i have about zero interest in sports, although i do remember quite a bit of running around in athletic endeavors when i was younger. it’s probably not a bad idea for me to pick up my tennis racquet, however, as with advanced age comes the pull of advanced gravity.
i was flipping through some recent illustrations just now and ran across this colored rendering of the “state of the art” new stadium for beyonce’s new basketball team, the brooklyn nets. yes, yes, i know that beyonce is not really the owner (although in the case of joint marital property, hey, maybe she is): i just like saying outrageous things.
for instance, my number 1 son leapt into every single sport known to man during his youth, and would be confounded and exacerbated by my predictable, though enthusiastic comments as he suited up for each game, match or set: “you look so cute in that outfit”, i’d cry. and the poor lad, each and every time would spit out me, “it’s called a uniform, mom”.
yesterday i fell into easy conversation with a friend, the topic being: what sport genre fellow is better to date. football was her choice. we both ruled out wrestling and gymnastics and basketball. i tended to lean towards tennis and soccer.
as you can see, the conversation was absolutely aimless, pointless, and fruitless! it’s not like i’m even sorting through a series of suitors (in, of course, their corresponding ‘outfits’), but that’s my point. life doesn’t really have to have a point, for most of the time. for me, i just roll along, inane conversations, shared laughs, exchanges of texts from several households to chat along the hijinx on the tv show ‘the bachelor’…sharing quipping comments with like-minded people (including my three children with their razor-sharp minds & goofy senses of humor).
and to be clear, beyond wondering which sort of athlete category i’d rather date, i do appreciate the idea of sports in life. after all, i was just in london during the olympics so that has to count for something, right?
i’m just not keen on staring at the tv to watch it all play out, and you can blame my brothers.
it was a rare day when a family of 5 children would vote for a ‘boy’ tv show. with three girls, we always trounced the vote and spent countless (i mean, countless) hours enjoying doris, cary, rock and bing, cindy, bobby, marcia and carol burnett. but on the bad days, rare as they were, when one or both of my sisters went off to some play day, leaving me alone with the boys, the vote went their way, and on came endless, horrible, ear-aching hours of jack brickhouse droning on and on and on while the camera fixed on a low, ivy-covered brick wall.
yes, years later, i recognize and adore the iconic imagery that is wrigley field. but back then, just please poke my eyes out with a pin: it was living hell!
right then and there, someone should have diagnosed me with “creative, dreamers complex” and saved me all the trouble of spending years finding myself. apparently, i was there all along.