Sports didn’t play a big role in my household growing up. The first time I even remember playing any type of organized sport was when I was horrible mismatch of twelve-year-old me and a church softball team. I had to catch, was scared to death of the ball, bat and everything else involved. It was not my calling.
However, I do like viewing sports. Love to watch hockey and football. Enjoy going to a baseball game as long as the weather is nice and there is enough food (I need lots of food for a baseball game). I don’t really understand soccer, cricket or lacrosse but they look interesting.
I live in a state that on the state tax return there is a question that asks if you own a basketball or have a basketball hoop in your driveway. If you answer no, there is a giant “You are a Fake Resident” penalty. Ok, not really but it does seem like that at times. High school basketball is a huge draw and the high school gyms are gigantic in comparison to certain areas of the school. Even 30+ years ago when my hometown high school was built, the gymnasium eclipsed all the rest of the establishment.
There is a comfort that basketball brings to me. That squeak of athletic shoes on the wood floor. The certain pitch of the referee whistle. The drone of the announcers. These are very unique and comforting sounds to me. On those cold, grey February afternoons where chores are done and my eyes are heavy, this is the perfect background for me to take a small nap.
And oddly great background sound to get work done. I am working on a grant application for work. We went out to BW3 to catch a game that we couldn’t get at home. I watched a bit and wrote a bit. Had a beer. Wrote and watched some more. I rode the waves of joy and angst around me without realizing it was taking place. This morning when I dug into it again, I was really surprised how much I had accomplished and how good some of it was. Maybe basketball at a bar is my new happy place for writing.