Dear Sports,

My dad grew up on the wrong side of the tracks of Indianapolis in the 40s and 50s with a factory worker dad and a homemaker mom. My grandfather was an amazing ball player and, if not for a rather large and complex stream of events, could have probably played in the Big Leagues. One of my grandfather’s favorite stories was how, during the barnstorming days of the old Negro League, he got two hits off of Satchel Paige (a double, and a single). This was one of the most amazing feats ever, to my youthful mind, because everyone knows that Satchel Paige was one of the best pitchers to ever hurl the ball. Of course, it wasn’t until much later that I actually learned about the playing style of the barnstormers and found out that Satchel Paige had probably thrown nearly 1,000 pitches, with no rest, in the days leading up to the game with my grandfather so he was probably more than likely a little bit gassed at that point. Still…Satchel Paige, man! My paternal grandfather was a born athlete and passed that passion for sports on to his son.

Unfortunately he did not pass on his fantastic eyesight or amazing twitch response. My grandfather once shot a rabbit, twice, that was running at full speed, about 200 yards away up a hill. He was in his 70s at the time and as he lowered his  .22 rifle he disgustedly said, “I wish I hadn’t taken that second shot.” My dad grew up with glasses so thick that if he looked at the sun the rays would’ve burned a hole straight through the back of his head. So as a kid with a baseball/sports worshipping dad that was always going to be disappointed at you on the big diamond, what do you do?

Well, you learn to love every single sport you can come across.

And then you teach that to your sons.

When I was growing up my dad’s house was always full of sports I didn’t see or hear about anywhere else. I was a rare kid in my school. I was the only 5th grader who knew who Ivan Lendl was. I was the only one that knew what the Tour de France was. I was certainly the only kid that not only knew what racquetball was, but had actually played it (I was even somewhat familiar with it’s cousin, squash). I was a very active child, playing frisbee and dodge ball with my brother (16 years my senior) and his friends when he came home from the Air Force. Long days playing kickball in the field near my friend’s house in Madison. And, oh my god, the amount of miles I put on my Schwinn Predator BMX bike. I was a very active child, which makes my current gelatinous form all the more disappointing.

Dad couldn’t play baseball like his old man, but his father couldn’t swing a tennis racket. Couldn’t throw a frisbee. Had never been a semi-pro motocross rider. Had never ridden a 10-speed bicycle over 100 miles in a single trip. Never studied martial arts. And, I can assure you, my grandfather looked upon the very Old World-centric game of soccer (fußball to my German friends) with narrowed eyes and deep suspicion. I know this because I’ve heard tales of what happened when my dad told my grandfather that he and his only son (at the time) were going to help start a youth soccer program in the very conservative, very ‘MURICA!!! Trimble County, Kentucky in the mid-70s. Side Note: That last link isn’t from the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine. That’s the real website of Trimble County.

The point is this: My father instilled into each of his sons a love and passion for most every sport there is. And modern technology has helped us talk about it with a much greater frequency. I no longer have to ask someone what happened at the Australian Open if I can’t watch. Dad or my brother will text results and some play-by-play. My delivery truck driver brother doesn’t have to worry about missing out on any details of any sporting event he’s interested in. My dad or I will keep him informed. My dad never has to worry about missing a single sporting event ever, because he’s retired and basically just parks his television on ESPN or ESPN 2.

When we have the opportunity, the three of us will watch a game “together”, by sitting on respective couches in Indiana, Kentucky, and Colorado and texting each other our thoughts on this, that, or the other.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT CALL?! That was not a foul!”

“Why do we even pay line judges anymore, what with all the electric eyes and such?”

“Pass interference! Pass interference! CALL PASS INTERFERENCE!”

You get the idea.

So a few days ago we were all sitting on our respective couches, watching the United States Men’s National Team play the boys from Portugal. I forced my wife to watch. She pouted. 5 minutes in Portugal scores. I’m crestfallen because America always seems to lose all of their confidence when they get scored on that early. But then we score a goal later on in the half. I scream jubilantly, and I noticed my wife did too. She’s hooked. We score again in the second half and it’s pandemonium in my household. Jinx hid under the couch. Yoshi went and got in her crate without being asked. Brownie laid down in the kitchen. Zackie just laid there.

And this whole time, my dad, brother, and I were all texting each other. Sports and modern technology have brought us together more than nearly any other event or reason (aside from shared genes) we’ve ever encountered. I was ecstatic. I was watching World Cup soccer with my big brother, my dad, and my wife. Not only that, but we were about to win. WIN! It was an amazing feeling.

And then…

After Portugal scored that amazing last second goal it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. It was deathly quiet in the house. For a few moments, the whole world disappeared as it sank in that our hopes and dreams of beating the Portuguese club and automatically advancing to the Round of 16 were dashed. And then an amusing text conversation happened:

Eli: Oh. My. God.
Eli’s Brother: It’s times like these that I wish I drank.
Eli’s Dad: Damn it!
E: I’m pretty sure I just aged ten years.
EB: I wonder if I can use this as an excuse to call in to work tomorrow?
ED: Damn it!
E: The good news is that I finally understand why people start riots after soccer matches.
EB: You think that’s bad, you should see what happens to your nieces and their friends when they don’t perform well in a horse show.
ED: Damn it!
ED: I’m need to go to bed. I just broke a wine goblet.

So it goes.

Anyway. Thank you, Sports.  Thanks for making it perfectly reasonable to only reply with invectives after a stunning turn of events. Thanks for March Madness, and Wimbledon, and the Masters. Thanks for cold Sundays spent with beer, chili, and the Indianapolis Colts. Thanks for warm sunny days spent with beer, hot dogs, and the Chicago Cubs. Thanks for soccer, even though I rarely get to see it on American television. Thanks for the infield fly rule, the fair catch kick rule, and the falling hat rule.

Thank you for bringing my dad and brother and I closer together.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking the rest of the day off to go to Kentucky so I can watch the US v. Germany match that starts at 12 with my dad. I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN!

Love,

Elijah