Alex has a new treasure. It’s a soccer ball signed by several MN United players, a late birthday present from his mom. The ball has brought a new level of joy to our home. It’s just like Christmas, except no Bing Crosby, gingerbread, or frasier fir candles.
The ball rolled around our apartment for a few days until Alex worried it was getting exposed to the elements and started looking up UV-protected cases online. Until we can get our hands on one of those, he’s chosen our dining area as the ball’s home. In an act of creative genius, he’s repurposed one of my tea light candle holders into a temporary stand.
This isn’t the first piece of paraphernalia to enter my kitchen. We eat three meals a day underneath a MN United flag the size of a sleeping bag on our wall.
The ball’s in good company.
In the last year, Alex and I have watched tons of games live and on TV. We’ve read about sports and talked about them. As my capacity grows, my husband’s hobby starts to seem normal to me.
And then there are times when I look around and think, this is crazy.
Like that time we waited an hour in the pouring rain at a MN United event, just to get a free magnet.
Or every time we watch a baseball game (dear Lord, why did it have to be 9 innings?)
Or when our apartment starts to look like a soccer shrine.
I have moments when I’m absolutely bewildered. If you know and love a sports addict, maybe you can relate.
But then I look more closely at that ball in my kitchen. It’s covered in scribbled Sharpie signatures by athletes who have spent half of their lives in cleats.
Sports are played by real people with real talents who have worked real hard to get there. Fans know and appreciate this.
Let’s not lose sight of that.