As I sit down to right this blog post, I am conflicted and
feeling guilty. In my last two attempts to start a blog, first in Oxford and
then in Angers, I only managed to write two lovely posts before I left it by
the way side. With this blog too, I have already fallen behind. In my haste to
acclimate to my new schedule as well as to complete Graduate School
Applications (2 down, YAY!), I let last weeks blog slip, not because I didn’t have
things to say, but more so because I had so much to say that I didn’t know
where to start. Accordingly, In the spirit of the book I just finished, “The
Red Tent” by Anita Diamant, I am going to attempt to atone for my sins by
taking a small bite out of the elephant that is my thoughts, feelings, and
experiences from the last two weeks. Accordingly, here is the story about how I
have come to actually enjoy football…
For those
of you who know me well, you will not be shocked to learn that I avoid football
like the plague, not because I have an inability to play the sport—I am
generally coordinated and further inherited a complete love of winning (shout
out: Mom)—but because I have always felt
disconnected form the world that football represented. Growing up, in both of
my parents households, Sunday afternoon screaming matches with the television
were a regular occurrence. Dad leaping out of his chair any time some team
scored against his precious Vols or
further yellin in elation anytime “Good Ole Rocky Top” was playing to the
backdrop of smoky’s crooning. For mom,
her grunts of frustration were directed towards the Atlanta Falcons, to whom
she has an entire room dedicated in her house… chairs, blankets, pillow pals,
and even a Fat head festoon this sacred football watching area. Accordingly,
football has always been apart of my American existence, even if I utterly
detested it.
I can
honestly say I was never cut out for football.
In fact, though I asked for and
received a football uniform for Christmas when I was little, I did this not
because I was excited about the sport but because Baghera, the black panther,
was my favorite character from The Jungle
Book, and also, I thought black and teal were a pretty color combination. I
think it is easily surmised from that comment that team sports were never
really my thing, and my involvement came to a complete and utter halt, when as
a member of a peewee league I was subjected to the horror that is a cup and
then later was—as my father affectionately calls it—“pancaked.” Please see
photo for hyperbolic explanation:
Being a bit “husky,” a word from every fat kids
nightmares, as a child, I was pitted against the monster from another team… In
my 8 year old mind this boy was massive; I was sure he was long past eating
kids meals at MacDonald’s and burger King, while I was only dreaming of being
able to consume an entire adult sized meal (don’t worry fair reader, I got
there soon). Regardless, standing across
the line from this kid, I was not prepared when he—here comes another affection
phrase of my fathers—“knocked my snot-box loose.” The force of this kids tackle knocked every
diatomic atom of Oxygen out of my desperate lungs. I was lying on my back,
desperately attempting to suck in some air… I was scared. As quite possibly the
most gullible child on the planet, I didn’t know that I was going to be able to
breath again. I truly thought I was
broken/dying, and all because of football… I think somewhere between the
wheezing and gasps, I managed to eeeek out my first, “I hate football.” Needless-to-say, I didn’t return to the
field, not because I couldn’t, but because I simply didn’t want to. Being hit
by someone and hitting someone else, simply wasn’t and still isn’t my idea of a
good time. In fact, I find it to be a bit barbaric.
With this
being said, I want you to know that I think football has many aspects of skill
and camaraderie that are incredibly impressive and admirable; however, my early
disassociation from football has forever left me feeling isolated as an
American and as a male. I don’t love
this sport, I don’t want to spent 4 to 5 hours of my Saturday and or Sunday
watching games on television, losing myself to rage, aggression, and
desperation over 22 men lined up and ready to “knock each other’s snot boxes
loose.” Furthermore, I have often felt a void when trying to connect with others
because of my lack of knowledge about football. It is often hard to feel “normal”
when you can’t connect with something so inextricably women into the fabric of
your nations culture, like Football is in America. It becomes impossible to
avoid it or at least not to attract attention when you’re forced to feign
interest or even worst when you are disguised of your indifference. It is an empty space that would have been a
meaningful way to connect with both of my parents. However, even in the dead of
silence, I was unable to call upon football to fill the silence at a dinner
table. I simply didn’t know enough about this sport to engage my parents or
others, and accordingly, my true indifference for football over years has grown
into true disdain as it has caused me to grow a sense of “other”… I’d just
rather read a book.
Regardless,
I have recently had a revitalization of my love, strike that,
appreciation of football. Last week, I
was approached by one of my wonderful colleagues about possibly joining them
and some students at the stade in La Courneuve (the suburb where I work) for a
training session with the FLASH!!! The
Flash is one of only 8 elite American football teams in France, and as of last
year, according to one clearly unbiased team manager, they are the best team in
the league. Ironically, Having just told my father that my favorite thing about
France was that I didn’t have to worry about football, I was suddenly being
presented with an opportunity to walk into Dante’s 9th level of
Hell. Of course I accepted, and I am very glad that I did.
It was
incredible and revitalizing to watch people encounter a sport that until that
moment for them had largely existed only in movies. My colleagues and students
and students dover right in (somewhat literally) completing running, catching,
and tackling drills. For me, watching people who were simply having fun playing
football was like consuming a long over-due drink of water. The weekly TV-directed
screams of anguish I experienced growing up were instead replaced by laughter
and cheers of triumph for successes in a new endeavor. I loved it. The French
students and teachers enjoyed it as well, and if their pictures are anything to
show about it, they will certainly be back soon:
As for me and my experience, I am proud to say I caught all
the balls thrown to me, and with the exception of my first throw (It had been
about a decade, folks) I was able to place the ball where I wanted it to go
every time. Furthermore in those moments,
experiencing football through fresh eyes, I saw the beauty of game and team
sports in general. It was as if I was
experiencing football for the first time with them, and it was wonderful. Though I am not ready to commit to season
tickets—even for my beloved Mercer bears—I have rekindled an appreciation for
the potentially beautiful aspect of American culture that football can be. It
is a sport that has the power to create strong emotions and to unite groups;
however, it can just as often divide, create tensions, and create the worst
traffic imaginable—thanks Carolina Panthers for that one… And Yes, I do still
think your color combinations are fabulous.
