I wrote this first story five years ago for a national magazine, which led me to come up with ever sillier things to do during one unemployed stretch.
I’m lounging on the couch on a late, quiet Sunday night as I watch a show I’d recorded earlier in the week; everyone's asleep, so it's just me and my TV. Life’s good, except for one small detail: what I’m watching. It’s Oprah and a singer is belting out "Dear Oprah." I could—and should—hit pause, stop, delete, explode! Except for a few small facts that weigh on me like a bad dream starring Rosie O’Donnell. I volunteered to watch this. I even taped Oprah myself so I wouldn’t miss it.
As bad as that seems, it’s actually worse. I’m watching Oprah because I gave up sports for a whole week. That sentence hurts more than a Tyson punch.
I’ve spent the last six days and 22 hours ostracized from anything related to sports. All that’s left is to watch this show to gain an appreciation for why women love Oprah. Instead, this episode reveals that Oprah seems to be a female Terrell Owens: T.Oprah. During five segments, she becomes the focus of four of them. That’s when it hits me: Oprah’s guests fawn over her like the Godfather’s guests at his daughter’s wedding. Oprah Winfrey is the new Don Corleone, the Godmother to the Godfather.
That’s how it seems after 167 hours and 10 minutes without sports, so I may be wrong. I’m weak, I’m confused, I’ve spent a week talking to myself because no one else knows what to say … and I just watched Oprah. All I know for sure: I miss sports.
When it comes to sports, I’m as overexposed as a 1970s-era streaker, and so are you. Sports pervade society; they’re also a rewarding first love, creating communities of friends that expand like Barkley’s waistline. So why my sports suicide? Part self-improvement (“Could I do better things with my time?”), part self-delusional challenge (“I’m sure I can do it.”). I want to experience, perhaps even enjoy, the other side of life, a world where Lions are at the zoo and Rent isn’t only what you pay for your place.
Who knows, the week may improve my weaknesses. I can’t cook, I rarely shop, I have a toolbox but don’t ask me to locate it. All I know about cars is they start when I turn the key. And the extent of my classical music knowledge is Baby Mozart.
I decide no sports will mean: no ESPN, local sports TV, or game-watching. No websites or sports talk with friends. I can’t wear clothes with sports logos, rec-league T-shirts, baseball caps or sneakers with swooshes. No sports sports-themed bars or restaurants, no activities involving a ball, and no exercise.
A voice inside my head—one of many stepping to the mic in the absence of ESPN anchors—whispers, “Don’t worry, you may become a better man.” By week’s end, I’m ready to go Rodman on my inner voice.
If sports creates a community, then I’m the village idiot.
As I set aside my Nikes for the week, I swear they Jordan-wag their tongues at me like I’m Craig Ehlo, taunting “Just Can’t Do It.” Well, take that, Nikes, I did it—I went a whole 13 minutes without sports! I make it all the way to 7:38 Monday morning before I reach for the remote and catch myself, my hand frozen by my new reality. My wife Linda senses my pain and comforts me with a sucker-punch by flipping on “The Today Show.”
I start my week by checking the local paper’s “Guide to the Lively Arts” (there is such a section?). Oklahoma is playing nearby, but not against Nebraska. There’s a carnival in Washington Crossing, a kiddie train ride in New Hope, a country line dancing class, and a meditation class. My favorite: PhilyFIT Bash #6. The ad copy reads: “Features fitness demos, wine & beer tastings, kids’ activities & more.” Nothing inspires Philadelphians’ interest in fitness like wine and beer.
That night, Linda and I are watching Heroes when a quirky commercial airs involving men playing extreme badminton. I tell her the two stars are pro athletes David Ortiz and Brian Urlacher. Linda jumps up like she’s with a grabby date: “You can’t do that!” I wonder if my hands are somehow acting independently of my brain. “You watched sports.”
She’s right. Like my hometown Phillies, I’d committed a mental error in less than 24 hours. “What’s my penalty?”
“Add another day,” she says. Spoilsport.
Going without sports seems beyond me and it’s only Tuesday evening. I take my 4-year-old son Daniel to the library where he chooses a Bob the Builder video and I pick 1,001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die. I have 125 hours left, I’m slowly dying, so it seems appropriate.
How have I filled the hours? I’m reading more; I burned a CD for my daughter Caitlin of my best music, or what she calls Oldies; and I hand-washed our sterling silver after a dinner with friends. Oh, and I organized my e-mail folders.
Please send help.
The biggest change: I’m spending too much time inside my own head listening to my inner voice, which sadly doesn’t sound like NFL Films legend John Facenda. (Of course, I had to refer to sports, as if James Earl Jones wouldn’t have worked.). Hold on, am I now using a second inner voice to argue about the tone of my first inner voice? Is this what Phil Mickelson hears when he’s about to putt? (Again with the sports…. Wait, now my inner voice sounds like Jackie Mason.)
I’m going to shop for the ingredients and make dinner for the family on Saturday, so I grab a cookbook to plan the meal. As I thumb through One Bite at a Time, Linda asks, “What are you going to make?”
“I don’t know, but I like lasagna—and here’s a recipe.” Linda laughs harder than when I proposed to her. “You’re going to make lasagna?”
I know how to make kid food and ballpark food: burgers, hot dogs, nachos and PB&J. Macaroni and cheese is too difficult, so I guess lasagna’s a stretch. Ahhh, here we go: Lemony Chicken with Capers and Kalamata Olives. The book notes, “A favorite of people who don’t like spending much time in the kitchen.” What can go wrong?
