Sport for thought

I love sports. I love watching and participating in all kinds of sports.

My older brother made sure that I didn't throw like a girl and that I knew how to make a lay-in. He was an all-star athlete, so I felt privileged to have had my very own private coach at my disposal.

YMCA co-ed basketball started my official sporting career at the age of eight. My main goal in those games was to run down the court faster than all the other kids on the court. I didn't get the ball much in those days. Boys.

Organized softball came to me through church, which prepared me well for high school softball. And thanks to my brother, I had one of the best outfield arms out there.

I started playing volleyball the summer before my freshman year. No one in my family had played volleyball so I had no expert coach at my disposal, but I really loved the sport and worked hard to learn the skills, going to summer volleyball camps and working at home.

Of the three sports I pursued, my middle school only offered basketball. This is when I was first introduced to the world of stats. In sports, you count everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. Assists, rebounds, steals, turn-overs, shot attempts, and yes, even actual points scored. My coach, Mr. Dyck, would post all the stats in his room. By my eighth grade year I had inched my way up to the top of a few of those lists. It felt good.

In high school I enjoyed playing all three sports, one leading right into the other. I was in very good shape and having so much fun.

During volleyball season in the fall, I ate, drank and slept volleyball. My favorite team to watch was the UW Huskies. But when basketball rolled around in the winter, my allegiance quickly changed sports as well. I was in love with the Seattle Supersonics--actually in love with them. I wanted to marry Dale Ellis and have little fuzzy-headed brown babies. I did manage to get my picture with him on center court at Key Arena. That was as close as I got to matrimony. Softball would begin in the spring, as did the Mariner season. Suddenly, all I cared about watching was those boys in blue: Griffey Jr., Buhner, Martinez.

My dad helped me gain an appreciation for Nascar. My Grandpa Kulle showed me how to enjoy watching golf. My brother liked to watch tennis, so that rubbed off on me as well. I loved the Rocky movies, so even boxing was somewhat enjoyable, too.

But there was one sport that I and my entire family had deemed intolerable. We didn't even feel it worthy of the term "sport." No one in my family played it; no one in my family watched it. In fact, it was often the butt of many jokes.

Soccer.

During volleyball season, the locker room was an interesting place to be. While we volleyball girls would be singing "Straight Up," fixing the bows in each other's hair, there would be a whole other kind of breed of girl preparing in an entirely different way for their sport. They were the soccer girls. I did not understand them. They were strange and foreign to me. They were always a little dirty and rough, it seemed. It was quite a contrast to the sparkly white, bubbly volleyball team primping in front of the mirror. At the time, that was the closest I thought I'd ever get to a soccer player.

Then, I bore one.

Yes, out of my womb, came a full-fledged, souled-out soccer player. Gabby lives and breaths soccer. She started playing at age six, because her friend Lydia played. Ben and I thought, well, ok! It'll be fun for a while. At least she'll get some good exercise. Then we'll get her into a real sport.

Nothing doing. After an unsuccessful attempt at basketball (a co-ed team that actually had boys that were born holding a basketball), we realized that it was soccer all the way for our oldest daughter.

So here we are, six years later, armed with all the tools necessary to watch soccer in all seasons: three folding chairs, two enormous umbrellas, one waterproof blanket, rain pants, rain coat, gloves, boots, and the occasional dab of sunscreen. We have learned that soccer games are cancelled for NO reason. We have watched our daughter play in 38 degree rain, and 108 degree sweltering heat.

I have come to gain an appreciation for the sport, and understand the general workings of the game, but after watching my cousin (actually my first cousin once removed) play in his All-Star Little League baseball game the other night, I realized something very significant: soccer is not a very relaxing sport to watch. You see, in my cousin's baseball game, between pitches and innings, I could enjoy pleasant conversation with my family and enjoy the sunshine. It was a lovely evening. But with soccer, the clock never stops. They just keep running and kicking and running and kicking and running and kicking.

Here's my conclusion on soccer as a spectator sport: It is the sport where you ALWAYS think that something is ABOUT to happen, but NOTHING ever does. You can never relax and visit with the person next to you because inevitably you will be interrupted by a roaring "OOOOHHH!!!!" as everyone was SURE that we were about to score a goal. But no. Gabby's game on Friday is a prime example of that. After two intense 35 minute halves, we lost 0-1. One goal in that entire game. The rest was filled with "OOOHHHHH!!"

But, alas, after years of playing other sports, I have successfully morphed into a soccer mom. And I do, in fact, enjoy seeing my daughter participate in something that she loves and is good at. I can appreciate that. I do still play volleyball and softball, but I am first and foremost a soccer mom. And, amazingly, she prepares for the game much like the volleyball breed of my day: singing and primping in front of the mirror. At least I have that.

Go, Gab! You rock!

What's your favorite sports to play and watch?