The Sports Gene

Since I heard that progressives have a special gene that makes them think the way they do, I've been hoping that scientists will soon start looking for the sports gene, because although I am quite sure I possess the liberal-progressive gene, I know for a fact that I lack the gene responsible for anything that has to do with sports. And this, I'm afraid, jeopardizes my place in American society.

The reason I started to worry has to do with the Giants. You see, in 2014 the Giants won the World Series. My San Francisco-born daughter posted something about the team on Facebook, which should have alerted me to the event. But I had no clue what she was talking about. She might as well have written it in Korean.

And so, a day after I saw her post I tried to strike up a friendly conversation with a colleague at work. I asked him when the Giants were going to play the final game of the World Series. Was it going to be in November, December or January?

The expression on the guy's face made me feel like he might need a defibrillator. He stared at me in stunned silence and after a few seconds, the words fell out of his mouth. "The Giant have already won the World Series."

Oops.

I didn't dare ask if the Giants played football or baseball. That would have finished him off completely and I didn't wish him any harm. As they like to say in this country: "It's not personal."
So you see? I am hopeless when it comes to sports.

I once rented a room from a woman who was the accountant for the 49ers. Shortly before I moved in, the team won the Super Bowl and my landlady, I found out, partied with them after the game. Now, how do I know that the 49ers play football, you may ask. The only reason I know that fact is because I saw autographed footballs enclosed in a glass case in her living room. She also had a bunch of signed photographs hanging on the wall next to the glass case.

I am sorry to say, though, that all the football memorabilia left me unmoved. My total ignorance prevented me from prostrating myself in sheer awe before her football altar. Or how can I put it more clearly? My inner Moses failed to recognize the deity in the burning bush.

But don't get me wrong. I am not a hater of sports. I am just not that into them. Because I lack the sports gene. It's a DNA malfunction.

For the benefit of the doubt, and to preserve my citizenship, let me tell you that there was a time that curiosity got the better of me and drove me to watch some unmemorable matches in very famous stadiums.

For example, I once saw a game at Yankee Stadium between the Yankees and the Red Sox. I was told that Reggie Jackson would be in that game – not that I knew who he was. Like any dumb foreigner, I knew nothing about the game and all I could think was: "What the hell is an inning? IN what?" I sat on the hard bench among screaming adults and tried to figure out why it was such a big deal to watch overweight guys in pajamas spitting on the ground and rearranging their privates. There was also lukewarm beer and hot dogs and lots of American cars in the enormous parking lot that created a traffic jam from hell after the game finally ended in the sixteenth inning or whatever. I think the Yankees won the game but don't quote me on that. I just checked another item off my to-do list and went home to brag about it.

A year or so later, I found myself watching a soccer game in Maracana in Rio de Janeiro. This was when I learned to chant "Um dos três, quatro cinco mil, eu quero que Flamengo vai pra puta que pariu." The chant translates to "One, two, three, four, five thousand, I want Flamengo to go to hell (literally, ‘go to the whore who gave birth to you’). Definitely good material for learning authentic language use. In Portuguese, it rhymes nicely when 100,000 grownups yell it in tandem and blow giant horns accompanied by incessant drumming. No hot dogs though. The only thing worth noting is that the team I was supposed to root for won. Which probably saved my life and the life of those who took me to the game.

The last time I was in a stadium was at the U.S. Open. I am quite sure one of the tennis players was John McEnroe because there was lots of cursing and tantrums on the court. I used to think it was Jimmy Connors who I saw playing, but when I described the tantrums years later I was told it was McEnroe not Connors. Maybe I saw them playing against one another. Not so sure about it. My memory betrays me when it comes to these details.

So you see, that's how it is with me when it comes to sports: McEnroe, Connors, Giants, 49ers, Dodgers, Lakers, Yankees, Red Sox, White Sox, Dream Team, whatever. It's all just names to me. And don't get me started on boxing, please. Watching men punch each other in the face to unconsciousness is not what I consider "entertainment."

People try to explain to me why watching a good game is fun. Why being a fan of a sports team is fun. I listen with all the open-mindedness I can muster and try really hard to understand. But I can't.

So one day, when they find the sports gene, I will consider gene therapy. It might make me a better citizen.