Americans favorite past time - ugh

My father is a genetic athlete.  He was an athlete as a child, played many sports, excelled at them, played them in college and continued playing several as an adult.  At 70+ he knows many of the coaches and still travels to the local high schools to watch the more competitive teams play.  When it comes to watching sports on TV, he has always been, and continues to be, what could be described as a very passionate and extremely vocal fan. I however, and I say this with love; prefer to call him a psycho wackjob in front of a TV set. 

Weather the final game of the World Series, Stanley cup, Super bowl or a ping pong, badminton or some other random match TV programmers air, during the off season, as they scrape the bottom of the barrel, for competitive events, Dad is on the couch, glued to the game, coaching, critiquing and God forbid someone makes a mistake, languishing in the injustice that has just been committed.  One tiny flick of the remote control, takes him from a peaceful National Geographic Wolf reporting special, to the front line of a sporting war, as my dad wipes the players sweat, from his brow.  Unfortunately, however, any one in the house, or neighborhood for that matter, is drug into battle with him.   

In my dad’s defense, I will say, it is highly probable his “extreme TV sport watching” has been exacerbated by the sheer torture the man must have faced, as the father of 3 girls without an athletic bone or desire, in their body.  I assume, long ago, he must have given up the ghost, and faced facts his vision of coaching an offspring was never …. Ever …EVER…. Going to be. 

One of Dad’s favorite sports to watch on TV is baseball.  The good ole Philadelphia Phillies. I am probably the only person in the world, who when they heard Harry Kalas’s voice, had a shiver go down their spine.  As a child, baseball meant 3 hours of not talking to dad, avoiding the living room like the plague, and being continuously startled by the unpredictable profanity laden outbursts, in which strangers on TV, were chastised, and proclaimed to have less talent than my great grandmother.    (My great grandmother, whom I sadly never met, must have been an incredibly talented woman, as she is reputed to have more athletic ability then 75% of all sports players, even to this day.)

Perhaps due to strong subliminal messages, or my deep seeded loathing for the game, a passion for baseball never really took hold in our house, past T-Ball.  T-ball, aka the most painful game in the entire world, created only to punish parents while giving them hints of who the “overzealous” parents / future crazy coaches of youth sports will be.  One hour is more than enough time for 5 & 6 year olds, to stand in the outfield, in their adorable little uniforms, picking their nose, but nooo, there is always some parent who is “going to teach his kid the right way” and insist all 9 painful, Godforsaken, innings are played.   

#1 played T-ball, and it was tolerable, because everything your first born does comes with an air of promise and excitement (albeit a very small air of promise and excitement).  #2 played T-ball and the pain was hard to deal with.  I suffered through the season in silence, but it was a personal challenge.  #3 played T-ball and by then, the sport was dead to me.  Each time #3 had a game, I would sit him down, and very carefully explain to him that; we could either go to his T-ball game, or we could skip the game and go get ice cream.  The T-ball flyer was ripped from #4’s hands and recycled, before he even had a chance to read it. 

If my children’s children end up playing baseball, or God help me T-ball, I’m letting you all know now; Grandmom will be in the car, in the parking lot, reading a book.  Come let me know how you did as soon as the games over.  

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