I love sports, or so I tell me. I have favourite teams and players and have been known to exalt or wail, depending on the results.
Let me give you a rundown of my heroes:
Toronto Maple Leafs (hockey)
Winnipeg Jets (hockey)
Toronto Blue Jays (baseball)
Toronto FC (soccer)
Toronto Raptors (basketball)
Brooke Henderson (golf)
Denis Shapovalov (tennis)
Enough champions to make anyone happy, wouldn’t you say? Well … maybe.
Last night I started watching the Jets on TV. If the team won, they’d be in the semi-finals of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The game was in Winnipeg, where just about all the fans in the building wear white and wave towels like crazy. So exciting!
Within ten minutes of game start, something happened to that exclamation mark. It was … fading. The fans were still jumping up and down, Winnipeg and Nashville were taking turns roaring down the ice, but I was no longer engaged. Instead I was mystified. “How can I not be excited? This is the playoffs!”
In my perplexity, I thought of my other sporting heroes. No juice there either. Was I becoming a blah blob?
No, I wasn’t.
Some force is moving through me, pushing me towards a deep sense of relationship with human beings. There’s a beauty and a spirit that I can’t name but it’s lifting me up. The majesty is far beyond the thrill of a breakaway, a slam dunk or a three-wood nestling close to the pin. It’s like a 60-watt bulb compared to a spotlight.
Am I becoming the next version of me? Are the old me’s taking their rightful place in the background? I don’t know.
I’m open to where this roaring river is taking me. A destination that I can’t even conceive of.
Not a care in the world