Post Playoff Packing Up

Ah, the first half of June— time of fragrant blossoms, gentle breezes, lawns a-greening, birds a-twittering.

And, depending on your perspective, either right in keeping with the burgeoning season or completely out of synch with it, the double whammy of TWO Best-of-7 Series (make that plural). Did you watch? I sure did. Having been steeped in athletic activity from a young age, I’m not about to change now.

Yep, I’m a pastor’s wife, and proud to be. But when I got married, that part of my identity became a new layer atop what was already there, and a few inches of that consisted of a solid sports section.

And so, thus constituted, I now pause to consider the fresh from the almost-a-game-on-every-night patch many of us have been through. It feels like more of a topsy-turvy world even than usual, since Toronto “We The North” rules the NBA and St. Louis “Move Over Baseball” (just invented that, not so catchy) is atop the NHL.

Yes, of course there is much else going on, way more important things. But for the moment I’m zooming my “constantly celebrating contrasts” camera in on the cascade of games that we’ve just completed.

Well, we didn’t exactly play in any of them. But we got swept up all the same.

I didn’t make it quite to the final moments of the Bruins downfall on Wednesday night, turning in during the third period after they were down 3-0. In truth, I’ve never become a Bruins fan at all, having grown up in New York Rangers territory.

I love how the Blues won it all for the first time, too, vindicating their loss to the Bruins way back in 1970.  And I love how a city can expand how it sees itself, embracing more than their beloved Cardinals. One sport reporter wrote, “It’s a baseball town, but now it’s a hockey town.” That’s topsy turvy in a great way.

With the Stanley Cup claimed, I had little trouble staying up until almost midnight for the entire Raptors/Golden State game at the Oracle Center, barely budging from the couch. I was rooting for Toronto, definitely, for at least three good reasons: 1) I have a few cousins there 2) Pascal Siakam is from Cameroon (where our daughter lived for a time and has many friends) and 3) The increasingly ethnically diverse city got to see its ethnically diverse team — and there were a number of key contributors, not just one or two stars– triumph out on the court. Here’s how the crowd lined up just for coveted spots outside in that wonderfully named spot: Jurassic Park.

Toronto love notwithstanding, there were plenty of reasons to admire (a paltry word in this case) Golden State, too. Did you see the beauty of Klay Thompson’s shooting, how high he lifted himself off the floor for the three pointers, before he had to exit the game? That alone made for compelling viewing. Here’s a picture of him from a few years ago, in a meditative rather than an airborne moment.

My husband missed most of the brilliance, choosing to go up to bed before halftime, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

Admittedly, though, there is always a weird quality to these June evenings, when the voices of tree frogs loudly proclaim what season it is. Aren’t basketball and hockey actually winter sports?

Maybe they were, in a Norman Rockwell kind of world. Now the pro leagues stretch all the way until almost summer, overlapping with the newness of Major League Baseball for a solid couple of months.  And that’s not counting the zillions of camps in cool rinks and gyms with gleaming floors that happen for kids (two of mine went) in July and August. This feels not entirely good; we wonder if the blurring of segments of the year that used to be kept separate, each one with a distinct identity, will have some kind of cost. Even to our souls. But perhaps this is just an irrational clinging to what used to be.

That’s one kind of contrast. Here’s another. Traditionally, guys clock way more time watching sports on TV than women do, right? In our house, it’s generally the reverse. And I get it, too. My husband’s job is plenty demanding, and when he comes home after a day of meetings and challenging conversations, he is legitimately tuckered out. Relaxing with part of a game is generally good; but all of it, upwards of two and half hours, even a 7^th one that determines everything? Too much. A good book calls out to him. For me, on the other hand, especially during this period of recuperation from surgery, having the diversion of a really good game on — with spectacular skating, stickhandling, goaltending, blocking out, speed in transition, posting up, and of course shooting skills on display — is absolutely perfect.

I’m very accustomed to feeling guilty about not being “productive” enough. No treat, that, for any of us — an easy pit to fall into. The fact is, though, judging ourselves just by the scale of how much we get done gets dreary.  And so I’m grateful for that long string of game nights over the past couple of weeks reminding me of this fact. Just give in, I told myself. And so, I believe, did those tree frogs.