Bad Sportsmanship

It may come as a surprise to my readers to know that I am not well equipped, in terms of knowledge, when it comes to sport.

Yes, I vaguely understand that all sports are based on the notion that someone has to lose. Whether this means acquiring more scores than the other team, or just being the person who shouts the loudest for no discernible reason; it’s all the same to me, which is to say, unattractive.

This is quit strange for a number of reasons which I will not be putting in the following bullet point list (okay I lied)

  • I’m not a particularly inactive person
  • I’m not averse to physical activity
  • I enjoy competition via games

I think on this particular point it’s best just it say “it’s not for me” and put it to rest. Unfortunately I’m not a great fan of doing what is best, and shall press forward.

I can generally see why people enjoy participating in sport; I imagine scoring that winning tri in cricket is much the same feeling as winning the game for your team on [popular video game]. What I don’t understand is people’s ability to watch others playing sport.

Now, once more I feel it is important to note that I am not being disingenuous when I say that i am in no way claiming that those who enjoy watching sport are somehow deficient. If anything I get the sneaking suspicion (as I often do) that it is I whom is some how lacking. Perhaps there is some kind of hormone that allows one to take excitement from other people’s activities.

I just don’t seem to get that second hand thrill that others find so readily available. Which, I’ll be honest, leaves me feeling a little like that kid who never joined in with the fads, you know the one; too much nose, not enough chin, spent too much time with his hand down his pants.

Perhaps it is my urge to be doing something* that robs me of this pleasure. If only watching someone else doing something would suffice.

I consider this now because a memory surfaced from my childhood (don’t worry uncle Bernard, I’m still repressing those memories), of my father asking me if I would go to a football match with him. At the time I was 7 and did not understand the concept of bonding, or if I did, I didn’t understand how they applied to me, and so declined my fathers offer with more than a sufficient amount of disdain.

Remembering this decision genuinely turns my stomach; I don’t remember how my Dad looked afterwards, but I can very well imagine how he would have felt (knowing my father, hunger was probably in there somewhere**). So…

I think I’ve just written this pointless essay as some form of atonement for being a completely disinterested and disinteresting son. No doubt I’ll be doing the same in a future post, atoning for being a disinterested and disinteresting father.

That’s called progress.

*not necessarily something useful, pertinent, or legal.

**Some people may consider this a fat joke. I envy those people.

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