SkoopaTroopa Does Sportsing

I have a very complicated relationship with sports. My parents expected me to be a boy, but I popped out with a glorious innie instead. I was not the Danny they had been hoping for--and I think, especially my father, really wanted a boy. Looking back at childhood pictures, I was frequently dressed as a jockey or as a baseball player. Likely, this was through no choice of my own -- people don't generally let toddlers gussy themselves up.

 

 I was an uncoordinated child, much interested in fantasy or swordplay. I've never been very good at reality; it's super boring. I loved Thundercats and Silverhawks and the occasional BraveStarr. I routinely decapitated Barbie dolls because I didn't like them or because I was a burgeoning little serial killer--anywho...

I was a less than feminine child. There are pictures of me looking miserable in pink bunny outfits and frou frou dresses that my grandmother would buy for me -- they always came in tan Madigan's boxes with navy blue lids. I may even have some of those boxes stored away in my basement.

But, this, all of it, left me in this muddy middle ground, falling short of everyone's expectations -- Jessica, the disappointment--too female to be a boy and too masculine to be feminine, awe shucks.

I tried my hand at bowing for a while; I did an ill-advised stint as a cheerleader because I wanted a trophy. Both were sad and laughable feats. The only sport I ever actually wanted to play was soccer, which was never a "life passion" for me. But, this is all me getting ahead of myself.

My dad and I have very little in common, save a wide nose and similar shaped eyes. When I was young, he was a truck driver, often on the road. I didn't see him very often; I still don't. I'm not all that certain I've ever known him very well. However, I do know that he loves Chicago, our home town. More importantly, he loves Chicago sports.

So, as a child, it seemed in my best interest(s) to also love sports. And, I did. I didn't actually know what was happening in the game(s) I watched. I wasn't sure why some games were played on courts and others in fields. I did not know the rules of any of the games. They were far too complicated for my tiny flighty mind. What I did know was that Bulls and Bears and their Cubs were all that was right with the world.

I knew that Michael Jordan was a winner, to cheer for Scottie Pippen, and that Horace Grant wore ridiculous goggles. I knew that 1985 had been a good year and that I probably wanted a Papa Bear Halas. I learned to SuperBowl Shuffle and read books about "Sweetness", though I always preferred "The Fridge". I knew that we lived on the North side of town which meant that Sox were dirty and were best placed on feet or in shoes. I knew that Harry Caray called the games and that hot dogs always tasted better in Wrigley Field.

Sports were clearly important to my father. So, they became important to me. I have few truly vibrant memories from my childhood that include my father. But, I can always clearly picture myself sitting in his lap in my oversize ALF t-shirt, happily watching sports. I think I was content I think I felt accepted.

While I am less of a sports enthusiast than you might now assume, these moments with my father stuck with me, instilled in me this deep love for the city from which I came, this team loyalty. It's that thing that people don't understand about Chicago fans, why love a losing team? You love a losing team because it's part of who you are. You love a losing team because it's part of where you came from. You love a losing team because your dad loved a losing team, to be closer to him. You love a losing team because they don't always lose, because the sweet satisfaction of something you've cherished for so long finally achieving a victory makes it all that sweeter.