I hate sports. I have since I was a child. I was a chubby kid and i wore glasses. They had thick frames, and just as thick of lenses. I was every bit as clumsy as I looked. Despite this, I made what my juvenile mind considered to be a herculean effort to participate in our national past time. It wasn't long before the other kids stopped inviting me to play with them. I hate sports.
My own shortcomings generated a generous portion of resentment for professional athletes. Seeing professional baseball players on the feild in their fancy-pantsy uniforms, I swear I could detect an aura of smugness exuding from their overpaid pores. Somehow, though, I caught the fever for a brief, yet glorious, month in 1995. As the Mariners beat out the Yankees to break their way into the American League Championships, I suddenly felt like I had a team I could root for. A team that nobody expected to succeed came busting onto the scene like a crazed bull in Pamplona.
The stars had aligned to put a powerhouse of players onto Seattle's team. With a monumental pitcher like Randy Johnson, high profile hitters like Ken Griffey Jr and A-Rod, and my personal favorites, the soft spoken Edgar Martinez and baby faced Joey Cora, this was a team I could get behind. As they won game after game, I started to read about baseball statistics and save my allowance to buy baseball cards. For the first time, I was a fan. Not just a fan - a number one fan. I was with these guys no matter what. I was the long lost brother of every Mariner.
Then the Indians knocked them out of the series.
The team that I had given my faith and my confidence, the team with whom I had deposited my hopes and dreams like some sort of emotional bank account, the team that I had championed loudly amongst all my friends, had lost. I couldn't believe it. The shame, the horror of it. I don't watch baseball anymore. I hate sports.