Sports and I don’t generally get along. Maybe it’s because when I was in kindergarten and one of the only two girls on the soccer team the Arrows, I got hit in the chest with the ball and got the wind knocked out of me. I quit on the spot. Of course I wasn’t quite the star player even before that incident; I had to be bribed with promises of a My Little Pony for every time I actually touched the ball in a game. I don’t think I ever got a Pony, because I remember running in the opposite direction whenever the ball came near me.
I was much more interested in following the coach’s son around during practices, helping him set up and dismantle the neon orange cones and corralling balls into the mesh storage bag, than actually trying to improve my soccer skills. Yes, at age five I was already a shameless flirt, and I tried to work my magic on the seven year-old object of my affections all season.
Since then, sports and I have not improved our relationship much. I did gymnastics for years, then dance, then moved on to yoga and other uncompetitive, individual activities that don’t really count as sports.
The big game on T.V. does not excite me, but I do like going to see a live game of something or other every once in a while. Not for the sports action, no, but for the atmosphere! Thousands of people singing, eating, and cheering together! Little kids bursting with excitement! Familiar songs blaring over the loudspeakers! And the people-watching. Now THAT is interesting. Much more interesting than grown men in funny outfits throwing things at each other, or away from each other, or wherever the rules of the game dictate.
Even though sports and I aren’t friendly, I still think Boston’sFenway Park is one of the best venues out there, simply because its age allows me to revel in a nostalgia for a time I never knew. A time when Shoeless Joe Jackson was alive, and the Field of Dreams was real, and maybe even Madonna played baseball in a pink uniform, with Rosie O’Donnell, no less.
Fenway is steeped in history and myth, two things I like very much. Plus, the signage is all old-timey, and I love old-timey fonts. And there are lots of peeling painted brick walls, another of my favorite design elements.
This Memorial Day Weekend, Tyler and I were invited to a Red Sox game, for free, in a luxury box. Now, that is an offer even a sports non-appreciator like myself cannot pass up. And Tyler is my absolute opposite when it comes to sports: while I am indifferent, he is a connoisseur. Of all sports. All the time.
Sometimes I don’t know how we get along as well as we do.
Naturally, we accepted the invitation to the box, devoured all the delicious food they gave us (sausages and pizza and chicken fingers and chips and veggies and cookies and ice cream and more!), and enjoyed the afternoon. For once a game went too fast for me, busy as I was enjoying the excellent view (I could actually see what was happening on the field!) and the free wine (and now that over half my posts have mentioned wine, perhaps I should examine my habits more closely…).
So many thanks to my oldest friend in the world, Annie, who gave us such a lovely experience. Here she is, looking amazing against an artfully peeling brick wall:
I realllly wish I had that wall in my living room.