Mahsa Sheikh, Low Entropy Volunteer Writer
I have not been, at least not as of now, a die-hard fan or amateur player of any sports in my entire life, none whatsoever. I am far away from even being considered able to follow a casual conversation at a cozy pub around Major League Baseball’s World Series. And, of course, still too foreign to care about the National Football League’s most anticipated single sporting event of the entire year: the Super Bowl, though I have watched halftime enough to know that it is what you look forward to in February—needless to admit that, like most, the idea of dipping my nachos in salsa and guac while enjoying some of my favourite performers doing their thing thrills me. In fact, I spent a good hour shopping for wings and nachos at my neighbourhood grocery store before the match was livestreamed this year. What’s better than your guilty pleasure channeling into something fun like halftime?
As for the Canadian favorite pastime of all time, I have been so far invited to watch a number of junior hockey tournaments with friends of friends, and yet until the June that passed I didn’t realize that Stanley Cup playoffs are known as the most celebrated and culturally significant sporting event for Canadians, young and old. I certainly have some catching up to do with the hockey news, just as much as I do with all the other things a great sporting event like Stanley Cup offers. My lacklustre familiarity with popular sporting events can be interpreted as self-afflicted negligence, but I beg to differ as I have legitimate reason for my profoundly delayed involvement in sports.
Basketball, the one team sport I became curious to check out, and later tried to learn, though in vain, was introduced to me at 10 when I accidentally saw the music video for Jam on MTV one afternoon at a girlfriend’s house. I suppose everyone knows what I am talking about: I evidently saw the tall and muscular basketball legend Michael Jordan with a shaved head in his Chicago Bulls’ uniform dribbling in a dim and dark studio, playing against the Thriller hitmaker, Michael Jackson. If I want to be exact, I think Michael Jordan’s role in Space Jam (1996) made up for my unfamiliarity with legendary NBA players in the Los Angeles Lakers, Boston Celtics and New York Knicks, and single-handedly stirred my enthusiasm for the sport.
But my budding passion for basketball as a schoolgirl didn’t last long. Back in the day, schools were not big on girls’ sports. I am not sure if it was just me, but the idea of having to change into my warmers right in my seat in the middle of the classroom was a bit too much of a stretch. Back in the day, we were only allowed to change our pants. For context, the school uniforms, a darker shade of navy that looked like anything but navy, consisted of a pair of loose-fitting pants and an oversized manteau—a dress-like outfit with buttoned up front, which was usually purchased a few sizes bigger in order to be worn throughout high school years to avoid unnecessary financial costs to families—that was way too loose to allow you to play a real ball game. This was still nothing compared to the pièce de résistance: a rather large piece of cloth sewn together at either end to form a hole that your face fitted in, where unless tucked in the baggy manteau during the match, there was a good chance for it to get caught or blown into your face when running to catch the ball on the court. The odds of maintaining speed in such attire notwithstanding, I might also add the fact that, just as in any other sport where little-to-no-funding meets bureaucracy, my school was rarely provided with enough athletic equipment to give students a chance to learn and practice sports. The one and only sports class students attended was a weekly two-hour session that had nearly nothing to do with playing sports. The rare few times properly inflated balls were provided for the matches sadly made it hard for me to say I learned how to play or work on my teamwork.
With none of the above team sports ever getting a fighting chance in my extracurricular activities of yore, it’s time to score myself against the odds of making one happen moving forward. I imagine time must be the only rival in my failure, to allow a thing like that to slip through so far . . . lost as easily and irretrievably as a tennis ball at twilight—to quote Plath. Just as it is common in a game of tennis, I want to think that my losing score of 0-40 stands for nothing but love. Athleticism is the arena where determination, discipline and dedication toward reaching one’s goals are tested to their limits. Easy to learn, hard to master, they nudge us each to never give up, encouraging us to show up for ourselves, no matter what.
Looking for a desired currency for success that’s also the hallmark of greatness? Do sports that you love!
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