a brief history of sports-watching

I fell in love for the first time in the spring of 1967.  It was a short lived affair, over by the fall.  

The Boston Red Sox hadn't had a winning season since 1958.  But they started winning in 1967, and I became an ardent fan.  In the damp of April, I'd be driving somewhere, and my car radio would be tuned to a game. I'd listen with intensity every time Carl Yastrzemski came to the plate, or Rico Petrocelli made an amazing play at shortstop. I cried when Tony Conigliaro was injured.   I knew everyone's stats. That spring, I even drove with a  friend to an opening of some gas station, just so I could meet Jim Lonborg. That summer, I was a lifeguard at a local pool.  And next to my chair sat a portable radio. I never wanted to miss a game. It was a dream season. The Red Sox surprised everyone and won the American League pennant. But them heartbreakingly lost to the formidable Bob Gibson of the St. Louis Cardinals,  in the seventh game of the World Series. My love for the sport began and ended in that one season.

As a sophomore in high school, I was a cheerleader, along with all my friends, for the local Y's basketball team.  Half the cheerleaders (not me) were dating the seniors on the team. This made for some fun after-game parties. In fact, Mark K. went on to marry Ellen R.; they remain happily married all these many years later.  Mark's cousin Michael married Evelyn, also a fellow cheerleader and good friend.  That marriage, though long, did not end well.  

My first year at Gillette, in 1981, I was part of a football pool.  I never watched the games but you could give me the names of any two teams, and I could tell you the spread within a point. When my son played football in high school, I went to the games. His team was awful and his coach was abysmal (and was later fired).  But all the parents were always there to support the kids, hoping less for the win than that no one got hurt.  Thankfully no one ever did.

And finally, there is this year in football.  I watched little, until the post-season, when Alexander was home.

My son loves football. I wish his memory for historical or economic facts was as good as it is for football stats. In fact, he often quizzes me. How many current quarterbacks can you name? (Seven). Name any player other than Tom Brady who plays for the Patriots? (One and half, if you count my version of Gronkowski as Growbowski). I never do well in my son's sport quizzes, though I think I do finally understand the whole four-down thing.  I watched the heart-stopping post-season Patriots game against the Ravens.  And then sat at home texting Alexander furiously, in the incredible last minutes of the Seahawks-Packers game.  And deflate-gate or not, the Patriots wiped out the Colts.

I love Russell Wilson.  He strikes me as a smart, stand-up kind of guy.  He'll never be in the headlines for felony-deserving behavior.  And Tom Brady?  Well, he's pretty perfect (pun intended).  It should be — and hopefully will be — a well-matched and exciting Super Bowl.

Tomorrow is the big game. My son and his seven roommates will be hosting a party at school.  My female friends here have zero interest in watching. Everyone I know in Massachusetts will be going to parties. And this displaced Bostonian will be home alone watching Super Bowl XLIX.