Still Not a Sports Fan

“I hate sports people.”

In a crowded bar that had once been unknown to most people, my husband Christian and I wove our way around people standing in the middle of the space, staring at a projector screen that played a football game. Never before had this bar, our bar, shown sports on their projector; it was always bad 80s movies, snippets of old video games, “The Golden Girls.” It was a vibe, you know? And this? This was not the vibe.

As I made my statement, I realized I’d said it aloud and not kept it in my head, like I thought I had. Damn those two drinks I’d had. A man in some sports cap frowned at me; he’d clearly heard. Oops. My cheeks blushed, and I dashed out of the bar, my husband trailing behind me through the throng of drunken patrons. He finally caught up to me outside, breathing in the cold February air.

“Yeah, me, too,” he affirmed. We walked home, talking about one thing or another, but certainly not sports.

Growing up, I was always active. But the activities I chose — and with which I stuck — were more solitary in nature: horseback riding, dancing, running, yoga, martial arts. I had participated in group sports exactly three times, and all three times, I strongly disliked it. There were too many people on whom I had to rely, and I knew we didn’t all like each other. There was this frustration that built in me as I witnessed so many of these people pretend to like each other only to talk behind their backs. I saw no reason why someone would want to be on a team if that was what being a part of a team meant.

Has this made me a bit of a judgmental asshole when it comes to sports people? Absolutely. Sporting events are loud, long, and have too many people. You can find me on Super Bowl Sunday with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on, a glass of wine, and a video game going. The fascination with any sport has never made sense to me. That was, it hadn’t until this week.

The World Cup

I sped into the grocery store, sweat already dripping down my arms from the humidity. My husband called behind me to slow down, but there was no chance. I wanted to get what we needed and be out and home before the match began. It was the World Cup, and our neighborhood had never been more excited. People spilled out of their buildings and onto the streets representing different countries, tromping toward any bar, hookah lounge, or restaurant that had a television. There was no way in hell I was going to allow myself to be trapped in a mass of sports people on the street. 

The grocery store was shockingly silent save for the two televisions that management had put out so the cashiers could watch the game. The woman who checked out my items barely paid attention to what she was scanning as she stared at the screen, mouth slightly agape even though it still just featured pre-game commentators. As we walked outside, we began to hear singing in another language. I looked across the street to find a group of men in their 20s and 30s parading down the sidewalk, decked out in Moroccan jerseys and waving Moroccan flags. While I know exactly one word in Arabic, it sounded like Morocco’s national anthem. I sighed and continued down the street with my husband; we made eyes at each other as the noise from the crowds grew louder. Suddenly, however, a family with two young children walked out of a building and began heading toward the group of men. Both children also wore Moroccan jerseys, and the daughter held a small flag. The parents gripped the children’s hands and led them forward, singing. As the two groups came closer together, the singing changed. It seemed like they all began to smile in unison before bursting out in song, the anthem reaching higher volumes with the family joining the men. They danced around each other, clapping their hands and encouraging each other to sing louder. As I watched, an SUV drove down the street toward them. The front passenger window opened, and the groups’ singing began to falter. A woman in her 70s leaned out of the car, pulling out and waving a massive Moroccan flag, and she began to shout the words to the song they’d been singing. Almost as if they were expecting this all along, the family and the group of men joined in with the woman, raising their voices to a level I’d never experienced before. The woman waved the flag, gripped tightly in her fists, as she swayed to their singing, even as the car continued to drive away. The family and the group of men finally parted ways but continued to sing along with each other, their voices growing louder, as they walked in different directions. I watched the men, flags raised higher than before, join a mass of Moroccan fans on the next street, all headed to the hookah lounges and cafés on that block. 

“Are you ready?”

Christian’s words pulled me out of my entrancement. I realized as I looked at him that I’d been standing in place on the sidewalk, having not moved an inch since we’d walked out of the grocery store. I could feel my cheeks burning from smiling for too long. A feeling of adrenaline ran through my muscles. Christian cocked his head at me, eyebrows furrowed, but a smile on his own face. He’d enjoyed the spectacle, too.

We made our way home, and this time, I didn’t push through the crowds of fans as they danced and sang and waved their flags. I meandered through them all, smiling at their sheer joy. How could one not?

A change of heart — maybe

Later that night, Christian and I sat on the couch in the living room, watching a movie he’d wanted to show me for months. Thirty minutes in, though, he noticed that I was scrolling on my phone. With a huff, he paused the movie and looked at me. The lack of the movie’s sound and Christian’s eyes on me made me pause and look up, first at the television, and then at him. He looked expectantly at me.

“Jessica, what are you doing?” Annoyance was evident in his tone.

My cheeks reddened, and I swallowed before showing him my phone screen. ESPN was pulled up.

“I wanted to see if Morocco was winning.”