So When Exactly IS "Losing" an Option?

Chuckle #421 | September 15th, 2010
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I am descended from warriors. And like most warriors, competition brings out the beast in me. It has never been enough for me to simply participate in sports. I want to win. I want to crush my opponents, rob them of their dignity, cast them naked into a roiling sea, and if necessary, disembowel them. I don’t know what gets into me. It must be the Viking blood.

Luckily, I have a couple of friends who are exactly like me. Mongols at heart. Otherwise I would have no one to play with.

I can try to blame genetics, but I am what I am mostly because I was raised by intensely competitive parents. I learned to take no prisoners – even in CandyLand.

My kids are not like me.

This makes them very hard for me to understand. My kids enjoy playing sports for the fun of it, for the physical challenge and the camaraderie. They have no problem with participation trophies and consolation prizes. They invariably win the “coaches” award…for being good natured, supportive of their teammates and trying their best. Of course I am very proud. And no, I am not grinding my teeth.

After watching their games I try not to say things like, “You call that defense?” or “Next time, try to shoot more and bleed less.” But sometimes I can’t resist. My husband counters my “constructive” criticisms with inane comments like “You were great!” Thank goodness for my husband.

My kids think I am a lunatic. (Until I agree to a psychological evaluation they can’t prove a thing.) Mostly they ignore me, until I embarrass them. Oddly enough, this happens quite often.

The lure of the “parent/child” volleyball game this past weekend was too hard to resist. Let me just say that there is no such thing as a “friendly” game for any group of ex-athlete parents.

Let our kids beat us? I don’t think so. Cheat to win? Absolutely.

We parents toasted those freshman girls even after I went down with a serious hand injury in the first 15 minutes of play. Shameful, I know. Luckily my hand wasn’t broken, which I found out only after I shelled out $345 to Dr. Raj at the emergency medical care center.

My daughter suggested that $345 might have been better spent on therapy for my competitive personality disorder. She didn’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure she thought I got what I deserved. She could be right.

What can I say?  The heart wants what the heart wants. The fact that the body can no longer consistently deliver is a serious bummer. This year I pulled 4 major muscles, rolled an ankle, jammed a finger, twisted my neck, and nearly broke my wrist. I have incapacitated myself at least 6 times in recent memory.

I might be a lunatic (still unproven), but I am not a complete idiot. I get the message that my body is trying to send. Diving for balls is no longer such a good idea.

It’s time I lightened up and learned something from my surprisingly well-adjusted kids.

Winning isn’t everything. There is a certain JOY to simply being on the court and playing. I learned this during the 4 days I just spent in a wrist brace. And as soon as I recover, I plan to participate more and get hurt less. I’m also going to take up a new activity with less potential for fractures and where no one keeps score.

Yoga for Beginners here I come. If I work hard, I bet that I can be the best “stretcher” in my class. So don’t crowd my yoga mat, okay?
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