Mother analyzes world of sports, shares her own adrenaline rush

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 02/20/12 edition of The Goshen News, this writer's paper of record.  NASCAR in the dining room?  Uh-huh.

Twice, I’d confessed it.  Like a naïve Sunday School attender spilling the family secrets in class, I’d blurted it out. 

While the rest of the nation whooped and hollered over the cheese dip, waving brightly-colored foam fingers on their couches, I sat silent, stymied and confused.  What were they playing down there?  I didn’t know.  And from what I could see, the players themselves were unsure. 

At first glance, it looked like Keep Away, which could morph into a spirited game of tag at the drop of the proverbial hat.  This, I could understand, for it looked like a thousand recesses from my elementary school career. 

But hark.  What was this?  Apparently a game of Twister had broken out on the 20-yard line, judging by the writhing, tangled heap of athletes bunched up down there.  That, or a strange version of Kick the Can that looked nothing like what we’d played on the farm with the cousins. 

Theft.  Assault.  Battery.  That’s what I saw whenever I watched.  Others who, too, were confused by the seeming mayhem on the field laughed out loud, freed, finally, to admit their own uncertainty.  The rest were left to bang their collective heads on their desks, outraged at such cavalier treatment of the national pastime.  Which is when I dialed up the federal witness protection folks and said, “I need a spot.  Something tropical, perhaps?”

Simply speaking, basketball makes sense.  I get it.  One ball.  Two baskets.  Put the ball in the right one, and you get two points.  Shoot from the “need binoculars” section and swish it, and you get three. 

No throwing yellow hankies.  No “stop, drop, and roll around” on a muddy field while a team of Boy Scouts moves in to untangle the mess.  One ball.  Two buckets.  Put it in. 

For simple folks like me, running makes sense, too.  Pair of shoes.  Pack of people.  Popgun pops.  The herd lights out, and whoever carries their sneakers over the finish line first is the winner.  Period. 

Speaking of which, it’s something how a little old cross-country race like this can bring out the dark side of a mom.  Here comes your kid, carrying the Panther red and black.  Suddenly, the fellow who’s been drafting on him the whole way flips on his blinker, passes him up, and edges him out. 

All at once, you’re seeing the school colors again, dancing in spots before your eyes.  But because you’re a wise, mature adult, you simply cinch up your sturdy Christian underwear, smile, and keep yelling for your kid. 

Another one that stumps me is skiing.  Why folks do it on purpose is beyond me.  Ricocheting downhill on two thin strips of something-or-other with trees (and their trunks) flashing past is like playing Russian Roulette in a puffy suit, if you ask me.  And the diehards aren’t using the bunny slopes, either. 

Seems to me they’re taking their lives into their own hands.  Of course, it’s scarcely different than pulling a pan of cookies from the oven and shouting, “Milk and cookies, anyone?” without stepping aside first. 

Knowing that people pay big bucks for this adrenaline rush makes me laugh.  I can get the same fix just by standing in the kitchen during morning rush hour. 

All it takes is one panicked bellow (“bus!”) for it all to hit the wall.  That quick, Someone’s scrambling for his lunch box while Someone Else is hopping around on one leg, trying to get the last sock on.  Then Someone needs a paper signed, I note ketchup on his collar, and just as I’m reaching for a pen, I step on a glob of jelly that Nobody dropped. 

Adrenaline?  By the time the door closes on the last shirttail, one eye is twitching, and my left leg is jumping.  All of this, see, without leaving the house. 

Even though we aren’t NASCAR enthusiasts, I get that concept, too.  Heap of drivers, oval track.  Fast cars and lots of gas.  Round and round and round they go, hurtling past the stands to the fans’ delight.  It’s thunderous loud, and the bleachers vibrate.  Which means you’re left to play Charades with your seat mates (“heading to the bathroom, grabbing a soda”).  It’s that or lip reading. 

It happens here, see, and that’s why I know it so well.  Heap of “drivers,” oval track.  Fast feet and lots of gas.  Round and round and round they go, hurtling around the dining room table.  It’s thunderous loud, and the floor shakes.  Which leaves me playing Charades with Mr. Schrock, pit crew chief:  “Headed for Tahiti.  Good luck with all that.”

I have to be careful with this because The Mister can lip read.  That’s why I go with a vague game of Charades.  Otherwise, he’d be right on my heels, hopping a puddle jumper with me.  And we both know someone has to stay because that bus is coming and there are papers to sign. 

I’ll be right back.  I really will.  Just as soon as the dust settles and those fumes clear out.