The Four Stages of Watching Sports with Annabelle

Watching sports with Annabelle is a sport in itself. Or more of a game, really -- a game that ends the same way every time.

Every weekend, without fail, this happens:

Stage 1: The Decision  

Me: “Okay, Dad’s going to go downstairs watch a little (insert sport.)”
Annabelle: “I want to watch (insert sport)!”

Doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s TV. It could be water polo, actual polo, or the world paper airplane championships and Annabelle would be dutifully by my side on the couch. It’s usually basketball, football, tennis, or golf, but I get the sense that she doesn’t really care.

Stage 2: Choosing Sides

And within seconds of sitting down, this transpires:

Annabelle: “Are you rooting for the white team or the blue team?” (I’m making up the colors and the particular game for the sake of the story.)
Me: “Ah, the white team. I’ve always liked them.”
Annabelle: “Okay, I’ll cheer for the white team. … We don’t like the blue team, right?”
Me: “Well, it’s not that we don’t like them. We just like the white team more.”
Annabelle: “But we don’t like the blue team, right?”
Me: “Sure.”

She then announces to Bridget—or whoever is around—that we are cheering for the white team and that we dislike the blue team a great deal. Why we have to really like one team and really dislike another team is a mystery to me, but that’s fine. Point is, we’re cheering together.

Stage 3: Scoring and Jumping 

We then watch for, oh, maybe four minutes. Maybe five.

Then this happens:

Annabelle: “Is the white team winning?”
Me: “No, not yet. They’re down by 10.”

Thirty seconds elapse.

Annabelle: “Is the white team winning?”
Me: “Nope, still down 10.”

Fifteen seconds elapse.

Annabelle: “Is the white winning?”
Me: “Not yet.”

Then, the jumping begins. Annabelle, who is clearly not as impressed as I am about a well-run half-court offense begins jumping from the ottoman to the couch. Again. And again. And again.

Stage 4: The End 

Me: “Honey, I can’t see with you jumping everywhere.”
Annabelle: “Can we watch Daniel Tiger now?”
Me: “Well, let’s just watch this for a bit. I really want to see this game.”

Jumping. Jumping. Jumping. Jumping.

Annabelle: “Now can we watch Daniel Tiger?”

And then, usually, we stop watching sports. All four stages usually take about 15 minutes, sometimes 10, and I suppose I should get annoyed. I do sometimes, especially if Syracuse is playing or it’s close game in the fourth quarter.

Someday, I’m certain, we’ll watch a whole game together. She’ll sit with me, cheer for my favorite team with me, and ask a bunch of new questions. And a small piece of me with miss watching Daniel Tiger.

You Like Sports, Right?

I love sports. I play them, watch them, and fantasize about them. I love the drama, the excitement, the stories, the teamwork, the leadership, the winning, and the losing. Love, love, love. In fact, "love" may be the wrong word. It's not quite strong enough.

I idolize sports. There, that's better.

Sports, in all forms, have been an enormous part of my life for as long as I can remember. Quite possibly, more than anything else, they've made me the person I am today. It should come as no surprise, then, that I want my daughters to love sports, too.

But what if they don't?

It's a real possibility. Consider a recent conversation I had with Annabelle:

Me: "Annabelle, do you want to play soccer or take dance lessons?"

(Bridget and I figure we'll start with one activity and see how it goes.)

Annabelle: "Dance lessons."

Me: "Right, but soccer is awesome. You get to kick the ball, run around ..."

Annabelle: "I want dance lessons."

Me: "Are you sure? I mean, soccer is so universal. It's really cool."

Annabelle, now laughing: "Dadddd! Dance!"

Me: "Okay, okay ..."

And then we both laugh and I die a little inside. Her first dance class was yesterday. I'm told it went well.

I have nothing against dance, of course. But dance, and I hope this is okay to say in 2016, isn't a sport. Yes, yes, it's hard. Yes, there are competitions. But it's not a sport. It's a vigorous activity.

What I'm talking about is stuff like basketball, soccer, or even running. I'd totally settle for Annabelle and Aurora loving running because I could do it with them.

But what if running can't even make the cut?

I've tried — and continue to try — on numerous occasions to get Annabelle to love sports. She knows our favorite team ("the Cuse!") and loves watching college football with me on Saturdays. Sort of. After five minutes, watching college football devolves into her jumping from the ottoman to the couch again and again and again ... "Honey, look at that catch!" She looks. And shouts: "He made it!" Back to jumping.

I even trained her from a young age, putting on sports whenever she'd cry late into the night. One of my happiest moments in my first year of parenting was a three-week-old Annabelle sleeping on my chest as I watched the Iron Bowl. (Maybe someday she'll know what that is?)

This isn't a gender thing, either. It is 2016, after all. Girls are just as likely as boys to become superstar athletes. (I wrote a bit about gender equality in my first post to this blog.) But I can't lie and say I don't get jealous when I see my friend's son, clad in a football helmet and goalie gloves, cramming as many sports as possible into a given Sunday afternoon.

Annabelle is only 3, so there's plenty of time left for her to develop a life-long love of sports. She could be a great shortstop, a shifty point guard on the court, or an all-state hurdler. Or maybe all three! And obviously, no matter what she chooses, even if she hates sports, I will love her and support her completely. But I would really would prefer she love sports more than life itself.

As for Aurora? Well, she can't really crawl or walk yet, so we'll be watching lots of football later today.

"Honey, look at that catch!" She'll stare. And I'll hope.