Reading 1,001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die, I realize I’m already dead and have been since high school. I own just three of 100-plus picks from 1995 to 2005. I’m not as bad off as Michael Jackson, who has several listings but is ripped as “a chimp-loving public oddity.”
Thursday brings great news: today at noon will be the halfway point! And Thursday brings terrible news: that’s all?
More bad news: I missed Thursday’s 6 a.m. hour of meditation at the Yardley Friends Meeting House. I wanted to have a breakfast of heart-healthy Quaker Oms, but I overslept. I’m pretty sure the Quakers won’t fight me about it.
I take the day off intending to visit Philadelphia historic sights for the first time since grade school. I check non-sports-websites—really, they exist—and find possible stops that include The Franklin Institute, the National Constitution Center, Independence Mall, the Philadelphia Zoo, the Academy of Natural Sciences, and the Please Touch Museum.
Linda looks at me as if I’ve said I’ll make lasagna. Apparently a preschool boy is like gum on your shoe when it comes to multiple stops in one day. Our revised goal: the Please Touch Museum and lunch featuring french fries.
I hit a new obstacle before we leave—I have more sports T-shirts than an equipment manager. An archaelogical dig uncovers a safe one, but I wonder, exactly how many sports T-shirts do I have? Great, something to fill my sports void this weekend!
At the kid-friendly museum’s “Story Garden,” Daniel wants me to read him a book; the first one I see out of roughly 50 options is H is for Home Run. Daniel isn’t a Sports Jedi Master yet, so he picks How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night? Once I confirm this isn’t about Bud Selig’s 2002 All-Star game fiasco, I read it to him.
Sports is America’s oxygen and as hard as I tried not to, I inhaled. A friend was telling me how he’d been an arm’s length from Tiger Woods at a tournament, before he cut short his story. A 2-year-old walking on our block wearing an Ohio State T-shirt induced me to talk to his mom about the school before she wised up. Tempted by the shirt of another, I was clearly suffering from sports/oxygen deprivation.
Clearly, my resolve is falling faster than the stock market—and the week isn’t just hard on me. At work Friday, a co-worker asks about the Phillies but quickly remembers I don’t do sports this week. Another staggers in as if he’d been caught between Al Gore and an open microphone. “You still can’t talk sports?” he moans. I’m not sure who’s more pathetic, him or me.
Daniel has a fever Saturday so my attempt to experience local culture with the family is shot like Dick Cheney’s friend. I opt for a haircut; the half-hour wait feels like I’m a photo assistant on a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot. I’m surrounded by temptation. Every publication has a sports hook: issues of SI, the Philadelphia Inquirer’s sports section, even Philadelphia magazine has Ryan Howard on the cover seemingly asking me, “You miss me, don’t you?” I opt for Reader’s Digest … and stumble across an excerpt from Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s book. I wonder if I’m sports-magnetic.
Later, I shop for my big dinner. I’m a hunter, I’m a gatherer. I’m a caveman on the prowl, eyes intense, scanning … hey, look, marshmallows! Caitlin is with me as I try to collect the ingredients, overwhelmed as a goalie facing Gretzky. We double back several times because I missed items; I leave my wallet unattended in the cart; and as I retrieve the chicken, Caitlin says, “You need a bag, Dad. You can’t just carry around raw chicken.”
I hope the cooking goes better. The book recommends “serving it over Garlicky Leafy Greens.” I’ll be serving it over a plain white plate. I make the marinade and give my chicken what the book calls “the spa treatment”—nothing but the best for my chicken. Thirty minutes later, the meal is ready and I have a real sense of accomplishment since it’s a hit except with Daniel (“Can I have tortellini?”). I end the night folding the three loads of laundry I washed.
No sports, no problem. Except I hear my aautographed Hank Aaron baaseball caalling me, “Aaren’t you going to aat least take aa look aat me?”
Finally, thank the Lord, it’s Sunday. During my mandatory morning pillow fight with Daniel, I realize it’s 10 a.m.—just 14 hours left. In the afternoon, the question I’d expected earlier in the week finally arrives, from our little neighbor Sam: “Mr. Roach, do you want to come out and play?” I look at my ball-filled yard and tell Sam, his two brothers, and Daniel why I can’t. They usually think I’m one of them; now they look at me like I’ve grown up overnight. Seeing their faces may have been the hardest part of my week.
Since the laundry’s done, I can count my sports T-shirts; do I know how to have fun, or what? My grand total: 48 of 68, numbers that’d be a good day for an Arena League quarterback. As I count, I stumble across The Godfather on Spike TV as my hours—and my resistance—dribble away. “Act like a man!” Don Corleone yells (at me?). “What’s the matter with you? Is this how you turned out?”
Thank you, Godfather. Newly emboldened, I brace for Oprah. I doubt many people have watched the two on the same day. You could quote Don Corleone, Michael, or Sonny to a guy and he’ll nod knowingly; quote Oprah, Gayle, or Dr. Bob to a guy and he’ll nod off.
Sleeps sounds like a good idea with just 50 minutes left of my week. If I had to confess my sports sins, it’d be my shortest confession ever. There was the Ortiz-Urlacher commercial; a few inadvertent sports conversations; and I mindlessly read several pages of a sports book one day. But that’s it, a grand total of seven minutes of the 10,080 in a week. The week was harder than watching hockey, but I did it.
Could I have done more? Should I have donated blood, spent a lunch break volunteering, seen more sites in Philadelphia? Sure, but it’s a start, and my week clearly awakened me to the non-sports world around me.
So why not try it yourself for a day? Try it for half a day. Depending on your passion, you may find it hard to go an hour. Just don’t hold me responsible if instead of inner peace you find your inner Jackie Mason.
No comments:
Post a Comment