ESPN.com - Sports nuts fall farther from the tree

ESPN.com: Page 2

Tuesday, December 11, 2001
Sports nuts fall farther from the tree

By Bob Halloran
Special to Page 2

The family went out to a lunch just before Thanksgiving, and I overheard my 7-year-old son tell my father: "I don't know anyone who likes sports as much as my dad."


	Geez, it's hard to figure why some kids don't take after their folks nowadays.

I couldn't tell if he said it with pride -- in a "my dad's bigger than your dad" kind of way ... or with sadness -- in a "my dad pays more attention to sports than he does to me" kind of way ... or as an innocent proclamation of truth, because, in fact, he doesn't know anyone who likes sports more than I do. The kid's only 7. How many people does he know who can even dress themselves? Selecting the biggest sports fan in his life is no doubt significantly easier than choosing between his Pikachu and Scooby-Doo underwear.

My first impulse was just to smile at my son's astute observation and take another bite of my steak sandwich, which I put on Mr. Underhill's bill, but I suddenly heard myself blurt out: "Oh yeah, how about every person at my job?"

And that's the truth, as well. ESPN is loaded with absolute freaks of nature -- men and women who have instant recall, and total recall, about sporting events large and small. People who actually know how they come up with a quarterback rating; people who debate the merits of the overtime system in the SWAC; people who discuss the stick-handling abilities of a sixth-round NHL draft pick from Finland; and people who expect me to be able to do the same. Where do they mass-produce people like this? And how does someone who can remember who caught a critical (and can you believe I'm using the word "critical") third-down pass in the 1992 Sugar Bowl ever forget an anniversary? They can tell you the date, and even the day of the week, that Larry Bird stole the ball from Isiah Thomas, but somehow that kind of minutiae is blocking any memory of the day they got married.

However, I have gradually learned that when I'm anchoring for ESPNEWS and a producer says in my ear, "Throw it out to a press conference with the assistant vice president of player personnel for the Carolina Hurricanes," the reason the producer doesn't tell me the name of the V.P. is because he or she doesn't know it either. I used to jump into the computer looking for team websites real fast, because I didn't want anyone to find out I didn't know such basic information. Now I ask, and I've discovered that each individual doesn't know everything.

Of course, as a group, they still freak me out!

Yes, they're freaks, and they're raising the next generation of freaks. Periodically, someone will traipse in and put their 3-year-old on display.

		My oldest son is 11, and I don't think it's possible for him to care any less about the infield fly rule. He's asked me why road signs are green, how do you know when egg salad's gone bad, and what was that word I used when I slammed my thumb with a hammer, but he's never asked me why the ground can't cause a fumble.

"Hey, Tommy, what did Andruw Jones hit this year?"

"Doo-fiddy-one, Mommy!"

"Bradley, tell the nice man who wears number 52 on the Celtics."

"Vitaly Potapenko!"

"That's right, but are we supposed to put the accent on the first or the third syllable?"

"Oh yeah, it's POT-a-penk-o!"

"Good, boy! Here's a cookie!"

And to think, all my kids could do at age 3 was sing the alphabet. And you wanna know why? Because the grownups in their lives spent a little time every day working with letters, and teaching them the alphabet song. That's how kids learn. Therefore, we must conclude that these freakish parents spent an inordinate amount of time teaching their kids about batting averages, possible playoff scenarios, and magic numbers. When my kids were 3, the only magic number they were aware of was No. 2, because they liked doing it!

Those little savants have been brainwashed. They didn't spend their mornings poring over box scores. I don't believe they've shunned "Dexter's Laboratory" and "Blues Clues" for SportsCenter. And there's still a problem with priorities in our society if Little Johnny can spell Vladimir Polestenkovichensteinborgle's name before he can spell the name of his brother, Bob.

I've tried very hard not to push my kids into sports, but I have to admit to some disappointment that they haven't become sports fans on their own. My oldest son is 11, and I don't think it's possible for him to care any less about the infield fly rule. He's asked me why road signs are green, how do you know when egg salad's gone bad, and what was that word I used when I slammed my thumb with a hammer, but he's never asked me why the ground can't cause a fumble.

