Why sports makes me sad now

 The Eagles are 2-0. The Phillies are likely going to the playoffs. The Sixers have the reigning MVP. I have just enough time and scratch to see the games that I really want to see.

So why am I not writing about sports, liking them quite so much, and just dealing with The Sad far too much?

Listicle!

1) Fantasy sports. Let's face it, folks: these have ruined sports irrevocably, and that comes from someone who has played them since you kept stats with a pen and paper and mailed standings to people. But like the dismissed hot water in a pot, a slow degradation is still a degradation. So much coverage of games isn't about game, but numbers -- and, well, bored with it. No one cares about your fantasy team but you, and if your team isn't great, it's just a reason for sad. A reason you can't stop caring about, but really, probably, should, and the main reason for the second item on our list.

2) No one has any patience or faith. The Eagles have gotten very lucky with turnovers, haven't shown good play calling, and are clearly not on the level that they were last year. And at this time last year (because the Minnesota game last year was on a Monday), they weren't either.

The NFL season is too long and too important, and injuries matter more than nearly any other factor. Philly finished their week 2 game with street meat in the secondary against the best WR in the league, but since QB Jalen Hurts is beloved for reasons and not looking like the guy who played the position last year, we're going to pule until we get what we want, as if puling ever, really... gets you what you want. Tiresome. The people gripping about the team this year seem like they are more gripping about their QB1 and WR1 (Hurts and Brown) not playing up to statistical expectations. Beyond tiresome. 

3) The Sixers. The end of the last Sixers season didn't just, as usual, make me want to not watch any more of the Sixers. It also made me not want to watch any more of the NBA.

This is a league that's impossible to officiate, where the game looks like statistical analysis of three pointers or dunks has made every other shot obsolete, and superstars routinely game the system to be de facto GMs. It's also one where Boston is better then Philadelphia, and almost always has been, and the team is trying to destroy a neighborhood to build a new and unnecessary arena in a minority residential area, further worsening affordable housing. It's also one that is being held hostage -- again -- by a star player who can't show up in the playoffs and does not want to play for the team. Oh, and they are also owned by people who have became incredibly more wealthy from their relatively incompetent ownership of the team. 

Who needs more of this in their lives?

4) Rich people. The older I get, the more I'm convinced that (a) I'm never going to have financial comfort or independence, (b) no one is every going to care about that but me, and (c) rich people really need to be reminded that guillotines exist and should be paramount in their minds, especially if they don't pay their goddamn taxes like, well, all of us in camps A and B. Every owner of a team is a rich person, the vast majority of which come from legacies of wealth, and a legacy of wealth also means your ancestors probably did many people wrong and let you grow up in a world where that kind of thing isn't just expected, but encouraged.

So. I'm spending my time and money watching and writing about the activities of rich and unsympathetic people distracting us all from the very real things that we need to do to prevent the mass deaths of most of the world's population from climate change. And with football, there's also brain trauma and death, while you watch what the comic actor and former NFL player Terry Crews call "prison with money." Go team.

5) The unsympathetic people aren't just the owners. Players often inflict not just politics, but politics based on thougtlessness, narcissicism and grievance on the public and remind me that the freedom to speak one's mind doesn't mean you, well, have one. And I suppose better out than in and it's good to know who the idiots are, but the temptation to join the Shut Up and Play crowd, all while really not wanting to join the Shut Up and Play crowd... who are also, well, terrible.

Want to feel kinship with the fan base? Don't listen to sports radio, read the comments, or go to games, because you'll likely be subject to their terrible opinions. You might also have ones of your own, of course.

I know, I know, I'm just being a crank and letting personal issues that have me on tilt from other areas of my life ruin this... but if you had your life to live again and knew all that you knew now, would you choose to be a sports fan? It takes a lot of time, costs a lot of money, and doesn't really give you great bang for your buck. My adult children aren't fans, and I don't care or feel like this has held them back. 

So if you wouldn't choose to do it again, why choose to do it now? Because inertia, because structure, because the absence of them wouldn't actually make my life better, or get anyone to take climate change or taxation of the obscenely wealthy more seriously or effectively. 

I'm complicit. So are you.

Yay, team!

Not Sports: Speech at my mother's surprise birthday party

Good evening. I’m Dave, Joyce’s youngest child, and I’m going to do one of my favorite things – talk about my mother. For about 10 minutes. First off, let me congratulate you for being here tonight. My mother does not suffer fools. She may work for them, serve them drinks, deal with them in customer service, and parent them on occasion… but suffer them? No. So, good on you for making it into the room. It’s no small accomplishment.

Look around. No one, except Mom, knows everyone else. That is a testament to just how remarkable, fluid, and *useful* she is. This is a person who has never stopped growing or adding value as a friend, parent, sibling, coworker or neighbor. There is always something more to do, a way to be better, think differently, consider something new. This is what we all get for knowing Joyce. The knowledge that more is possible, more is desirable, and you deserve it. Because you know her, and because you can be like her.

Every child thinks their mom is special, but I have proof. Every time I had a serious relationship that ended… the woman who was leaving asked about my mom. Some still do – decades later. I may or may not have been a good boyfriend, fiancé, or husband… but man alive, did they ever want to keep the mom. That’s because everyone wants more of her in their life. Who among us can say the same?

