tl;dr: I hate sports
I just completed a paper for my Sociology of Sport class, which details my experience with sports in general. I essentially wrote it like a Livejournal entry, so I'm cross-posting it here. It's been cut for length, but I hope you find it entertaining.
I will start by stating that I will be quite frank about this subject-I am in no way, shape, or form a “sports” person. This is not to say that I don’t find the concept interesting or entertaining, nor does this mean I am completely unwelcoming to the watching and participation in, thereof. What I do mean is that I am not the sort of person that might frequent sports bars, adorn myself in any type of sport paraphernalia, or will casually switch on the tube to see whoever is ahead in whatever championship series at whichever stadium.
Personally, I find the spectacle to be a farce; a full-blown squandering of resources completely wasted on the dramatized over-glamorization of physical prowess for sheer purposes of entertainment. I absolutely repudiate, in every way, that bright-eyed muscleheads with a gleam in their smile are paid millions to engage in some form of ball hunt for a crowd of billions of equally-dull lunatic fans hooting like painted baboons because their favored group of steroid-ites was better at running around in a circle for an hour or two than the other mongoloids on the field.
Not that I’m bitter or anything, I just feel that the billions which are spent on what I see as a completely pointless industry might be better placed towards other social pursuits. Honestly, how many different forms of entertainment are available as a distraction from the drudgery of everyday life? Can we not afford to eliminate, say, football from those distractions? I realize this is a radical idea, one which might lead to the formulation of prohibition-esque underground football leagues. Yes, I’m being a bit facetious, but I’ve never fully embraced the concept of sports appreciation, one such aspect being that of sports scholarships. To me, those seem to be unjustly-given rewards. “Oh, well, Big Joe just barely squeaked by with a D-average in his Math and English classes, but damn, can that boy RUN!” I suppose my stance on this subject stems from a long-held jealousy and several bad experiences early in childhood.
I was never unhealthy or overweight my entire life. I was, however, stunningly average at physical activities, sometimes even less so. I distinctly remember one instance during second or third grade, where indoor recess was held. Most of the other kids were distracted by jump ropes and kick-balls, leaving the basketball hoop largely abandoned. I picked up a rather vintage-looking basketball, which greatly dwarfed my hands, boldly determined to shoot some hoops. Unfortunately, my efforts quickly proved that to achieve “some” hoops was a very lofty goal indeed, and the goal was therefore diminished to getting at least ONE hoop.
Pathetically, I stood there, alone, for the entire fifteen minutes, trying desperately to throw the ball even remotely close enough to graze the net with my little arms, silently damning the fact that they’d erected the bloody thing so many miles up every time I missed a shot. The bell rang, and I dropped my leather stone of Sisyphus, simultaneously disgraced by failure and eager to get back the pursuit of academia, in which I took some degree of pleasure, knowing that I could excel in that, at least.
I still don’t remember if I was trying to impress my classmates, or simply impress myself. Regardless, I definitely didn’t even need any coach to inform me of my inadequacy; that my self-esteem in the field of sports had been, from that moment on, irrevocably crushed.
One other notable experience following that was my short-lived stint as a half-pint soccer player. It was perhaps a year later, but somehow I had been drafted into some little league team through means that I honestly don’t remember to this day. Perhaps I was trying to compensate for my previous failure. While I’m not the kind of person to simply lay down and die after a bad experience, the basketball incident had killed most of my desire to be any sort of an athlete, and the following experience permanently fixated that sentiment.
I vividly recall being completely enamored with my newly-purchased shin guards, probably because now I could kick walls and poles without hurting myself. I think this concept of partial invulnerability appealed to me more so than the thrill of the game itself. In all reality, there was little thrill involved. I can’t recall how many games I actually played, but in terms of participation, mine was nearly nonexistent.
I was very much not a “team player,” rather, I was the sort of kid who would stand in the outer limits of the playing field and become totally bewitched by butterflies and flowers, only noticing too late with a glazed look in my eyes when the ball came hurtling past me, followed by a stampede of sugar-addled little monkeys that wanted to hump the ball into submission. Thank God my mother was not one of those parents who wanted to live vicariously through their little superstar athletes, and accepted my resignation with no rancor.
I think that during my entire brief career, I had the soccer ball in my actual possession twice. The first time I was caught completely unawares and kicked it to someone on the other team, which definitely didn’t help my standing with my team. The other time, the ball was stolen from me by one of my own teammates, some hotshot prick who happened to be the Team Captain’s son. This kid, incidentally, scored the majority of our goals, and had calves like coiled steel, which was a bit creepy, considering he couldn’t have been older than ten.
I always hoped that little shit would catch a cleated kick to the face that would knock his teeth out.
To this day, I still have my shin guards in a drawer somewhere. Given the memories attributed to them, I’m not quite sure why I kept them.
Maybe I wanted to go kick some walls or something.
Since my retirement from a lucrative soccer career, I’ve largely avoided any sort of contact with sports due to negative association. That little team-stealing punkass has, in my eyes, been the prototype to every single frat-boy meathead who ever popped his collar and wore his baseball cap at that idiotic cocked angle which never fails to ignite my innate rage. With the rare exception of the Super Bowl, which I only really watch for the commercials anyway, I have never watched a single game of any sort in its entirety. I still don’t completely know all the rules of football. My apathy becomes palpable when I hear discussion of batting percentages and players being drafted to new teams so they can afford another solid gold Corvette.
I’ve only ever turned on ESPN to watch Magic: The Gathering card game tournaments.
I’m berating a point that I think I’ve solidified quite extensively. I have no desire to give sports another chance, because sports gave up on me a long time ago. Rather, I feel that there are countless other things in this world far more deserving of my attention and devotion.