The closest he's ever come to asking me a sports question was once, when he walked in while I was watching "The Waterboy," and he asked me why garbage gets made in Hollywood when absolutely everyone involved with the project knows it's garbage, but they release it anyway. He didn't actually say the words out loud, but I knew what he meant while he shook his head disapprovingly on the way out.

When I first popped my head out of the sand and acknowledged that my oldest son wasn't going to be an athlete or even a fan, I wasn't disappointed. I was shocked. He was probably about 8, and I asked him if he wanted to go out and play catch. He said, "No." No? Can you imagine your dad asking you to play catch, and you say, "No!" If my dad had said, "Hey, son, let's you and me hang out together and stick needles in our eyes," I would have jumped at the chance. You don't have to love what you're doing with your dad, but you should love being with your dad. How much do you have to hate catch to just say no?

And that's when the doubts started creeping into my faith. Why do I like sports so much? How come when my dad gave me my first baseball glove, I slept with it? What genetic defect do I have that allows me to enjoy watching golf on TV? Why do I think playing catch is fun?

People with mental disabilities will sometimes repeat the same action over and over again, almost like an involuntary movement born out of a near-comatose state. How far away is that from playing catch, or throwing a tennis ball against a brick wall for two hours, or hitting a couple of buckets of balls ... or how about jogging, the most mind-numbing and repetitive activity of all time?

Think about this exchange for a moment. Then think about how many times you've heard it. Then tell me if you don't feel like the dumb, bald eagle from Bugs Bunny singing: "My momma done told me to fetch-a the dinner."

"Ball one."

Silence.

More Silence.

"We're in the fourth inning of a 2-2 ballgame."

"Fouled away. One and one."

Momentary silence.

"It's a beautiful night here at (insert name of ballpark). Not much traffic on the way in. John and I had time to stop at our favorite hot-dog stand. I had a foot-long with everything on it. John likes the sausage."

"But the sausage doesn't always like me."

Far too much laughter, followed by an awkward silence.

"This game is being brought to you by (insert name of beer company, then insert slogan for said beer company). Strike two. Nobody on, nobody out."

Silence again. Camera takes a shot of either a young sleeping fan, or a drunk sleeping fan.

"And he struck him out. Finally! That's one down and 35 more to go. Yes, we're expecting to be here until the merciful god of death puts an end to this misery."

Then the announcer covers his mike and turns to his partner and says, "If this game goes into extra innings, I want you to put a small bullet in my brain."


	In "The Waterboy," Adam Sandler's high-grade H2O provided low-grade laughs.

Again, I love baseball! I swear I do! But if my kids ever ask me why, I won't have an answer. Then as I get older, they'll be able to use it against me while telling a retirement home, "Well, all he does is sit in front of the TV and watch the same games over and over again." And just as quick as you please, I've got a new room! But as long as they've got ESPN Classic at Shady Oaks Senior Living Community, I'll be happy, and my kids can rob me of all the money I've made working in sports.

I do wish my kids liked sports. Participation at a young age teaches valuable lessons regarding competition, winning and losing with dignity, working as part of a team, and the importance of health and fitness. Later, as a spectator, sports provide wonderful human drama, emotional highs and lows, and opportunities to come together with friends and family. These are some of the reasons I like sports, but you can't get someone to understand that if they don't already, anymore than someone can't get you to appreciate Mozart, if you don't already. The old saying is true: You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him watch Fresno State against Gonzaga at 1:30 in the morning. That's a choice every horse and freakishly obsessive fan has to make for themselves.

Besides, I don't want my kids to like sports as much as I do -- at least not now. For a little while longer, I'd like to be more important to them than Jason Giambi or Pedro Martinez. And I can damn well tell you that my kids will forever be more important to me than any overpaid, overly self-indulgent, tending-to-be-overweight athlete.

Note to other dads: Try to remember that the next time your kid wants to play with you when there's a game on.

There will always be a game on, but your kid won't always want to play with you.

Bob Halloran is an anchorman for ESPNEWS.