Tag Archives: Sports

Super Bowl LIX : Nope; Not Watching, Don’t Care

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UPDATE: Haha, I know that the Philadelphia Eagles won! I didn’t watch it but I’m happy that the appearance of that orange POS caused the Chiefs to lose!

This is probably the first year since 1980 that I won’t watch the Super Bowl.

I don’t care about the commercials, especially not the ones about DOGE (Department of Government Efficiency) from Muskrat, the half-time show, nor the actual game.

The Kansas City Chief’s quarterback Mahomes is incredibly unlikeable, as is his magatrumploving wife.

Travis Kelce is OK and the Taylor Swift connection is interesting, but that’s not enough to get me excited about the game.

During the regular and post season, I believe referee favoritism and the officials’ bias made some terrible and questionable calls in favor of the Kansas City Chiefs that caused the other teams to lose.

That’s totally unfair.

Some believe it’s a full-blown NFL conspiracy to boost TV ratings with the presence of Mahomes and Taylor Swift. Others think it’s the subtle bias that allows star players to get favorable whistles.

Another benefit to NOT watching the Super Bowl is not having to listen to the nasal whinging of plastic man and maga Tom Brady — NOT a fan.

Whatever. I won’t watch, but I hope the Eagles win.

P.S. Getting back to reality, we’re fully immersed in a constitutional crisis along with the death of democracy, which I feel is more important than the distraction of a possibly rigged sporting event.

I’m a Baseball Newbie Just In Time For The World Series

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From Ninjago to Pokemon to Minecraft and now it’s baseball that makes Angel Boy 2.0’s world go around.

He loves his home team, the Mariners, but is rooting for the Dodgers to win the World Series, mainly because of Shohei Othani. I learned (from AB) that the reason Ohtani is so special is because of his ability as a hitter AND as a pitcher, which is rare. Ohtani’s 2021–2024 seasons are considered among the greatest in baseball history, with some comparisons to the one and only Babe Ruth.

Oh, and T LOVES Babe Ruth, too.

“Grandma, did you know Babe Ruth?”

“Uh NO, I did not. That was a bit before my time, my darling.” Sheesh, how old does he think I am? His dad always seems to overhear these random conversations that occur between me and the kids, as evidenced by his snarky snickers in the other room.

Hand to heart, that child has now collected well over a thousand baseball cards. His sister’s job and my job as his assistants are to help him organize those cards. I love the educational aspect for both of the children, matching the teams and then placing everything in alphabetical order. He reads the stats out loud to us, which I find enchanting and endearing, and reminiscent of his dad at that age.

His dad collected sports cards too (also thousands of them) and I know I saved all of his well- cared-for binders, but I can’t remember where they are!

T is so excited about baseball that he created his very first PowerPoint presentation to share what he’s learned about the sport.

Because of his new-found interest, we watched a couple post season games. Where my son and I were rooting for the Padres, our home team, AB was all for the Dodgers. Of course, as usual, the Padres disappointed their fans. They’ve never won a World Series, so their losing record is intact.

In addition to collecting cards and wearing his favorite player’s jersey, AB started playing baseball. We were all outside in the garden taking turns pitching and hitting and I discovered a never before known talent of mine for hitting the ball nearly EVERY SINGLE TIME.

“Wait, Grandma, did you used to play baseball in school? Why are you so good at it?”

“No way, T. Actually, in school, they put me so far out in the outfield that there was never a chance to catch the ball, and when I was the hitter, I struck out 100% of the time. I don’t know why I’m playing so good now!”

“MOM DAD, watch Grandma!”

The look on my son’s face was pretty funny, I have to admit.

T was holding the bat awkwardly and weirdly, so I attempted to offer a pointer. Initially he refused my advice (just like his dad) and kept striking out. I suggested that he at least TRY my way one time to see if it helped. Lo and behold, it DID, and he got a home run. He experimented with his strange way again and struck out. After that, he had to admit that not only can his grandma consistently hit the ball, but I’m a good coach, too.

If only my high school PE teacher could see me now, lolz.

Many years ago, I was standing behind a table volunteering at a nonprofit event and a sort of nondescript man walked by and said “Hi”. I said “Hi” back to him as he continued down the sidewalk. Other volunteers crowded around me, “Do you know who that was?” I did not, and when they said it was Trevor Hoffman of the San Diego Padres, I said, “Who’s that?” I thought it was cool, but I didn’t fangirl him like they obviously were doing.

Now it’s World Series time and I’m a total Dodgers fan. Does anyone know why there needs to be so many games to determine the winner? It’s a bit excessive, in my opinion.

GO DODGERS!

Game Day Confession: I Love Football

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There’s an intangible, sort-of-cosmic backstory that might shed a bit of light…

It comes as a surprise to some who think I’m only all about shopping and seashells and being princess-like — when they find out I love football and camping and hiking. It might seem out of character, but I guess I’m a living, breathing contradiction, more faceted and complex than one might imagine.

For the first twenty-five years of my life, I didn’t care one way or another about football (or most sports) until I was pregnant with the one and only Original Angel Boy.

In a strangely illuminated memory, I will always recollect the fall of 1980. I was about four months pregnant and the disabling, extreme morning sickness had FINALLY abated, albeit without almost needing to be hospitalized for Hyperemesis gravidarum, just like Princess Catherine.

