Hat tricks over hail marys all day

Nothing sounds less appealing to me than spending three hours of my day staring at a bunch of mission-oriented golden retrievers wearing capris and knee-high socks. I will never understand that cliché adrenaline rush from watching 22 guys sprint back and forth across 120 yards of grass while catching, tackling and stiff-arming like it’s life or death.

In all my years as a football spectator, I still don’t have a real grasp on the rules. I just clap and complain when everyone else does. I’m a professional at jumping on the bandwagon – if that’s what it takes to fit in on the bleachers next to the die-hard football fans, that’s what I’ll do. Even with all of my incredibly persuasive facades, if you really know me, you’ll know I’m a faux fan.

For one, the environment of a typical football season is entirely too predictable. As the weather cools off, the fans only get more hot-headed. Their guttural screams echo throughout the nation. Somehow all football enthusiasts take the actions of their beloved QB1 personally, no matter if they are sitting in row 20 or on their couch.

While staying true to their pregaming strategies of throwing back copious amounts of beer, football fans begin to trade their t-shirts for hoodies and coats. To my dismay, I’ve discovered that no amount of winter gear can shield a person from football fever. All you have to do to contract it is be or support a person who consistently screams obscenities in the general direction of the games for roughly 18 weeks straight.

While the football frenzy rages on, a steady thrum of anticipation pulses from somewhere else: the homes of eager hockey fans and the arenas of their favorite teams. The air surrounding hockey facilities goes stale and acquires that horrifying tinge of sweat that never fades for all of winter. Mullets start popping up like prairie dogs on a summer’s night, and this is when I really know it’s time. Throw all your football merch into the back of the closet, it’s time for the hockey jersey debut.

The reason I don’t jump up and down with joy over a bunch of stone-cold faces waging a turf battle over an oblong ball is because I didn’t grow up on the field, I grew up in the rink. You can stand the most revered NFL player right in front of me and force me to listen to “The Speech,” but it won’t matter.

I don’t care for any of the things that pull people into the game, and I never will. In the sports world, I love hockey the most, and it will always be that way.

I say that, but I’ve never played a single second of ice hockey, and I don’t plan on it. Playing hockey is not my thing, but I have had the most fun time being a loyal spectator.

I’ve had the privilege of being an unwavering hockey fan for years, but I’ve had the greatest privilege of all time getting to be the No. 1 fan for my younger brother. Ever since he was born, all this boy has done is eat, sleep and play sports. I don’t even like ice skating with him in the winter because it’s embarrassing to get lapped by the person I’m supposed to be showing older sister dominance over.

Even though my pride is a little dented from sibling ice skating nights, it gets repaired when I’m behind the glass, sitting next to my mom on the bleachers and seeing my brother do what he loves most. Watching him do a little celebration after scoring a goal and seeing his teammates reach out for a fist bump makes me a little emotional.

He used to constantly ask me to be the “goalie” for him, and our old apartment walls were covered in black streaks from repeated hockey scrimmages in the kitchen. Even covered with goalie pads and wearing the biggest helmet my little kid eyes had ever seen, I’d flinch as the slapshot came flying across the room.

Back then, he was seven. Now, I just avoid the driveway altogether when he’s practicing because I can’t risk anything. I trust his 16-year-old aim, but I don’t underestimate the ability of his real shots to land me in the emergency room.

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I began watching the games from his eyes too, not just mine. Witnessing the magic of a freezing-cold rink filled to the brim with people who love hockey, from the viewpoint of a player lost in admiration, is incredible. It’s so special to get to watch the younger player inside of him admire every detail of the game. I could see him following each play like he was on the ice.

From the moment I watched 4-year-old Aiden take his first horribly coordinated whack at a puck, I knew no matter what sports I’d grow to love myself, I’d always have a puck-shaped spot in my heart.

roger199@miamioh.edu

Jada Rogers is a first-year currently exploring as an undecided student. She is a writer for the opinion section of The Student and a member of the American Institute of Professional Geologists, the Miami Green Team and Paws for a Cause.