I know that sports
plays a huge part in most American’s lives, and I know that there are legions
of women who adore professional sports, but I grew up in a household with two
sisters who didn’t and an artist father who could take it or leave it. So, Monday night was Little House on
the Prairie night for us. Once our
homework was finished, we cozied into our nightgowns, grabbed the tissue box,
and nestled onto the couch with Mom.
For the next hour our petty lives fell away as we immersed ourselves in
the dramatic lives of the Ingalls family and the trials and tribulations that
gripped Walnut Grove on a weekly basis.
I suppose this seemingly harmless tradition was little more than a
gateway drug for what would eventually feed into our daily dose of General
Hospital, but we didn’t care. When
a wagon was pulled from the mud, we cheered; when a crop was lost, we moaned. For ten years we laughed and cried with
Half Pint, wishing and wanting everything she ached for. Her life became ours and we traded
gladly.
Fast forward to
our current family get-togethers.
My father has passed, I’m divorced, and my other sister is single. That leaves only one brother-in-law--
who has three daughters—as the sole male in a house for a long holiday weekend
with seven women who can take or leave professional sports. To be fair, we let him watch his
game. We hear him cheer in solitude
when the good team gets the points and sigh in frustration when the bad guys
get a win. Sometimes, in passing,
we see him leap out of his chair, fists pumping in the air when his team wins,
clapping to punctuate his victory as if he were watching gladiators at
battle—as if he were in the battle himself. But the rest of the time we commandeer the TV and lately
we’ve immersed ourselves just as thoroughly in DVDs of our own choosing. Yes, Downton Abbey.
Like a
professional televised sporting event, we get viscerally amped-up for
viewing. Everyone claims her
favorite chair and various snacks are put out on display. As the opening credits unfold, we turn
down lights and hush the chatters, eager with anticipation, ready for
uncertainty. Anna shows early
signs of being a likely candidate for MVP, whereas Daisy is the clear favorite
as rookie. Lady Mary is clearly
not bringing her A game to find a husband and worthy air and Lady Edith is just
making poor decisions with every play—Mr. Carson should totally bench her. Lord Grantham gets character penalties
for infidelity, Mr. Bates emerges in the second half as a leader in his field,
and everyone loves to hate Thomas and Mrs. O’Brien. Thankfully, Lady Sybil, Mrs. Hughes and Mathew are holding
the team together with strong character and smart choices. Someone has to.
Beginning with the
first show of the first season, we were entranced, but we also felt a little
defeated. Anna kept gaining ground
with Mr. Bates, only to be blocked at every move. She bobbed and weaved well enough, but someone or some
circumstance was always running interference. Neither of them could seem to gain any ground. Once, when a clandestine kiss was
foiled at the last minute, our viewership of seven roared in unison. “Noooo!” we all shouted at the screen,
our hands up to our heads. “C’mon,
Mister Bates, you’re not trying hard enough! She’s right there!
All you have to do is lean in, for crying out loud!” And so it went. When Lord Grantham stole a kiss from
the housemaid, we hissed and “ooooooed” at his penalty. Would this be a penalty that would cost
him the game with Cora? I’m still
undecided about Cora as to her value as a team player. Sometimes I’m beguiled by her
flexibility, her tolerance, and her steadfast loyalty to her daughters and
sometimes she plays as if she’s just been woken up from a nap. C’mon Cora, snap out of it—get in the
game.
Everyone wants her
favorite players to do better, to make the pass, to win. When, at long last, Anna and Mister
Bates did finally come together in a tender kiss, our excitement got the better
of us just as any fan’s would.
Without direction, each one of us lept up from our chairs, fist-pumping
and shouting, “Yay!” while jumping up and down in perfectly choreographed
glee. We cheered so loud that you
would have heard it had you been walking your dog outside. In fact, you would have assumed we were
watching sports. And in a way we
were, we were watching our version of sport, immersed in a world of victory and
loss, of small gains and obstacles-- of triumph and hope. After what seemed like seventeen
hundred hours in a row of viewing nirvana-- tension, longing and desire--our
team had won. Team
Go-After-What-You-Want had scored a major victory. Team You-Deserve-To-Be-Happy had advanced us in the
standings. Team Hope had beat out
the defending champs, Team Cynical.
We were going to the semis with Team Love.
