You’d think this would be a simple answer, but it’s not. It's actually very complex — and very emotional.
There is something about the sound of bat hitting ball, the swish of the net, and the emotional cheers and jeers of the crowd.
Some of my earliest memories are sitting at the Richfield Coliseum with my dad watching the Cleveland Cavaliers. I still remember that old building like it was yesterday.
I remember sitting at the old Indians Stadium eating my hot dog, complete with stadium mustard. There is something about those dogs that never taste quite the same when you make them at home.
It must be that emotional tie to your surroundings. The sights and sounds embed themselves into your soul for the duration of the game.
Whether it was the Cleveland Lumberjacks or the Cleveland Crunch, the outcome of the game was never that important. What was important was spending time with my dad.
Sure, the emotions were overwhelming when I watched my beloved Buckeyes beat the heavily favored Miami Hurricanes in the 2002 BCS National Championship. But the emotions were equally as intense as the Buckeyes lost back-to-back National Championships to the Florida Gators and LSU Tigers.
Being a sports fan has the highest of highs, but also comes complete with the lowest of lows.
While I don’t expect the Indians to win the World Series, the Browns the Super Bowl, the Cavs the NBA Finals or the Red Wings the Stanley Cup, I have high hopes that the Buckeyes can put an end to the SEC-dominated National Championship picture.
Even if my teams fail to create new memories, I’ll always have the memories created with my dad. And that’s why I love sports.
“I’m not really into sports.”
Is it possible for a man to say something more unattractive?
Okay, if you are from Syria, you’ve had bigger things to worry about. But the people who read this column, and almost 100 percent of the humans with whom I come in contact were not raised under such conditions.
If you, men, do not pay attention to sports, you’re definitely “emo” and uninteresting. Shame on you.
Sports are the best kind of common ground between strangers. Seriously, on a four-hour flight, what else am I supposed to talk about with the “rando” in 42B, who is stuck next to me? “So, what do you think about George Zimmerman?” Please.
No one understands the argument, “How can you care so much about a team, when they don’t even know who you are?” better than I.
I own a share of the Green Bay Packers. So, basically, I have a $500 piece of green and gold paper. I can never sell it, or receive goods or services for my investment. I voluntarily offered currency to an organization that will never gain regard for my well-being.
I’m not in a rush to have a family, but when I finally have children, they are totally going to be dressed in the apparel of my favorite teams. I know they’re “doomed,” since their fandom will be forced, but I couldn’t be more thankful that my father shared, with me, his infatuation with his team.
I am a part of a community that will always be there for me.
I don’t have religion. And I can’t anticipate that I’ll ever jump back on that train. Sports fill that faithful void for me, in quite perfect fashion actually. I can love this thing so much, so illogically, and I’m happy to do so. It will never change.