Yesterday I went to my first-ever NHL game. As an Avalanche fan, I wasn't particularly interested in the teams we were watching, but I enjoyed the game nonetheless. As I sat in the nosebleed section, my eyes glued to the ice, I remembered all the games I had watched on TV. I remembered sitting on the couch in the family room, watching jersey-and-skate-clad giants whizzing over the ice. I alternated between calling advice to the players and tossing questions at my Dad, who sat nearby in the recliner.
I learned to watch sports from my Dad. That's why I follow teams like the Denver Broncos, the Colorado Avalanche, and the Chicago Cubs, even though I've never lived in Colorado or Illinois. Dad would watch sports while he wrote lesson plans and graded exams. I'd watch too, just to be with him. He'd explain the rules, talk about the players' backgrounds, and tell stories of the great games he'd watched as a kid. I learned about "The Drive", "The Fumble", and the Art Modell Curse. I watched players heft the Stanley Cup and learned to dislike the Raiders and the Red Wings. I rushed home from church on Sundays to watch Sunday NFL Countdown. I was even rocked to sleep watching baseball games on mute, my Dad urging me to, "Watch the gall bame" until my eyelids drooped.
Now I watch games on my own, and whenever I understand the penalty being called or the terminology being used, I'm thankful for the education Dad gave me.
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