Ideal Bite

OK, so today's Personally Speaking was so, so aspirational.

Let's just put it this way: when describing me, the word "sporty" is hardly the first word that comes to mind.  It's not even in the top 50.  If I were a Spice Girl, I'd be Scary or Baby or Posh, or Ginger, even, before I'd be considered for the moniker "Sporty."

Which is not to say that I didn't play or don't like sports.  I grew up playing basketball and softball.  I did my volleyball and track stints (but trust me - that was more of a social thing), and the later "I'm training for a marathon until I get a stress fracture" moments.  While yoga isn't a sport, I do pretty incredible things with my body (who knew an arm could bend that direction) daily. 

And when I was a much younger girl, my mom taught me football

Yes, you read that right.

Somewhere in grade school, my mom took me to a high school football game - with a mission.  Now, in my home town, EVERYONE goes to the high school sporting events.  They are the social events of the weekend.  So it wasn't in the least unusual that I was going - what was odd was that I wasn't being allowed to run around outside the field with all my little friends for the entire game.  No.  This time, I was being forced to sit with my mom in the stands and watch the game so that she could teach me the rules.  Let me be clear: my mom is NOT a sports fan.  She suffered through years on bleachers and benches, wearing blue and gold, just to support her kids and her basketball-coaching husband.  The truth is, I think she'd rather drink bleach than watch sports.

But she was determined that I was not going to go through life clueless as to the mysteries of football.

Now, my mom is a smart woman.  And she does know the basics of football.  But apparently, she wasn't doing a good enough job in the handing down of the intricacies of the game, because by the end of the first quarter, she had been kicked out of her post, and I was being taught the rules of football by just about every man in town.  Wearing huge down-filled jackets and hats, but no gloves - their logging hands cracked and chapped in the cold - they drew on programs and gestured to the field and beamed each and every time I got it right.

Over the years of my life, I have pretty much mastered most rules of most sporting events, so I can appreciate almost anything, even if I don't seek it out (except for hockey.  I still don't understand icing.  Trust me: don't try to date a Canadian unless you master the concept of icing).  But that is the one I remember and treasure the most: my mom - who'd rather be reading To Kill a Mockingbird or attending a theatre event - shored up by burly men, teaching me to play a game I'd never have to be any good at.

-Heather... off to figure out how I am going to get around NYC today since the subway's on strike...

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