Growing up in a house of diehard Boston sports fandom, I’ve become almost spiritual. Wearing dirty T-shirts and being assured my presence in front of the garage TV was crucial to the Patriots’ win has helped to formulate beliefs that appear in various forms of my life.
When I’m struggling, I look away from big black hoodies and the dress of the day I wish to have. I believe in the invisible, unproven things, like whatever it is knocking LeBron James over in recent games. I believe in God and signs from the universe presenting themselves through butterflies, hawks, and hummingbirds.
My parents raised my brother and me with religious traditions, but not so much the faith. My mother is open about her respectful agnosticism, and my dad is a bit of an omnist. But no matter what higher being, or lack thereof, one believes in, Sunday mornings are holy for the five to six months that the NFL is in season, and God rests on your favorite jersey.
Like Jewish people eat cookies in the shape of the Passover villain’s hat, my family and I eat food the color of the opposing team and say we’re devouring their team. For instance, on the fourth, we ate buffalo wings when the Patriots played the Buffalo Bills.
We’ve named the sports bar in our garage where we watch games, “Fred’s Bar,” after my grandfather. His ashes rest on the bar among pendants and collectable glasses. During especially stressful games, my dad kisses his fingers and then the urn like a mezuzah. I get rowdy at basketball games, shouting and high-fiving strangers, standing up from my seat with a passion only possibly matched by church ladies with big hats.
Similar to organized religion, sports superstitions are more than baseless belief systems; they’re uniting forces of communities. Just as I held faith that somehow, the Patriots would have miraculously claimed a lead in the fourth quarter of Super Bowl LX, I continue to hold faith that I and those I love will come out of this life victorious, despite all odds that may be held against us.
Leave a Reply