I was born and raised in a Midwest state where sports are everything. Unless you could talk team winning records, knew football plays, owned at least three jerseys, or at least hosted Super Bowl parties, you were nobody. In sixth grade, I even stooped as low as to be a cheerleader with the hopes of fitting in. All that got me was a really awkward team picture and a case of low self-esteem when I didn’t make it the next year.
I’ve always been a natural born band geek. My idea of a fun evening in high school was to learn all of my major scales in two octaves by ear.
…I mean…no I didn’t. That would be REALLY nerdy. Anyway.
Because of my musical obsession and massive apathy of all things athletically related in my home, I never learned the slightest thing about any sport. Even after being on the eighth grade basketball team, I couldn’t tell you anything more about basketball than “you shoot for the hoop.” And pass the ball. And run a lot. I still have no idea why I got to shoot foul shots in the one game when I got more than 30 seconds of playing time. Something about a foul. Yeah.
By some sort of magical happening, I ended up marrying the only man to walk this earth who is as apathetic about sports as myself. It’s freaking fantastic. When other guys are glued to their televisions, eating cheesy poofs and shouting obscenities, mine just wants to curl on the couch and watch Renovation Realities.
A normal conversation between Husband and Typical Jock Dude goes like this:
TJD: Man that drama with Tressel is crazy. It’s a bunch of bull. Where are the Bucks gonna be next year?
Husband: What’s a Tressel?
TJD: Seriously? I’m talking about the Bucks, bro.
Husband: Oh, yeah. We’ve been having problems with deer on our road, too.
TJD: Uhhhhh…let’s just drink beer.
This brings me to my next subject. People around here are nucking futs about The Ohio State University. I’m pretty sure there’s an Ohio law that says you can be executed for leaving out the “The” in the name. It’s common practice to buy a grey car just so you can pimp it out with scarlet decorations, buckeye leaves, and bobbleheads of Brutus the Buckeye. It doesn’t even end in death:
I guess my point is that I just don’t get it. The rules, or even basic concepts, of sports escape me. I spent my first season as a high school band director trying to figure out what downs were. Now, I don’t judge anyone. I’m always happy for our high school team when they win a game and I support band kids who play a sport. I just have no idea why our crowd is cheering most of the time. I’ve learned that if I cheer along, I look like I know what’s happening. As long as I know the words to “Hang On Sloopy” and I can answer “OH!” with an “IO!” I will avoid excommunication from the state of Ohio.
So, carry on, you sports fans. And hit the showers, before I smack you with a wet towel. I’ve got to practice my scales.