I love sports. There. I said it.
I did not grow up with a sports dad, or a sports mom for that matter, but folks generally assume my dad isn't a sports dad because he only has daughters, not the most open-minded take. I assumed my dad's lack of interest in sports was a rejection of traditional masculinity, like he was supporting his daughters in some way by not having Monday Night Football on every week. He was rejecting something alright, in more ways than one.
My dad did grow up with a sports dad, namely a baseball dad. He is one of six children, five of them boys. That's a whole infield covered, plus one for pitcher or catcher. My dad and his brothers all played Little League, and my grandfather coached, managed, and umped. He was also an active player and manager in our local semi-pro league well into my own childhood, helping local kids in their baseball careers, so deep was my grandpa's passion for America's pastime. I don't recall a time as a kid when there wasn't a game on the TV at my grandparents' house; he would watch replays of old games, too. Baseball was never on our TV though.
When the glaring difference between the two houses was finally apparent to me, around age seven when I played Little League myself, I asked my dad why we don't watch baseball and why he doesn't still play or participate in the league like my uncles all did. He told me about the first time he broke his nose, took a line drive straight to his face during a game. He said he didn't really like baseball but had to play because his two older brothers did and he didn't really have a choice. Those all made sense to me, knowing my dad is the rebellious sort. He added that he actually didn't like team sports in general and that he only valued individual sports, player vs. game, because they require more intellect and thought. He was a boxing super fan, watching and rewatching matches the same way my grandpa watched and rewatched baseball. He watched tennis and car racing and golf, participating in none of them. He didn't like the idea of being dependent on teammates to affect the outcome of a game. He didn't want to be blamed for a team's loss, and he didn't want a teammate to take credit for a win.
No teammates = no drama: self-sufficient, self-reliant, self-directed.
This doesn't sound like such a terrible perspective to have if one considers the qualities a father would like for his children, in particular his four daughters: self-sufficient, self-reliant, self-directed. Downright feminist parenting, one might say. The problem is that a person uninterested in, maybe even repulsed by, team sports has missed out on what might be The Team of All Teams: a family. There is a symbiosis, an integration, a uniting of ideas and values that happens in a healthy family, much like an interdependent sports team. In explaining how team sports run counter to his most valued character trait, independence, my dad ended up detailing to me why he struggles with functioning in a family.
I didn't realize it at the time, but I was constantly searching for my team as a kid. I insisted on staying in my K-8 Catholic school, then continuing to my 400-student Catholic high school because I craved a knowing familiarity from such a tight-knit community. I wanted the long-term relationships that came with being in a classroom with the same kids and often the same teachers every year. I joined all the clubs, attached myself to mentors, attended all the workshops and seminars, actively seeking any form of coaching. So I had some understanding that I wanted to be on a team, working together toward a common goal, but I didn't really have a great model for how to be a teammate.
Then I married a sports guy who not only watches all the team sports but also actively supports them with season tickets and t-shirts and special travel plans to watch games live. He couldn't be more opposite to my dad in this regard. I had no idea how to incorporate this into my own viewing, much less my lifestyle. For years, he and I just watched TV in separate rooms, and I thought having two televisions was the secret to a happy marriage. I was still clinging to the superiority complex my dad had planted in my mind, that team sports were for the unsophisticated, the uncultured, the unthinking.
I am a sucker for a story, particularly the tales of resilience and overcoming obstacles, so the athlete background segments before games were what first appealed to me. Then I fell down the ESPN 30 for 30 rabbit hole. The patterns I saw and the dots I connected in these stories were mostly to do with recognizing limitations (talent and skill can only take you so far), recognizing when it's your turn to step up to the plate (accountability), and when it's your teammate's time to shine (assistance and appreciation). Those were the lessons I had yet to master so I was taking notes. I wanted to be a good teammate, not just a good player, in this new family I was building with John.
When I stopped believing this mythology, that team sports are for suckers and less intellectual folks, I allowed myself to consider my own enjoyment and not to reject the idea outright only because it differed from my dad's opinions. Turns out I like sports so much that I watch even when John isn't home! I can see the parallels of passing the ball, taking the shot, and supporting from the stands in all of my relationships, including my marriage. I am a much more coachable and participatory partner, parent, and friend when I understand we're on the same side, the same team pushing to win collectively rather than individually. John Donne wrote that no man is an island, but there are so many that long to be. I am just not one of them.