I’m starting to think that I doth protest too much when it comes to sports. Either that, or I’m developing a higher tolerance for boredom with each passing year. After all, I turned 50 back in April.
A case in point – after rolling out of bed and stumbling into the family room earlier this week, I flipped on the TV fully intending to catch up on the news. Instead, I settled on live coverage of early round play at the British Open golf tournament.
When I was younger, I would have used The Open to lull myself back to sleep. But now I’m INTERESTED … in golf, of all things.
It doesn’t stop there. These days, I find myself seeking out the drama of any game.
For example, over the Fourth of July holiday, I made my wife and kids stand around with me at a Washington Nationals game. And when I say stand around, I mean it. The only tickets available were standing-room only.
If that’s not enough to make you question whether I’m a few shots over par, consider this: when I’m not shifting my weight from foot to foot for hours at a Nats game or can’t find a game on television, I can often be found spending my free time watching TV simulcasts of sports-talk radio shows like Dan Patrick’s.
Let that sink in. I’m actually WATCHING sports-talk radio shows. I used to merely listen to them so I could seem knowledgeable about games and the people who play them when the subject of sports came up in casual conversation.
A guy’s got to protect his street cred, but watching a radio show is probably carrying it too far.
Maybe lightning from one of this summer’s storms has scrambled my brain. Or maybe I’m simply suffering from some sort of soccer hangover.
Whatever the reason, after following soccer’s World Cup as closely as our dog Rodney follows my wife around the house, my usual standbys – Pawn Stars, Top Gear and Tattoo Nightmares – just don’t seem to satisfy as much as they used to. Even Star Trek seems to be taking a back seat to sports.
But I see now that I was kidding myself the last time I professed an indifference to sports. I wrote a column on the subject a couple of weeks ago, basically claiming my obsession with this summer’s World Cup was a fluke, that our family room was once again safe for Rodney and our cat, Skitty, because I was no longer loudly celebrating the thrill of victory or bemoaning the agony of defeat during U.S. World Cup games.
Actually, I’ve written more than one column on the subject, all of them coming down to the same general theme, that I don’t usually pay much attention to sports.
I suspect that’s one of the reasons why my wife has stuck around so long. My lack of commitment to being a fanboy up to now means she hasn’t had to put up with a sports-obsessed husband throwing bricks at the TV.
Now, I fear I’m just giving her another reason to regret marrying me.