On this particular Sunday, I heard the sounds of football in the living room, which meant the San Diego Chargers and Dan Fouts were playing. I finished feeding the dogs or whatever I was doing in the kitchen and sat down to watch the game, drawn to it in a way I had had never been before that exact moment.

I asked question after question, hungering for each and every detail — what was a down or offsides or a running back. I was thirsty for knowledge.

After that day, I became a football fan, not to the point of wearing team apparel, but actually anticipating the next season and whether we’d make the playoffs or not. With the Chargers, it was mostly NOT.

It was that late October day that I knew beyond a shadow of any doubt — I was going to have a boy. It was all that testosterone, I was sure of it! In fact, I bet my doctor that my intuition was right. This was before ultrasounds were a routine diagnostic tool in pregnancy so there was no way to scientifically predict the sex of a baby. If it was medically necessary, I could have had amniocentesis, but that was a slightly risky procedure and not advised simply to win a wager.

However, right after I delivered my perfect boy a few months later, I said to the doc, “I told you so, I told you I was having a boy. I knew it.“

In 1994, the Chargers made their first and, so far, only Super Bowl appearance, against the 49ers in Super Bowl XXIX. Of course they lost to quarterback Steve Young and the amazing wide receiver Jerry Rice, but it was an exciting game.

Recently, Angel Boy, DIL, and I were having a conversation about the Seattle Seahawks and why they’re not doing so well this year. When DIL asked a question about quarterbacks, AB and I explained the details of a trade and coaching staff…not only did she have no idea that I harbor an affinity for the game, but she also had no idea that my son STILL, after all these years, had stat after stat stored up in that giant brain of his. She was gobsmacked, as the Brits like to say. It was funny to see her reaction. To me, she said, “How could you like football? It’s everything you hate; crowds and noise!” I told her there was something exciting about the energy of attending a game that was infectious (in a good way), to root for your team. 

As I said, some people are surprised by me! 

Here’s the psychology of it, and since she’s a neuroscientist, these facts appealed to her: Following a sports team can give us a tremendous sense of belonging, even if it comes with a bit of intensity, Much of the enjoyment we get from watching our team can be traced to the feel-good chemical, dopamine. For a short period of time, we are diverted away from personal problems and able to focus on things outside of ourselves.

All these memories are being stirred up because the AFL-NFL playoffs are on Sunday. Nope, the Chargers (in LA now) aren’t playing, but my other hometown team, the Detroit Lions, are in their first playoff game since 1992. At that time, Detroit faced Washington for the chance to advance to the Super Bowl, but couldn’t make it happen.

Until this year, the Lions have gone thirty-one seasons without reaching a championship round or winning another post-season playoff. I hope they win because I like to root for the underdog, but since they’re playing the 12-5 San Francisco 49rs, they probably won’t stand a chance.

The other playoff game is Kansas City Chiefs against the Baltimore Ravens. I don’t have an interest in either team but the frenzy surrounding Taylor Swift’s romance with Travis Kelce, the Chief’s tight end, makes it slightly appealing because the cameras love to show Taylor’s reactions while she’s in a private luxury box. “What’s Taylor doing? What’s she wearing?”, that kind of thing…

Whoever wins these games will meet at the Super Bowl on February 11.

Still rehabbing my poor little leg, I can’t do much walking or a whole lot of other physical activity until the sutures are removed, so I’m probably going to do nothing but watch football on Sunday.

Go LIONS!

A Slice of Covert Racism

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On a recent flight back home, I was sitting in my usual choice of an aisle seat mostly because I don’t like to crawl over strange legs when I need to use the restroom.

An older (older than me) woman crawled over me to take the window seat.

A young man was escorted to his seat directly across from me by a flight attendant who commented on his height and asked him how old he was as he was flying as an unaccompanied minor.

He was nine-years-old and about six feet tall.

Just a little boy in a man sized body.

I could feel his embarrassment as he was singled out for his height and I’m sure has had to endure a zillion comments about it.

He was very quiet, but seemed a little scared, so I chatted with him a bit, and he was very sweet. His dad was picking him up and he would be starting school in San Diego. He began to open up and just as I suspected, he was a little boy who didn’t really know how to deal with the fact that he looked like he was in high school.

The older woman next to me said, in a very heavy southern accent, “I should get his autograph now, he’s going to be famous.”

I didn’t respond to her right away because I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt or maybe I had misinterpreted what she was alluding to, but she repeated herself loud enough for the young man to hear, and I felt that I needed to do something.

I said, “What are you saying? That because he’s tall, his only life path is basketball?”

She looked at me and said, “Well, he’s tall…” and then her voice and thought faded.

I replied loud enough for anyone to hear, “Maybe he’s going to be a doctor. Or a professor. Or an artist or a writer. Just because someone has a physical trait doesn’t mean it’s a life sentence. He can and should do whatever touches his heart.”

The woman had so much ingrained covert racism built into her that she didn’t really know what to say, but a few minutes later she told me that she thought about it and agreed with me, so then we had a pleasant rest of the flight.

Did I change her?

Probably not, but the grateful smile I received from a nine-year-old made my day.

(And did I really need to mention that he was a six foot tall African American nine-year-old child or did you figure that out for yourselves?)

And then I saw this photo of Trump serving fast food to the Clemson team.
More covert or not so covert racism. Love Reggie Bush’s tweet.