All of this passion around football season makes me question my membership in the club of Male Identity. I assume it’s a bad sign that I find more stimulation going with my wife to the Nordstrom’s Petite section than I do crouched forward with my drunken friends, watching Jerry Rice snatch yet another touchdown in some green, god-forsaken end zone. At least in the women’s dressing room, watching my wife try on a new floral disaster, I can scream “NO! NO! NO!” and sound like my buddies watching the other team score with only ten seconds left on the clock.
I once feared that my sports apathy would be passed on like a lateral, to my seven year old twin boys. However, one of them has independently developed a passion for sports and an ability to play them. For example, he does this weird thing when I throw him a football. He catches it. I can’t relate. I could never fully get the concept of catching a football with my hands and to this day, lunge, octupus-like, to try to snare it in my arms. I’m sure David is quite humiliated and wonders what crime he could have committed in the kindergarten of his prior life to be stuck with me.
“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it dad.” He says, carefully. “Try catching it with your hands.” I fight down the urge to scream “I KNOW I’M SUPPOSED TO CATCH IT WITH MY HANDS, YOU LITTLE DWARF! DO YOU THINK I WANT TO BE OUT HERE?! So, last week we started seeing a therapist so I can learn how to relate to him. “David, can you tell me what it feels like to notice that your father has the coordination of a hobbled burro?” “It feels bad, Dr. Goldstein, really bad.” “Have you tried talking to him about it?” The doctor inquired, leaning in sympathetically. “Yes, Dr. Goldstein. He can’t help it. He tries, he really tries. I just think that God must have given him bear paws for hands, just like mom says.”
The other day he asked me, “Why do all dads watch sports?” “Um, they don’t son.” I replied sagaciously, eager to glory in the wonderful diversity of human interests. ” For example, I never watch sports. I find it kinda boring. All that running and catching. Now, the Nature channel, that I can watch for days.” He looked at me as though I’d asked him to get me a Tampon. Apparently, I had removed myself from the already well-developed image that “Love of Sports” is a rich part of our shared male heritage. Therefore my lack of interest in the dominance ritual of playback analysis, statistic recitation, and player personality profile, made my utility as a dad quite limited.
My other son, however, wears the tradition proudly. This could not be truer than on the soccer field. Mick appears to have as much interest in developing the skills of soccer as I do volunteering to coach his team. However, he loves the sugary snacks that he gets at the end of the game so he’s willing to listen to the coach yell at him “Engage! Engage!!” just like the fighter pilot screaming at Tom Cruise in “Top Gun”. “Yep”, I proudly nudge the mother standing next to me on the football field. “See that boy in the middle of the field staring at the sky and quietly singing the new Backstreet Boys tune to himself? That’s my son.Chip off the old block, that one.’ATTA BOY TIGER!!’ I yell. “SING THAT SONG! THAT’S AN AWESOME CLOUD UP THERE, AIN’T IT??!! DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT THAT BALL.THAT’S WHAT TEAMMATES ARE FOR!”
When Mick and I practice football, I feel right at home. It reminds me of when I was a little tyke tossing the ball with my dad. I throw, he misses. He throws, I miss. It kind of gives you a warm feeling to watch us. I believe this kind of male camaraderie is the cornerstone of healthy ego development and the foundation of building the tissue critical to being a CEO and crushing the competition.
Or at least for getting their beer during halftime.
Sports Apathy, SF Chronicle
All of this passion around football season makes me question my membership in the club of Male Identity. I assume it’s a bad sign that I find more stimulation going with my wife to the Nordstrom’s Petite section than I do crouched forward with my drunken friends, watching Jerry Rice snatch yet another touchdown in some green, god-forsaken end zone. At least in the women’s dressing room, watching my wife try on a new floral disaster, I can scream “NO! NO! NO!” and sound like my buddies watching the other team score with only ten seconds left on the clock.
I once feared that my sports apathy would be passed on like a lateral, to my seven year old twin boys. However, one of them has independently developed a passion for sports and an ability to play them. For example, he does this weird thing when I throw him a football. He catches it. I can’t relate. I could never fully get the concept of catching a football with my hands and to this day, lunge, octupus-like, to try to snare it in my arms. I’m sure David is quite humiliated and wonders what crime he could have committed in the kindergarten of his prior life to be stuck with me.
“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it dad.” He says, carefully. “Try catching it with your hands.” I fight down the urge to scream “I KNOW I’M SUPPOSED TO CATCH IT WITH MY HANDS, YOU LITTLE DWARF! DO YOU THINK I WANT TO BE OUT HERE?! So, last week we started seeing a therapist so I can learn how to relate to him. “David, can you tell me what it feels like to notice that your father has the coordination of a hobbled burro?” “It feels bad, Dr. Goldstein, really bad.” “Have you tried talking to him about it?” The doctor inquired, leaning in sympathetically. “Yes, Dr. Goldstein. He can’t help it. He tries, he really tries. I just think that God must have given him bear paws for hands, just like mom says.”
The other day he asked me, “Why do all dads watch sports?” “Um, they don’t son.” I replied sagaciously, eager to glory in the wonderful diversity of human interests. ” For example, I never watch sports. I find it kinda boring. All that running and catching. Now, the Nature channel, that I can watch for days.” He looked at me as though I’d asked him to get me a Tampon. Apparently, I had removed myself from the already well-developed image that “Love of Sports” is a rich part of our shared male heritage. Therefore my lack of interest in the dominance ritual of playback analysis, statistic recitation, and player personality profile, made my utility as a dad quite limited.
My other son, however, wears the tradition proudly. This could not be truer than on the soccer field. Mick appears to have as much interest in developing the skills of soccer as I do volunteering to coach his team. However, he loves the sugary snacks that he gets at the end of the game so he’s willing to listen to the coach yell at him “Engage! Engage!!” just like the fighter pilot screaming at Tom Cruise in “Top Gun”. “Yep”, I proudly nudge the mother standing next to me on the football field. “See that boy in the middle of the field staring at the sky and quietly singing the new Backstreet Boys tune to himself? That’s my son.Chip off the old block, that one.’ATTA BOY TIGER!!’ I yell. “SING THAT SONG! THAT’S AN AWESOME CLOUD UP THERE, AIN’T IT??!! DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT THAT BALL.THAT’S WHAT TEAMMATES ARE FOR!”
When Mick and I practice football, I feel right at home. It reminds me of when I was a little tyke tossing the ball with my dad. I throw, he misses. He throws, I miss. It kind of gives you a warm feeling to watch us. I believe this kind of male camaraderie is the cornerstone of healthy ego development and the foundation of building the tissue critical to being a CEO and crushing the competition.
Or at least for getting their beer during halftime.