My Daducation

Posts Tagged ‘Sports’

I don’t consider myself a rabid football fan. I follow the sport, I know most of the players by name, and I can usually give you a pretty good indication of which way to go if you are betting a game. In fact, I am not particularly interested in watching the Super Bowl. I find it anti-climatic. And since I am an Eagles fan I find the NFC Championship is anti-climatic. For 4 of the last 8 seasons. Let’s not go there.

The Coveted Fantasy Football Trophy

My wife would disagree with all of this. She thinks I watch football ALL THE TIME. However I have to point out that in order to watch games ALL THE TIME I would need to be watching them on Sunday afternoon. Which I rarely do. Sundays we are usually running errands or going to my in-laws. So watching an entire game is impossible. I may catch 10 minutes here or there, but that’s it.

The problem is the 24-hour sports news cycle. Between ESPN, NFL Network, and Comcast Sports Network I can catch up on football at anytime. So I do. A lot.

I may end up watching the same sets of highlights four or five times in order to get any additional info I may have missed.

So why would I bother with the constant watching of the same sportscasts over and over? I’ll tell you. I have a disease. It’s called Fantasy Football.

Thankfully, fantasy football has been over for several weeks. Well, not really. There is a draft in April to prepare for. Life is semi-normal now. However, my family is definitely wondering what the hell they are going to do about it next season.

The thing is its kind of pathetic. Fantasy Footballers are regular guys who create a league on the Interweb where each can own a football team and draft players, living out the FANTASY of being a real football GM. Each team then matches up each week and points are tallied based on the real players actual performance on the field. Wins are determined by the greatest accumulation of points by the team. I usually lose.

Imagine me explaining this to my 8-year-old and my 5-year-old. This happens one day when I am screaming at my live stat-tracker.

“What are you so mad about?” the 8-year-old inquires.

“I started the wrong running back today. I thought Gore was injured,” I say.

“Started him? Started him how?” he asks, confused.

“I made this football team online where I pick real players and I get points when they do well,” I explain.

“Why?”

“To win the game,” I say.

“No, I mean why would anyone want to do this?” he asks.

“Don’t you have chores to do or something,” I ask, perturbed at the fact that he doesn’t see a football genius at work.

“So it’s not a real team?” he asks.

“No.”

“Does Mom know you do this?”

“Yes.”

“Come on,” he says to his brother, “he’s gonna hog the computer all day. Let’s go to the garage. I have this book that shows you how to blow stuff up.” I think he is kidding.

The fantasy football business comes to a head as I am offered a trade. I am cruising for the first pick in the draft next season, and the other owners want to see if they can pry it away from me. The trade is interesting. Interesting enough that I agonize over it for days. My wife is completely disinterested.

“What should I do?” I ask urgently.

“Rub my feet,” she says.

“No, I mean about the trade.”

“You need help,” she informs me.

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I mean professional help.”

Obviously I can’t count on her. As it turns out I negotiate better terms for the trade and make the deal. She is not impressed with my negotiating skills.

“Since you’re so busy with fantasies, why don’t you and your friends work on getting raises at work,” she asks. Smart aleck.

I’m not sure the family can tolerate another year of obsessive fantasy GM Dad. Maybe I could just call it quits. Maybe I could find another outlet. Maybe….

Nah. I have the first pick in the draft.

One thing I was proud of as a kid was that I was pretty athletic. In my neighborhood, my brother and I were usually picked first when we were lined up to pick teams for the sports we played. Whether it was football, baseball, soccer, or basketball I was usually picked first or second. Sometimes a kid named Robbie would be there because he was a cousin of a kid in the neighborhood, and he always got picked first when he was there, well, because basically he was Superman. He was also older than all of us. I think he was 27.

In second grade I joined my first team which was a Little League baseball team. I did pretty well, but the next year my Mom gave me the option of baseball or soccer and I decided to try soccer. I was a really good soccer player. I played all the way through high school. I was selected for a few all-star/traveling teams along the way. Unfortunately, it didn’t go beyond high school because I wasn’t THAT good.

So I was ecstatic when my oldest son was in first grade and wanted to play soccer. So we signed him up for a local youth league. He received his red #2 jersey and was ready for practice. Only I learned they don’t practice. Apparently they let them kick the ball around for 30 mins before they start the games. Practice? Who needs practice?

So the whistle blows and his first game is underway. The huddled mass of players move around with the ball, all kicking it, but mostly each other, with no real direction. The coach shouts for them to bring it down the field. We shout encouragement. The kids shout in pain.

So, as the kids wear out, they begin to disperse from the ball. Some of the more athletic kids start kicking the ball towards the goal and eventually score. I am looking for my son. I see him. He is staring at clouds.

I call for him to get in the game. He runs towards the ball, once again moving towards his goal. The ball goes right past him. He crosses his arms on his chest with a look of anger. I call for him to chase it down. He ignores me.

A few minutes later, the action is heating up. The ball is going back and forth. I spot him again. His arms are stretched out to his side as he imitates an airplane circling for a bombing run. He is oblivious to that fact that there is a soccer game taking place. Some parents are chuckling.

“Hey, Number Two,” I shout. “What are you doing?”

He is startled, but continues running in circles. I am perplexed. I run over to the coach.

“I think Number Two needs a substitution,” I say.

“Well, we’re a little short-handed,” he says.

“He needs a break,” I say.

So the coach pulls him and sends in a sub. The team quickly scores three goals. Then the coach takes me out of the game because some of the parents are complaining.

I pull my son aside. “Listen, buddy,” I explain, “you have to keep your head in the game. You have to watch what is going on with the ball and stay after it.”

“Hey, Dad?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Did you see that butterfly? I think it was a monarch.”

On the ride home I look in the rearview mirror at my son. He is happy as a clam. I realize that in so many ways he is like me, but not in every way because he is his own person. He is going to grow up so fast, why should he spend it trying to do the things his Dad likes? If sports aren’t his thing, that’s OK. I’m glad he’s my boy, just the way he is.