 within earshot
A shot glass is slammed down in front of me. "Eric Lindros wants to buy you a drink." I knew exactly who the bartender meant. And it wasn't a member of "The Legion of Doom." He meant one of two guys in #88 orange Flyers jerseys sitting catty-corner from me at Bob and Barbara's Lounge. In the middle of putting together this issue on un-extreme sports, I guess I'd been staring at these burly hockey fans instead of absorbing myself in Nate Wiley and his Crowd Pleasers' jazz combo. I'd watched as they sucked down Pabst Blue Ribbons. I'd watched as they high-fived. I'd watched as someone asked the score of the game and the Bobsy Clark twins simultaneously gestured "three-to-two," screaming, "Flyers baby! Woooo-hoooo!" I chortled to my friend Nancy. "What kind of a dork wears a Flyers jersey to a Flyers game?" "What kind of a dork wears a Bowie T-shirt to a Bowie concert?" she countered. Oh, right. Perhaps it was my prolonged glances that led to my free drink. "So, which one is it?" I asked the bartender. "Probably not the one you'd like," he sniffed. OK, one had wavy brown hair and was attractive in a Jason Bateman kind of way. The other one was wearing an ill-fitting nylon baseball cap. The bartender was right. I raised the shot glass, gave baseball cap a halfhearted smile and mouthed, "Thanks!" He gave me back a ridiculously long wink. This guy was not my type at all. And I was basing this on one reason alone. I hate sports.
An occasional dalliance on the EFX machine at the gym (a cardiovascular monstrosity that simulates riding a bike standing up and makes the user look like a bowlegged bozo) is just fine. But when it comes to organized, competitive or strenuous sports activity, I cringe. Bowling, miniature golf, darts - the unextreme sports you'll find in this issue of earSHOT - are somewhat acceptable. They require little exertion and a minimal amount of strategy. But these games, too, can easily become as vicious as rugby. I recall one mini-golf game where a friend's shorts got caught in the windmill. Looking back at My Life in Sports is like reliving a terrifying nightmare: bloodying my best friend's braces-filled mouth with a lacrosse ball; a gym teacher screaming at me, "Lob the birdie!"; and a near-death experience rollerblading on a potholed Pine Street. I come from a long line of Penn State football fanatics (before I selected my courses freshman year, my dad made sure I had a season pass). But, as a music type, I've always preferred the mosh pit to the bullpen.
Opting for a shot of tequila, I took a minute to imagine my life with a sports nut. Tailgating afternoons. Vacations at fantasy baseball camps in Clearwater. Jaunts to big fights in Vegas and an after-party hosted by Mike Ditka. All the Eagle snacks, Genesee cream ale and nachos I could ever want. We'd decorate the back dashboard of our car with baseball hats. We'd put our children to bed in Eagles sheets. We'd live near the Spectrum so we could watch the Phanavision from our backyard. I wouldn't be Margit. I'd be "Babegetmeabeer." Sometimes at night, I'd roll over and find green and white bodypaint stains in the bed. Or I'd ask, "Honey is that you?" - only to find I'd been poked by a giant Styrofoam Number One. Number 88 winked again. His matching cohort nudged him, smiling. But I wasn't about to start a volley. Our lives could never mesh. How could I love someone so obsessed with teams, balls and scores? Still, on my way out I went over, patted him on the shoulder and said, "I've got to go. But thanks for the drink just the same." "Hmm?" he leaned in. The music was loud, but I think I heard him say, "The acoustics in this place really lock in the loudness. Isn't this flautist fantastic?" "Yeah... uh, yes she is," I fumbled. "Now, I'm sorry what did you say?" "Oh, I said thanks for the drink, and... what's your name?" - Margit Detweiler, Editor |
