Learning to Watch Sports
August 28, 2011I’ve followed sports closely – perhaps too closely – for as long as I can remember. My boyhood was filled with baseball cards and box scores and all things Montreal Expos.
( I can still name the starting lineup of my favorite all-time team: Gary Carter behind the plate, Warren Cromartie at first, Rodney Scott at second, Chris Spier at short, Larry Parrish at third, and an outfield of Tim Raines, Ellis Valentine, and Andre Dawson, with Steve Rogers on the mound and Bill Lee warming up in the bullpen. And I swear I didn’t check that on the Internet and I may have spelled Chris Spier wrong because I refuse to confirm online what is seared in my heart.)
Oddly, despite decades of following sports, it feels like I haven’t actually improved as a sports fan. As a child, when Rick Monday hit the home run that knocked the Expos out of the playoffs, I crushed the Joe Louis cake I had in my hand and then had to hold my head over the toilet because I felt like vomiting. As a man in my late 30s, when Olympique de Marseille lost the Coupe de France to our arch rivals Paris Saint Germain I got myself so drunk that I tumbled down a flight of stone steps and concussed myself. Even a minor loss by Marseille can send me into a depression and I am forced to avoid newspapers, Internet, and radio for days lest I hear a recap of the game that rips my slow-healing wounds open.
And its not just the losing I find hard to accept. I actually take very little pleasure in watching my team play. For the ninety minutes of an Olympique de Marseille game, I generally sit with my teeth clenched and a crushing sense of dread that something bad is about to happen. When my team scores a goal, of course it gives me pleasure but it can be a very dangerous pleasure: twice I’ve fainted in bars because of the sudden metabolic change from sitting clenched and anguished on a bar stool to leaping euphorically about the room. In fact, the only time I actually get consistent, gentle pleasure from watching my team play is when we are winning 3-0 in the second half and, alas, my team rarely finds itself with a 3-0 lead in the second half.
So, at the advanced age of 40 I’ve decided I’ve had enough of this foolish behavior. This year, I am going to try to enjoy watching my team play, win or lose. My strategy is to treat the players of Olympique de Marseille like my children. Just as I still love Santoline and Rosco after they pour juice on my laptop or scribble on the walls, I will try to love Steve Mandanda when he misplays a corner kick. Each game will no longer be about proving my team’s worth and dominating our opponent, but rather and opportunity to watch my children grow and evolve. (‘Oh, look, Andre-Pierre Gignac has actually lost some weight! And Lucho has a new tattoo!). And no longer will I be obsessed with performance; just as Santoline is far from Mary Lou Retton during her baby gym classes, I still applaud and relish her effort; likewise, I will applaud Jeremy Morel’s efforts, even as the slow-footed defender lets striker after striker waltz by him.
Oh yes, this is the year I will finally learn to watch sports. And considering Marseille has opened the season with three lamentable ties, it couldn’t have come any sooner.
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