No, I'm not a sports nut. In fact, this weekend I watched the first five innings of baseball I've watched in over two years. And those were spread over two days. Critter Robin's hubby commented that baseball is not a "real" sport. Of course, they live in Arkansas, where the combined total of that state's income probably wouldn't pay for one starting pitcher. Instead, they watch college football and play golf. I understand they even have one golf course with grass.
At any rate, I'm not one to argue. Professional and college sports, in general, bore me to tears. I think it's partially because, in the many compartments that make up my life, sports kept slipping farther and farther toward the bottom until it disappeared entirely. Hunting is way above football, and I don't have time for that anymore, so guess where that leaves the Detroit Lions? That's right--last place as usual.
More of my disdain for professional sports, though, lies in my own rebellion against the status quo of this country. The average American male knows more about the quarterback of his favorite team than he knows about his wife. We live in a society that is engrossed by 90% sports and 99% sex. Yes, I know that adds up to way over 100% but, thanks to Budweiser and professional wrestling, we've managed to overlap the two quite nicely.
If anyone thinks that I'm just a self-righteous Christian born to a Baptist deacon, forget it. The first thirty years of my life were spent pursuing the same lusts that I now rail against. If Hooters had been around when I was twenty I probably wouldn't have eaten anywhere else.
It's not so much a stretch that I can't seem to separate sports from America's sex fixation. It's a pretty short leap for a teenage boy to ogle a cheerleader's midriff to surfing the internet porn sites for the next ten years of his life. Right up until his first wife walks out on him.
I hadn't intended to go on a rant when I started this post. I really am happy for the Tigers and for Detroit, a city in desperate need of a bright spot on its gloomy horizon. I let my son watch some of the games with me this weekend and he got to see "the shot" that put the Tigers in the World Series. I hope he remembers that moment for the rest of his life, just as I remember guys like Kirk Gibson, Lance Parish, and Frank Tanana from the '84 Tigers and my father reflects on guys like Al Kaline, Willie Horton, and Norm Cash from the '68 team.
Unfortunately, our society has turned sports into a religion, and I will never allow my son to get to that point where he places the importance of a game over the One true God. Fifty-thousand people came to their feet at Comerica Park Saturday night over one man's home run. If Jesus himself walked out onto that ball field, performed miracles, and promised them all eternal life, most would have ignored Him, got up for another beer run, and returned once the game resumed. Welcome to post-Christian America.
I'll root for the Tigers for another week or two. But the Glory always goes to my Lord.