail of the goings-on of the Michigan team. Enough with the madness already. But tonight's UT/Southern California game kicked ass. There's just something about my home state winning the goddamned Rose Bowl championship - and the band striking up "The Eyes of Texas" that makes me think, "You know, there really are worse places to be from," despite the rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth Jeezo factor and a governor who should shoot his hairdresser point-blank.
Aside from the HBO documentary Playing The Field: Sports & Sex in America, there have also been a few other moments in my life when the aesthetics and adrenaline of athleticism just made me all higgledy-piggledy and agog at the wonders of human agility.
I've spent a couple of tipsy afternoons watching the Wimbledon matches in the pub with friends - in the tiny northern English town I lived in for three months, the one named after a sheep's bum. I so wanted Mary Pierce to win, but she was still having off-court problems with her father that year and I don't think she even placed.
And the Olympics are boss - especially the gymnastics, swimming, and figure skating, just as long as they're not skating to Air Supply or Celine Dion. And whatever happened to that luscious little French skater Surya Bonaly? What a dish...
Speaking of intrigue on the ice, my first hockey game was a Dallas Stars Stanley Cup playoff game, and by the time that was over and done with, I was thoroughly spent, completely caught up in the moment. I'd gone in hoping for fisticuffs and blood droplets on the ice, but the camraderie of the fans is what struck me that day - everyone drunk and in a festive mood, decked out in their jerseys and face-paint and not giving a damn about making complete asses of themselves. My game date - an amazingly sensitive and brilliant pianist from a family of geniuses, whose late father was Fort Worth's medical examiner - also had these little customs, like wearing a certain pair of socks for home games, another for out-of-town games, and and he didn't shave on game days, either. He also had several talismans, including a toy Zamboni that went with him onstage every time he played, and if you touched it, woe be unto you, Baby. I'd never met anyone like him, and because of him, I think I could handle it if someone were to hook me up with a couple of free Stars tickets.
In her book Working, Dolores French mentions that it's rude not to root for the home team. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean to go ahead and cheer for 'em if they can't seem to deal with their domestic violence and cocaine issues, so I won't be able to tell you the first thing about the goings-on of The Team Whose New Stadium I Didn't Vote For. I'm still pissed off about that.
posted by No, You Can't Watch at 1:49 AM
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