I am not a girly girl. I know the difference between a miter saw and a router, and I am pretty sure I have been wearing eyeliner incorrectly for the past fifteen years. But if someone so much as underhand throws a partially deflated beach ball in my direction, I instantly sprout press-on nails and a mini skirt and squeal, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! That ball-thing is going to kill meeeee!”
How do I hate sports? Let me count the ways:
1. I hate playing sports. I have foggy memories of some sort of T-ball set up, but I don’t know how that panned out. And maybe Bocce? Hmmm. That seems unlikely. I really should interview my parents on the subject and get back to you.
Yes, college freshman three weeks into your Psych 101 class, I hate sports because I am bad at them. Good job. Clap, clap, clap.
You would think I would be a good athlete. I am a good runner and have oddly long legs for my height. My husband can’t get into fifth gear when I am in the passenger seat. I wish that was a reference to some strange sex move, but it isn’t. Anyway, he has dubbed me “The Crane Wife”. Again, not a sex move. Pervs.
2. I hate watching sporting events. Whether live or televised, being a spectator at a sporting event is my idea of Dante-style Purgatory. American football is particularly dreadful. Everything happens in fifteen-second intervals. Then it all stops and thick-necked men in suits bray unsolicited conjecture on what they should have done, and which player is most valuable. Games last for hours. The viewers get angry and eat lots of chips. I have often thought that one could put a herd of bison in jerseys and let them wander around the field, grazing and pooping and getting spooked by air horns and it would look pretty much the same.
Because of my membership in the marching band, I attended every single football game for my four years of high school. The ONLY THING I REMEMBER from those four years is the low brass getting in trouble for playing “Another One Bites the Dust” when football players got injured and had to be taken off the field.
I went to a Cincinnati Reds game once and found it such a bewildering cacophony of advertisements and giant screens that I could barely focus on the microscopic players scurrying around, spitting, and slapping one another’s rears far below.
3. Sports movies are all terrible. They are all exactly the same and horribly predictable. A motley crew of mismatched losers and a coach with some personal problem come together and either Win the Big Game Against All Odds OR Lose the Big Game But It Doesn’t Matter Because They Grew So Much As People. Lots of balls flying through the air in slow motion. Gah.
The only exception would be A League of Their Own, for obvious reasons. Field of Dreams is okay.
Does Alien vs. Predator count as a sports movie?
I think it should.