As you may have heard (or read, seen personally, etc.), the Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup earlier this week. I mentioned that they were in the final in my last post, focusing there on the idea of the way our superstitions affect – or, more likely, don’t affect – sports games.[1] My extremely generous wife agreed to stay home with our sleeping son while I went to a bar with my brother[2] so that we could watch together. Sports are always more fun when they’re shared so we went out, we drank, we ate, we watched and most importantly, the Blackhawks won.
It was a fantastic ending. The Blackhawks were terribly outmatched in the first period and were lucky to finish only down 1-0. They played much better in the second and tied the game. About halfway through the third, Boston took a 2-1 lead and as time wound down, it looked like Boston would win, sending the series to a winner-take-all game 7. But then, with 76 seconds remaining in the game, the Hawks scored to tie it and only 17 seconds later, scored again to take the lead, which they held for the win. My brother and I were understandably thrilled that our team and city were once again hoisting the Stanley Cup, the best championship trophy in all of sports.
And I missed it.
About five minutes into the third period, my wife called me to say that our son had woken up sick and she needed me to come home. We left the bar and came straight home so I could put some newly dirty clothes and blankets in the laundry, clean up in the living room after E got sick a second time and comfort him while my wife took a shower to clean herself off. It wasn’t until early the next morning, after E had gotten some much needed sleep, that I had a chance to see the highlights of the end of the game.
Here’s the most important part: it didn’t bother me at all.
I couldn’t believe it. I had just missed my team winning the championship, something that theoretically may never happen again[3] and I was totally fine with it. My wife tried to tell me on the phone as I was walking home from the bar that I could go back and she could handle the situation by herself[4] and I said, “Absolutely not, I’m coming home.” She even apologized to me at one point for my having missed the end of the game and I told her she was being ridiculous. I knew where I needed to be and what I needed to do.
It’s a weird thing about fatherhood. I’m not going to pretend that E was born and I immediately snapped into the father of the year. If anything, it’s taken me a long time even to get to the place where I am now and I’ve still got a long way to go. But fatherhood has grown on me. Maybe it’s because E is older now and is more interactive. Maybe it’s that I’ve gotten more used to the idea of my new responsibilities. Maybe it’s that E finally stopped peeing on me every time I changed his diapers. Maybe it’s even the idea that the more time I put in now, the more I’ll be able to share these sports moments with E when he’s older.
Whatever it is, apparently E isn’t the only one who’s growing.
[1] If you look back at the comments on that article, you can safely assume that my brother’s jersey was set down on his couch during game 6 and no one was allowed to touch it.
[2] Not the jersey on the couch brother; the other one.
[3] I’m a Cubs fan too, remember?
[4] I told you she was generous. To be fair, though, this was before E got sick a second time.
