Sports. You either love it, or you hate it.
If you love sports, you have a favorite team, favorite players, possibly even a favorite coach.
If you don't - well, then you're like me.
With baseball season starting, you see more and more Yankees and Red Sox hats around campus. You hear college students arguing over who is going to "win it all," who got traded to another team or signed as a free agent and other baseball lingo that I know nothing about.
I'm surrounded by the game that sparked my hatred for sports.
Growing up, I never developed a passion for sports. I wasn't good at them, so I didn't have to. I wasn't interested in the games my father would watch on television, nor did I care about going to them.
I've been to a Cubs game, experienced Big League Chew Gum, had my peanuts and crackerjacks, bought some souvenirs, then got bored and wished to go back home.
I continued to ask myself, "What does this have to do with me?"
More importantly, "Why should I care?"
Ironically enough, I was a tomboy.
"Don't knock it til you rock it, Rach" is what all my guy friends would chant before leaving me to babysit our Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures because they had games to attend.
I was forced to attempt to do this "rocking" they spoke of, but never succeeded.
My hatred for sports started like it ended, with a game of a ball and tee.
My parents' desperate attempt to connect me with my guy friends was to enroll me on a co-ed T-ball team when I was in first grade.
Yes! I could finally dress myself up in boy clothes without my mother throwing a temper tantrum!
But immediately, everything started to go wrong. First, my baseball hat would not fit over my pony tail. Then my dog chewed it up so it was uncomfortable and ugly, and my mom had to pin it on.
My position was another place where it went wrong: outfield. Nothing related to the game ever happens out there when 6-year-olds play T-ball. What child can hit that far?
Our games consisted of parents screaming as ground balls were hit towards their kids, other kids staring blankly off into the distance for their coach's signal and me playing in the dirt, distant from it all.
I can remember the only time the ball ever reached me, I was perfecting my masterpiece of Mona Lisa in the sand when the crowd, consisting of only our parents, began screaming at the top of their lungs to grab the attention of the outfielders.
Little Johnny had finally hit something other than his head.
With my father being a life-long Cardinals fan, you can imagine the agony in my household growing up. He told me I was good enough to play for the Cubs.
I thought that was good at the time.
So where does this passion for sports come from? It may be hard for people who are not athletes to understand.
The passion is developed as a child, which is exactly why I do not have an understanding. I talk to my sports fan friends about it, and they tell me that playing sports isn't just a way to pass the time, it's a way of life. It's not about the beer, the cheerleaders or even the fact that you may be seen on TV.
Athletes live for the way they become a family with their teammates, the competition, friends, practices and the memories.
It's the way their coaches become father and mother figures and teach them that the true passion of sports is not about being the hero or being number one. Instead, it's about the relationships you develop and the value of working with others.
The rush an athlete feels when they make that final touchdown, homerun or basket to win the game cannot be explained. Once a person has experienced the passion, they never want it to stop. They continue to push themselves to improve their endurance and talent in the sport they play. Their passion continues to grow as they improve.
As for me, I never developed that passion. I stayed in T-ball to please my parents, but continued to doodle images in the sand.
If I'm not part of it, it has nothing to do with me. It never did, and never will.
Rachel Caselton is a senior public relations major and writes 'Shout from the Castle' for the Daily News. Her views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper.
Write to Rachel at rccaselton@bsu.edu
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