Why is my mother this way? I have theories. First, that she took exactly what she needed from her parents. Can you tell a story, never settle, and be completely comfortable in your own skin? That’s her father. Can you listen, put your own needs on hold, and make the ones you love know that you care and are rooting for them? That’s her mother. Can you keep moving forward and avoid apologies, complaints, or excuses while keeping what’s really important in focus? That’s my mom. And my role model.

Being a role model can take many forms. One of the more infamous stories of my childhood is sharing a bed with my brother as a small child, and wetting the bed… right into his ear. Which led my brother to, quite understandably, to react with profanity unbecoming of a 12-year-old,  leading my mother to investigate… and then fall down laughing when she got the story.  Now, think about what she *could* have done. She could have punished my brother, or me, or both of us. She could have taken it out on the entire family for costing her sleep at a time when she probably wasn’t getting any. She could have been consumed with worry about either of us and escalated it.  None of that worked as well as laughter. She made a great choice. She usually does.

Something else you should know about my mom – she lets me get away with a lot, including making everything about her right now, because I’m the youngest. And when I was a little kid, we lived in the suburbs with a backyard, which meant we had a place where pets could happen. Whether the pets were random dogs from my grandfather’s job sites, turtles repatriated from the woods, a sado-masochistic rabbit – there were pets. Also, for a summer, a duck that thought it was a rooster. If you want to know how all of these things found themselves in a rented backyard, ask Joyce. 

Here’s the point: all of the pets were healthy and well fed. In a house with three kids, with a garden. We had clean dishes without a dishwasher, meals without a microwave, with school lunches packed and laundry done, all from a single parent that worked until the bars closed and beyond. If you are wondering how that happened… you aren’t alone. It happened because she made it happen.

Do a small thought exercise for me. Imagine that every part of you – your physical realities and mental abilities, where you fell in the demographic and gender spectrum, what parts of you work the way they should or how you want them to, etc. – was something you had to pay for in a yearly subscription. How much would you pay to keep what you have? How much would you pay to get an upgrade? 

The reason I ask: we are all of us, every one of us who is above the ground, privileged. We live lives with the comforts of kings, with astounding technology in our literal pockets. We live so much longer than we used to.  We don’t appreciate it. We are all, actually, privileged. Especially everyone here tonight, because we all know my mom. The best of us share the fruits of our privilege. My mother shares her remarkable work ethic, her standards of living, her attention to detail. She doesn’t make you feel like you owe her, because it’s not about her sacrifice. It’s about her refusal to live without excellence, and her insistence on sharing and providing..

What else did she share and provide? Vacations. Cars. Sports equipment. Books. Fine meals, at home and out. Cable television and home computers and stereo systems and concert tickets and… seriously, Mom, how?

What she has shared didn’t *always* work out. There was the drive back to school in a rented car that we thought would be safer to drive in bad conditions. Nope. Mom and I spun about three full rotations on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, each of us telling the other that it was going to be fine just fine until we finally came to rest on the guardrail, miraculously without serious damage to our car or anyone else… and then just drove the rest of the way. Hours more, in the same storm and black ice. Because, well, we had to.

My mom does what she has to do, and the only person in the world who can tell her what she has to do is… her. You can convince her of a lot in this world, and she has a remarkably open mind, but once a decision is made and there is work to be done, work will be done. And if there is a task that has to be done, and my mother is involved, it gets done. If there’s Joyce, a task, and a wall, it’s a really bad day to be the wall.

About college – my mom didn’t make me go. What she made me do was listen to her when she told me that she didn’t care what I did for a living, so long as I loved it. I loved writing about sports, money be damned. Mom supported that every step of the way, buying groceries and providing transportation, excusing my absences during summers and holidays while I focused on the task, and supporting me as I mailed hundreds of letters, begging for a sports writing job, during a recession. When that failed and I had loans to pay, Mom didn’t make me feel bad about my “wasted” degrees. So, I worked as a temp and made music, and discovered that I loved making music more than writing about sports. Mom showed up at more of those gigs than some of my band mates. Never a word about wasting my life, talents, etc. Same thing through a number of jobs at startups. Never a moment of judgment. Never a word about how I should have gotten a business degree instead or gone back for my masters. 

In short, my mother trusts her children to do what’s right for their own lives. She raised grownups. God bless her. There aren’t enough of us around.

One more story. Over 15 years ago, some of her co-workers asked her to join a fantasy football league. Mom had never done any nerd betting before – she focused on the real stuff, which is to say picking teams against the spread – but she went along with them. Then gave me a call to be her co-owner. We crushed the league, so much so that when we got to the championship game, the guy we were playing against asked for a chop before the game. It wasn’t my money, so not my call – but Mom? Flat no. Couldn’t have been prouder. (And yeah, our guys got hurt and we lost. It happens.) Mom pursues excellence. She does not settle for less. Takes her shot, doesn’t whine if it doesn’t go her way. Grown up. Mom later joined my fantasy football league and has her own team. She’s also won it. I haven’t. I tell that to people all the time, because why not brag about my mom?

So, in summation, please join me in raising a glass to one of the best people that any of us will ever know on this, a round number. There will be many, many more, because the world does not want less of her, and she does not want less of it. If, for no other reason, than to keep kicking my ass in fantasy football. 

To Joyce!