I grew up a sports fan in the city of sports fans.
Chicago, described by poet Carl Sandburg as
the city of big shoulders, is actually the city of big dreams. And little victories.
I know because I watched part of almost every professional game played in the city, in person or on TV, from the time of my birth until I left for college.
My father was a fan's fan; he was even buried in his Chicago Bulls T-shirt. I think he hoped his children would become sports spectators like he was. He took me to Blackhawks games when I was in elementary school. When hockey scared me, he took me and my older sister to Chicago Bears games.
It was love at first sight for football and my family. We became season-ticket holders and neither snow nor exams could cause us to miss a game.
We sat in one of the very top rows at Soldier Field, just underneath the scoreboard, where we drank hot chocolate, froze our toes off and yelled at the team until the Bears finally won the Super Bowl.
A decade after they won, when I was pregnant, I even considered naming my baby Payton, after
legendary running back Walter Payton, who was the team's touchstone during the years of Sundays I watched them play.
I wanted to offer my son the same sports fan experience I had growing up, snow and all, but it didn't work out that way. Colter was born in Chapel Hill, N.C., where the closest rivalry was between Tobacco Road neighbors UNC and Duke University.
When we moved down 15-501 from Chapel Hill to Durham, my husband and I remained loyal Tar Heels, while our son split the family's loyalties by becoming a Blue Devils fan. This seemed only fair since, as a kid myself, I split my family's loyalties by becoming a Cubs fan, even though my father owned a small business in the shadow of Comiskey Park and knew people who worked for the White Sox.
But we all agreed about the Durham Bulls. They were a find. We took Colter to the AAA games and all enjoyed the showmanship. It helped that my employer owned the team and provided free tickets.
When we moved to Florida a few years ago, it was the Bulls' Major League counterpart -- the Tampa Bay Devil Rays -- we went to see play.
Our first Devil Rays game was thrilling because my birthday was announced on the Jumbotron. That same year, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won the Super Bowl. And then the Tampa Bay Lightning won the Stanley Cup.
I was in Sports Country again.
But only briefly.
I'm not much of an athlete -- I nearly flunked P.E. -- although I did play basketball (badly) and softball (with less enthusiasm) in high school. My husband is far more athletic than I am, but the last organized sport he played was volleyball -- not very popular down here, unless there are beaches and bikinis involved.
Colter has always been a physical kid, but after getting tired of soccer he took up channel surfing and GameCube as his personal pastimes (his thumbs do get quite a workout).
In an effort to re-engage him in team sports -- and because the tickets were once again free -- it was back to the baseball diamond for us.
But this time, things had changed. Or maybe I had.
First, I noticed the food. I spent $30 on two hot dogs, two orders of fries and one lemonade. And that tab didn't include the pizza, popcorn, peanuts and
Dippin' Dots we ate after our "meal."
Then, there were the fans. As a kid, I screamed, "Bob Avellini sucks," from the stands. But as a parent, I was amazed by the language and gestures my son was suddenly seeing and repeating.
When you consider the crowds, the lines, the bathrooms and the parking, sports suddenly seem, well, unsportsmanlike.
There is as much jockeying and competition off the field as there is on it.
So, this lifelong sports fan may be hanging up her cap, at least until her son is on the playing field. Because however fickle I may have become about professional teams, I'm very loyal to my son: Wherever he plays, however he plays, I'll always be waiting on the sidelines, just as my father was.
Julie Moos is a thirtysomething who lives with her husband and son. Her column appears every other Thursday. To read more of her thoughts, visit MomInTheMirror.com.
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