sports and sticks

Fresh into adulthood, I used to tell people (with a quiet air of superiority) that I had observed two kinds of people in this world: those who use sports metaphors, and those who do not. Profound, I know! You'll never guess which category I fall into. Once I scrambled my way out of school and many situations in which I was surrounded by children who were able to throw and catch a ball as if it were no big deal, I breathed a sigh of relief. College and the world of work were, for me, blessed places in which ignorance of major sports teams was a legitimate stance. No more volleyball with mean boys in gym class. The oppressive world of sports receded quietly into safe corners, only to be encountered on a muted screen in a bar, or in human interest stories that made it into other sections of the newspaper about engaging topics like Alan Iverson's mother.

Well. Here is my startling confession. I think I may be creeping slowly onto the other side. Sports metaphors cannot be far off, since I spend so much of my time learning about sports with Gabriel. He has been studying the Scholastic Visual Sports Encyclopedia night and day for weeks now, in addition to his daily interlude with the sports section (which usually culminates in a sports collage) and, if the day allows, hours of pretend running, tackling, and sliding into home base in the backyard.

The boy is slowly but surely showing me the light. I tossed a football with Mike (a Nerf football, but still a football!) in the backyard yesterday evening, while kicking a soccer ball slowly to Goalie Gabriel, so he could calculate and executive a properly dramatic dive to block it. Oh my. It was fun. Years of accumulated, entrenched sports-phobia are slowly softening and melting away. In the gentle space left in their wake, I can try out throwing and catching and kicking without any pressure at all.

Yesterday, Gabriel woke early from his nap so we had time for a walk. First things first: select a proper stick. You will need it, because a walk is a fine opportunity for playing a variety of imaginary sports. The stick will serve you well as a golf club, a polo mallet, a baseball bat, a javelin, and a baton in the relay race. (That sports encyclopedia is very, very comprehensive). It could also be a rifle, but your mother might not join in that game quite so enthusiastically.

Gabriel is showing me something new. This sports thing seems more essential somehow than construction vehicles (though I do appreciate how he illuminated the previously unknown world of dump trucks for me). This process started when he was just a baby, singing songs to balls and showing me how incredible a ball really is. He doesn't know how his passions and imagination are opening a part of me that I had long ago decided should remain closed. It is so, so cool.

I don't know if I'm ready to face those mean boys from gym class yet. But if you come by our backyard sometime, I'd sure like to play catch with you. Gabriel will run circles around us, making pretend touchdowns. Doesn't it sound like fun?