Sometimes it seems a bit odd to me that I am not a sports fan. When I was a little kid, I was really quite the little athlete. In our south side Sault Ste. Siberian neighborhood, we shot baskets on the Lincoln School basketball court across the street from my house. We played baseball in the back “corner” of the Pingatore block when we could get enough kids to play. (I think there’s a house (or two) there now.) We played kickball in the street (yes, the street) a lot! We held running and jumping contests (in the street) and rode our bikes all over hell and gone. I *won* a lot of those running and jumping contests, even against *boys* who were *older* than me. And I loved going to school with big bandages all over my knees from bike accidents. “Oh, I just fought World War III on my bike”, I would say with nonchalance and no small amount of pride. No helmets then. If our parents had tried to make us wear helmets, we’d’ve probably ditched them in some hiding place in the garage or under the front steps or wherever. At school, I was usually picked first for teams. About the only thing I hated was dodgeball. Nowadays they would flag that for a sensory integration disorder.

I dunno what happened exactly. Junior high, I guess. I got really, really shy around boys. Including the boys I used to compete with. There were boys who actually, er, um, told me that they “liked” me. Alas, they were never boys that I liked back. And the boys that I liked didn’t know I existed. Welcome to life, young KW. And I stopped riding my bike. The older girls in the neighborhood walked to school carrying their clipboard and books in their left arm. And so I copied them. What an uncomfortable way to carry things. There were no backpacks in those days. Or maybe there were backpacks, but they sure weren’t “cool”. Whatever. Gym in junior high involved ugly uniforms and changing in and out of them in a slimy locker room in front of everyone on earth. Blech.

I could go on and on about all of this. I’m not sure you could exactly call me an athlete nowadays but I am very very active. Hiking, kayaking, and x-c skiing are my faves and I don’t do any of those to anything approaching an extreme degree. I don’t do team sports at all and I am not usually interested in them. But last night, the Super Bowl was on and, despite all of my mixed feelings about football, I enjoy having it on TV occasionally. And then. I remembered that we used to kind of root for Green Bay when I was a kid. My dad would frequently watch it on TV on Sundays or whenever. He spent some time in Green Bay when I was a kid (if I have it right) going to banking school. I don’t really know if the Packers are a “Yooper team” but I grew up with a Yooper who liked them.

I sat in on some of the game last night. I ducked in at about halftime and we’ll talk about the lack of marching bands some other time. Or maybe I missed something. Anyway, Green Bay was ahead but the Steelers were approaching and it looked a little scary (or so I thought) after halftime. All of a sudden I, um, sorta, cared! I have been through this kind of thing before, back in 1984 when I invented babies, or at least the baby Elizabeth, and the Tigers were in the world series. They won! and a week or so later, my baby was born. The wife of one of the Tigers (Marty Castillo, I think, remember him?) delivered her first (I think) baby a few days before mine and my roommate and all the nurses were oohing and aahing about him picking them up in a fancy limo. Me? I couldn’t’ve cared less about the Tigers any more. I was oohing and aahing about moi baby. The one who went home in a little blue 1980 Ford Fiesta.

Sorry, I got off on a tangent. I cared so much about the Packers winning last night that I left the room. I thought that I might jinx it. Of course, whoever wins the Super Bowl doesn’t depend upon me watching it on TV or not. I guess I can’t watch games because sometimes I *do* care. (Even if I don’t totally understand the dern game.)

I think I am at the end of my brain dump. Good night. I love you all.

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