Some people measure life in hours, some in years. For me, much of my life can be measured by great sports moments.
I was sitting in the floor of my parents bedroom on October 14, 1992, when Francisco Cabrera hit the game winning single in the bottom of the ninth of Game 7 of the NLCS to score David Justice and Sid Bream. I quickly moved from rocking back and forth, holding my knees and biting my nails to squealing and jumping then to being shushed by my mom, who had just finished putting my youngest sister to bed.
Three years earlier, almost to the day, I was sitting in the same spot watching the Giants play the A's in the World Series when the San Francisco Earthquake of 1989 struck. The rocking back and forth and biting of nails for much different reasons this time. I remember the relief when I learned that my cousin, who lived in San Francisco, was safe and sound.
I can tell you on exactly which lap my dad would fall asleep each Sunday while watching the NASCAR race together, and I can recount the countless conversations where my dad reminded me of why Dale Earnhardt was the best driver to ever shift the gears of a stock car, each lap a reminder of why I loved watching races with my daddy.
I was sitting on the couch next to my mom on March 28, 1992, when Grant Hill threw a pass to Christian Laettner in the final seconds of the NCAA Finals with 2.1 seconds left in overtime. Laettner's last second jumper moved the Blue Devils one point ahead of my beloved Kentucky Wildcats to a 104-103 victory. My mom was there to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.
On Saturday, October 28, 1995, my sister and I jumped up and down embracing as the Braves finally won the World Series. Three years later, on September 8, 1998, Amy and I sat in the floor of our apartment watching in awe as Mark McGwire hit the home run that broke Roger Maris's single-season home run record. Regardless of the questions that later surrounded McGwire, my sister and I, who rarely missed a Braves game or historic baseball moment, will never forget that moment.
My daughter Anna was born during half-time of the Kentucky- LSU basketball game, which I watched right up until delivery, then of course, quickly forgot was being played once they placed her in my arms. What can I say, her baby shower theme was Kentucky Wildcats, complete with a basketball cake!
On January 10th of this year, my kids donned Auburn orange & blue and cheered their hearts out for the Tigers, right up until they just couldn't cheer anymore and fell asleep on the couch. My husband and I continued the cheering, a roller coaster ride of emotions. The night finally ended with my husband and I tearfully embracing as time expired, and Auburn stood victorious. Without saying a word, we sprinted upstairs for the toilet paper and erupted into laughter as we attempted to roll the large oak tree in our front yard.
This morning, when my husband mentions that the Tour de France begins tomorrow, I smile and grow excited. For three weeks, after we tuck the kids in for the night, my husband sits in the floor of the den, back against the coffee table, while I curl up on the couch. He turns the television to Versus, and we watch as Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador battle for the yellow jersey. While Bob Rolle and Phil Liggett share stories about the riders, I also listen intently as my husband explains why some riders wear green jerseys and some polka dotted, something about rookies and kings of the mountain.
Then, it hits me, that, sure, I love sports, but it's not necessarily the thrill of the competition that speeds my pulse, it's the stories shared while watching, the experience of spending time with those you love as you watch your favorite team prevail against great odds, a reminder that maybe you, too, can defy odds. Who remembers where they were when what's-his-name won American Idol? But who doesn't remember where they were when Auburn or Alabama won a National Championship or the Braves finally won a World Series? Who doesn't remember what they were wearing that day, or who they were embracing when the winning touchdown, basket, or run was scored? It's why when we're sharing that great sports moment with someone who, perish the thought, isn't a sports fan, we always mention that we were with our dad, sister, husband, son, or daughter, because they're really the reason the moment was so special, so memorable, and I think for most of us, that's the reason we're sports fans.
I was sitting in the floor of my parents bedroom on October 14, 1992, when Francisco Cabrera hit the game winning single in the bottom of the ninth of Game 7 of the NLCS to score David Justice and Sid Bream. I quickly moved from rocking back and forth, holding my knees and biting my nails to squealing and jumping then to being shushed by my mom, who had just finished putting my youngest sister to bed.
Three years earlier, almost to the day, I was sitting in the same spot watching the Giants play the A's in the World Series when the San Francisco Earthquake of 1989 struck. The rocking back and forth and biting of nails for much different reasons this time. I remember the relief when I learned that my cousin, who lived in San Francisco, was safe and sound.
I can tell you on exactly which lap my dad would fall asleep each Sunday while watching the NASCAR race together, and I can recount the countless conversations where my dad reminded me of why Dale Earnhardt was the best driver to ever shift the gears of a stock car, each lap a reminder of why I loved watching races with my daddy.
I was sitting on the couch next to my mom on March 28, 1992, when Grant Hill threw a pass to Christian Laettner in the final seconds of the NCAA Finals with 2.1 seconds left in overtime. Laettner's last second jumper moved the Blue Devils one point ahead of my beloved Kentucky Wildcats to a 104-103 victory. My mom was there to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.
On Saturday, October 28, 1995, my sister and I jumped up and down embracing as the Braves finally won the World Series. Three years later, on September 8, 1998, Amy and I sat in the floor of our apartment watching in awe as Mark McGwire hit the home run that broke Roger Maris's single-season home run record. Regardless of the questions that later surrounded McGwire, my sister and I, who rarely missed a Braves game or historic baseball moment, will never forget that moment.
My daughter Anna was born during half-time of the Kentucky- LSU basketball game, which I watched right up until delivery, then of course, quickly forgot was being played once they placed her in my arms. What can I say, her baby shower theme was Kentucky Wildcats, complete with a basketball cake!
On January 10th of this year, my kids donned Auburn orange & blue and cheered their hearts out for the Tigers, right up until they just couldn't cheer anymore and fell asleep on the couch. My husband and I continued the cheering, a roller coaster ride of emotions. The night finally ended with my husband and I tearfully embracing as time expired, and Auburn stood victorious. Without saying a word, we sprinted upstairs for the toilet paper and erupted into laughter as we attempted to roll the large oak tree in our front yard.
This morning, when my husband mentions that the Tour de France begins tomorrow, I smile and grow excited. For three weeks, after we tuck the kids in for the night, my husband sits in the floor of the den, back against the coffee table, while I curl up on the couch. He turns the television to Versus, and we watch as Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador battle for the yellow jersey. While Bob Rolle and Phil Liggett share stories about the riders, I also listen intently as my husband explains why some riders wear green jerseys and some polka dotted, something about rookies and kings of the mountain.
Then, it hits me, that, sure, I love sports, but it's not necessarily the thrill of the competition that speeds my pulse, it's the stories shared while watching, the experience of spending time with those you love as you watch your favorite team prevail against great odds, a reminder that maybe you, too, can defy odds. Who remembers where they were when what's-his-name won American Idol? But who doesn't remember where they were when Auburn or Alabama won a National Championship or the Braves finally won a World Series? Who doesn't remember what they were wearing that day, or who they were embracing when the winning touchdown, basket, or run was scored? It's why when we're sharing that great sports moment with someone who, perish the thought, isn't a sports fan, we always mention that we were with our dad, sister, husband, son, or daughter, because they're really the reason the moment was so special, so memorable, and I think for most of us, that's the reason we're sports fans.