And here's a pretty comic that summarizes my sentiments exactly:
I will start by stating that I will be quite frank about this subject-I am in no way, shape, or form a “sports” person. This is not to say that I don’t find the concept interesting or entertaining, nor does this mean I am completely unwelcoming to the watching and participation in, thereof. What I do mean is that I am not the sort of person that might frequent sports bars, adorn myself in any type of sport paraphernalia, or will casually switch on the tube to see whoever is ahead in whatever championship series at whichever stadium.
Personally, I find the spectacle to be a farce; a full-blown squandering of resources completely wasted on the dramatized over-glamorization of physical prowess for sheer purposes of entertainment. I absolutely repudiate, in every way, that bright-eyed muscleheads with a gleam in their smile are paid millions to engage in some form of ball hunt for a crowd of billions of equally-dull lunatic fans hooting like painted baboons because their favored group of steroid-ites was better at running around in a circle for an hour or two than the other mongoloids on the field.
Not that I’m bitter or anything, I just feel that the billions which are spent on what I see as a completely pointless industry might be better placed towards other social pursuits. Honestly, how many different forms of entertainment are available as a distraction from the drudgery of everyday life? Can we not afford to eliminate, say, football from those distractions? I realize this is a radical idea, one which might lead to the formulation of prohibition-esque underground football leagues. Yes, I’m being a bit facetious, but I’ve never fully embraced the concept of sports appreciation, one such aspect being that of sports scholarships. To me, those seem to be unjustly-given rewards. “Oh, well, Big Joe just barely squeaked by with a D-average in his Math and English classes, but damn, can that boy RUN!” I suppose my stance on this subject stems from a long-held jealousy and several bad experiences early in childhood.
I was never unhealthy or overweight my entire life. I was, however, stunningly average at physical activities, sometimes even less so. I distinctly remember one instance during second or third grade, where indoor recess was held. Most of the other kids were distracted by jump ropes and kick-balls, leaving the basketball hoop largely abandoned. I picked up a rather vintage-looking basketball, which greatly dwarfed my hands, boldly determined to shoot some hoops. Unfortunately, my efforts quickly proved that to achieve “some” hoops was a very lofty goal indeed, and the goal was therefore diminished to getting at least ONE hoop.
Pathetically, I stood there, alone, for the entire fifteen minutes, trying desperately to throw the ball even remotely close enough to graze the net with my little arms, silently damning the fact that they’d erected the bloody thing so many miles up every time I missed a shot. The bell rang, and I dropped my leather stone of Sisyphus, simultaneously disgraced by failure and eager to get back the pursuit of academia, in which I took some degree of pleasure, knowing that I could excel in that, at least.
I still don’t remember if I was trying to impress my classmates, or simply impress myself. Regardless, I definitely didn’t even need any coach to inform me of my inadequacy; that my self-esteem in the field of sports had been, from that moment on, irrevocably crushed.
One other notable experience following that was my short-lived stint as a half-pint soccer player. It was perhaps a year later, but somehow I had been drafted into some little league team through means that I honestly don’t remember to this day. Perhaps I was trying to compensate for my previous failure. While I’m not the kind of person to simply lay down and die after a bad experience, the basketball incident had killed most of my desire to be any sort of an athlete, and the following experience permanently fixated that sentiment.
I vividly recall being completely enamored with my newly-purchased shin guards, probably because now I could kick walls and poles without hurting myself. I think this concept of partial invulnerability appealed to me more so than the thrill of the game itself. In all reality, there was little thrill involved. I can’t recall how many games I actually played, but in terms of participation, mine was nearly nonexistent.
I was very much not a “team player,” rather, I was the sort of kid who would stand in the outer limits of the playing field and become totally bewitched by butterflies and flowers, only noticing too late with a glazed look in my eyes when the ball came hurtling past me, followed by a stampede of sugar-addled little monkeys that wanted to hump the ball into submission. Thank God my mother was not one of those parents who wanted to live vicariously through their little superstar athletes, and accepted my resignation with no rancor.
I think that during my entire brief career, I had the soccer ball in my actual possession twice. The first time I was caught completely unawares and kicked it to someone on the other team, which definitely didn’t help my standing with my team. The other time, the ball was stolen from me by one of my own teammates, some hotshot prick who happened to be the Team Captain’s son. This kid, incidentally, scored the majority of our goals, and had calves like coiled steel, which was a bit creepy, considering he couldn’t have been older than ten.
I always hoped that little shit would catch a cleated kick to the face that would knock his teeth out.
To this day, I still have my shin guards in a drawer somewhere. Given the memories attributed to them, I’m not quite sure why I kept them.
Maybe I wanted to go kick some walls or something.
Since my retirement from a lucrative soccer career, I’ve largely avoided any sort of contact with sports due to negative association. That little team-stealing punkass has, in my eyes, been the prototype to every single frat-boy meathead who ever popped his collar and wore his baseball cap at that idiotic cocked angle which never fails to ignite my innate rage. With the rare exception of the Super Bowl, which I only really watch for the commercials anyway, I have never watched a single game of any sort in its entirety. I still don’t completely know all the rules of football. My apathy becomes palpable when I hear discussion of batting percentages and players being drafted to new teams so they can afford another solid gold Corvette.
I’ve only ever turned on ESPN to watch Magic: The Gathering card game tournaments.
I’m berating a point that I think I’ve solidified quite extensively. I have no desire to give sports another chance, because sports gave up on me a long time ago. Rather, I feel that there are countless other things in this world far more deserving of my attention and devotion.
And here's a pretty comic that summarizes my sentiments exactly: