I never liked sports growing up. If you knew me as a child, you could probably tell. Short, scrawny, and very Asian, my main hobbies were anime and PlayStation, and I hardly looked the part of someone who appreciated athleticism. I never cared much for athletes, and every attempt at watching sports left me bored out of my skin. Compared to the kinds of media I consumed from an early age, sports seemed like the dullest thing in the universe. There were no lasers, flashing lights, or explosions. Not a spell or starfighter to be seen. Just a bunch of men spitting a lot and looking very sweaty as they transport a ball from place to place. There were none of those pheromones that signal to your brain that something is worthwhile.
What makes this especially ironic is that my father is a huge sports fan. In fact, I’m named after a baseball player myself—Ty Cobb. How a man raised in Thailand in the ‘60s and ‘70s came to develop such an affinity for a Detroit Tigers player from the early 20th century that he named his son after the guy, I don’t know. But it certainly demonstrates the strength of his fondness for the sport. An immigrant to Chicago in the 1980s, he quickly became a worshiper of all things Bears, Bulls, and Cubs. I imagine it would have been difficult, as a newly arrived American and freshly inaugurated Chicagoan, not to turn your attention to the men that everyone in your city treated like demigods. I’m afraid I failed to inherit his affinity. To me, being a Chicago sports fan always resembled Catholicism, and not in a good way. An ancient belief system predicated on common punishment, shared guilt, and the denial of pleasure. But then again, I never saw Michael Jordan play. (As an aside, the more I think about Chicago sports fandom as a cult, the more it makes sense to me. My parents’ neighbors still have their W flag up from 2016. It’s been six years. We’ve had two more presidents since then. I think it’s time to move on.)
It wasn’t until two summers ago that something changed. I had just graduated college and moved back in with my family to work for a year before going to law school. The pandemic was entering a new phase. It felt like the deck of my life had been shuffled, and I was ready to turn a new leaf. I got to spending time with my family that I had missed for so long, and regrew my relationship with my father after years spent apart which had proved long and difficult for the both of us. I found myself in the living room often, sitting and watching sports with him just as an excuse to be together. Slowly, with his patient tutelage and the help of some friends, I learned how to talk sports, though I’m sure I was hardly comprehensible. After a period of national crises punctuated by the occasional personal crisis, it felt good to do something so simple as watch football with my family. The act, in its normalcy, became a sanctuary for our household. Especially in times like this, there is great comfort to be found in the mundane. And sometimes, without you even realizing it, something mundane turns into something beautiful. In fact, one of my favorite memories from the past year was watching the insane showdown between the Bills and the Chiefs with my parents. Even my mom, who couldn’t be said to care about sports in the slightest, had her jaw planted firmly on the floor.
It was also around this time that I discovered the other person who would play a pivotal role in finally showing me how to like sports: Jon Bois. An incredibly gifted writer, researcher, and host, Bois talks about in such a way that it feels like mythology. He and his colleagues at Secret Base make easily the most captivating and creative content I’ve ever seen on YouTube—and it’s about sports, of all things! I discovered and promptly binged their documentaries on the history of the Seattle Mariners and Atlanta Falcons, and was hooked from that point on. I never expected that sports could be presented with so much intrigue. They taught me that sports aren't just about sweaty people doing things. They’re a stage for incredible human stories, comic and tragic, exemplifying the best and worst aspects of ourselves. I never knew that before. Nobody had ever told me—and they certainly don’t look that way on the tin.
My newfound affinity for sports, I think, has also helped me to rejuvenate my social skills after the damage the last several years have done to them. My dear friend Andrew once remarked to me that making conversation with a man is the easiest thing in the world because you can just take turns reciting the names of different athletes, and by the end of the night, you’ll be best friends. I’m sorry to report that this is completely true. I never believed that we were complex beings, but this is a bit much. I’ll also offer that sports have helped me to more easily acclimate to my new life as an Ohioan. As soon as I decided I was moving here, I shed my Chicago sports allegiances—sorry Dad—and picked up the Bengals and the Guardians. They’ve helped me to feel more grounded in my new home and better connected to its people.
Of course, there are many aspects of sports—at least of the way we approach them in this country—that upset me. I wish our country paid as much attention to a whole host of different things as it does to sports. Hell, I’d settle for a quarter of the amount. And like any other lucrative industry, it seems like every single major sports league is rife with monsters, despicable owners, and unfair labor practices (although the surging campaign to unionize the Minor Leagues fills my heart with hope). At the same time, sports have done a lot for me, and they do a lot for people in my life. Let me break down a couple of the main reasons why, after 22 years on this Earth, I finally think sports are cool.
One. Sports are a feast for the senses. Let me explain using what has become my favorite sport (and I never thought I’d say this), baseball. When I finally mustered up the courage to give baseball a chance, I found myself quickly falling in love with the aesthetics of it. I was infatuated with the uniforms, which, though admittedly unathletic, are clean as hell. Performance be damned, I think it’s very impressive to play professional sports in jewelry and a leather belt. I love the way they look in motion. Full disclosure, I love the way they make the players look. I love their batting stances, the poses they strike when they swing. I love the warm-colored soil contrasted with the green of the field. Sonically, I love the cheering crowd, the crack of the bat, the slam of a fastball into the catcher’s mitt. I love the euphoric release of a home run, the bated breath that comes when an ace pitcher approaches the mound. Baseball is a visual and auditory treat. Every moment of gameplay brims with legacy; when you watch it, you can feel history in the air. It’s classy, but it’s also got a sense of boyish charm—like it’s winking at you.
I’m positive that many of the people who read this will call bullshit. To them, I imagine, baseball has never appeared as anything more than a dull affair where no moment is distinguishable from the next. Trust me, I get it. I felt the same way, in fact, for over twenty years. But I ask that you give a sport—any sport—a chance to cast its spell on you the same way baseball did to me. You may surprise yourself with the result.
(What I also like about baseball is that it appears to be the only major American sport that Asian people are good at, which I appreciate. I imagine this will remain the case until ESPN adds Valorant to its regular broadcast schedule.)
The second thing I love most about sports is that they provide an escape from reality. Now, you might argue that what many people need, myself included, is to spend more time in reality, not less. But I contend that everyone needs a healthy dose of escapism in their life. I’d go so far as to argue that fantasy is a human right. It’s natural to seek to imagine a world different, cleaner, and simpler than one’s own. Sports are a perfect portal to such a world. In reality, we know there are no heroes, no villains. We understand that every conflict is rife with complexity; that we do a disservice to ourselves and others when we try to think otherwise. We are well aware—as much as we’d rather not be—that pointless, needless suffering is omnipresent in the world. None of these things are true in sports. When you switch on the TV or step into the arena, reality simply melts away. Pain always carries meaning on the field of play; it is used to purchase glory. Not only are there good guys and bad guys—they’re even color-coded! Victory and defeat are real, palpable, and easily distinguished. There are winners and losers, comebacks and routs, dynasties and underdogs. Sports are the closest we get in real life to the movies, especially if you believe—as I do—that athletes are real-life superheroes.
That brings me to the third thing I love most about sports: how truly impressive athletes are. People who aren’t into sports fail to appreciate how immensely difficult it is to excel as a professional athlete, and just how talented people who make it to the big leagues actually are. Many don’t stop to think about, for example, everything that goes into a home run, touchdown pass, or buzzer-beater. And even the worst player on the worst team in any major league sport is still firmly within the top 1%, or even lower, of athletes in that sport worldwide (except MLS, I guess, but I think soccer is boring, so let’s not talk about it anymore). These people have dedicated their entire lives and bodies to the perfection of their craft. They are artists and entertainers as much as they are athletes. Their profession demands inhuman feats of endurance and precision, and they work so god-damn hard to mold themselves into exactly the people they want to be. They exhibit more passion for their sport than some people feel for anything. They represent, in my opinion, the incredible power that discipline, ambition, and preparation can bestow to anyone who hoists them up into their heart. When I watch sports, I see a living monument to human potential sprawled out before me. I say, “God, look at the things we can achieve.” In times like this, it’s a sight for sore eyes.
I’ll leave you with this poem that my true friend Jack shared with me last summer. It’s as beautiful as it is simple as it is heartbreaking. Jack, if you see this, I love you, and I hope you’re well. It’s called “Casey at the Bat.”
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!""Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
That’s all from me for this month. I’ll be back in October with a fresh essay for you to lay your pretty eyes upon. As always, I appreciate your readership. See you again soon!
Image credit:
Rick Dikeman, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons. (Edited)