The Good Sport in Me

Reluctantconfessions ofa formeranti-fan.

LET'S JUST SAY I'M NOT QUEEN OF THE SPORTING LIFE. Let's just say that my favorite athletic activities include Getting a Taxi (which involves, much like football, the need for exceptional vision and the ability to run while pushing others out of the way, as well as the ability to emit a loud whistle not simply respond to one) and Shopping for Shoes (a great challenge especially as one ages, involving much bending over in a highly perhaps we should say supremely competitive atmosphere). As for everything else falling under the aegis of "sport," I must turn to my mentor, Dorothy Parker, who summed it up for a number of us when she remarked," Skiing is difficult and none of my business."

Sport is difficult and none of my business.

This, as you probably know, is no way to approach doing time at Dartmouth. It's sort of like heading into the desert muttering, "But I'm very sun-sensitive," to which the only reply is, "Why the hell didn't you think of that before you embarked on this journey?" The lame answer: I just didn't realize. Where I grew up, Lotto was considered a big sport; men did not run unless someone in an unmarked car was chasing them; women didn't run, ever. You couldn't, wearing those tiny heels which is probably why we were encouraged to wear them from adolescence onwards. I wore them in Hanover. I admit it. I was stupid.

But not stupid enough to be tricked by some upperclassmen. There lam in 197 5, my freshman year, hauling books to the library on this perfect autumn afternoon, ready to trade them in for the next batch, ready to make good on whatever efforts had sent me to this tiny town, ready to be the poster girl of a bona fide college student. I climb the steps, sacks full of weighty tomes across my shoulders, like some medieval peddler. I tug at Baker's massive doors, and even I can see (weak-armed and weak-shouldered as I am) that there is no movement. The doors are locked. How can this be? I am as puzzled as a character in The Twilight Zone. It's a weekend afternoon; there have been no reports of plague or riots; I am at an Ivy League school.

"Why the hell is the library closed?" I shout indignantly to some guys walking by.

"There's a football game!" they shout back, and laugh, apparently at my question I figure they are kidding. I sit on the steps, and a few minutes later put the same question to an older couple walking by. They yell back the same answer.

At that moment I discover I am not in the Twilight Zone: I'm in the Outer Limits. I have gone to a college that closes its doors against the possibility of some student engaging in the subversive process of reading. What have I done? I have gone to a world where They Shut Down the Library During Home Football Games.

Fifteen years later I am recounting this story to a wonderfully appreciative group over cocktails at a swanky New York party (the only town where the word "swanky" still applies) and this tall dark-haired guy at my left shoulder is listening. He hears me get to the punch line They Shut Down the Library During Home Football Games whereupon everybody laughs out loud. Except the tall man, who says to me, with impeccable dignity, sophistication, and sly sense of James Bondian style, "And your point is...?"

The tall man a Dartmouth man and I are friends, but we clash over the issue of athletics. He thinks sports are good and tends to repeat that phrase in an argument and not only because it is composed of words with only one syllable. He loves this stuff, talks to me about scores and standings as if I had a clue about what he means, and he expects me to support the College by cheering on its teams. My face still manages that grimace-like smile but, to tell the truth, I just don't get it. I still have trouble figuring out why playing outside in the dirt (or on the clay or the carpet or whatever) is considered worthy of the attention and monies of grown people. If you want to play yourself, sure, have a good time, Godspeed and all that, but don't try to make me buy a ticket (or help build a $12 billion stadium) to watch.

I've backed off a little, though, on my reckless non-sports identity. A couple of years ago, the undefeated women's basketball team at UConn, where I teach, was making such big news that everywhere I went, people asked me about the team and the players as if they were some part of women's history. I started paying attention. I watched some of their games on the tube. I even started, if you can believe it, reading Sports Illustrated. And I found that the team was being celebrated not just for its winning but because of its playing. I began to cheer when they played, but I cheered loudest when I read about some of the players' grade-point averages, and when I heard that the coach bought each member of the team a book for Christmas. They were genuine scholar-athletes. I like the fact that the hyphenated phrase works in the order it does: scholar comes first. The players clearly enjoyed the various and myriad parts of their lives, which made it easy to commend them as role models. They seemed to be able, as so few of us can manage, to live in the moment: their focus is the game, this evening, these comrades, these moments as students. These energetic, talented, skilled, and articulate women were indeed making women's history.

I did cheer for a Dartmouth team once. The women's basketball team played UConn, and I was really engaged by the game. I rooted for one side and then the other my loyalties deeply and obviously divided to the point where those listening to me cheer for both sides suggested medication. But I was shockingly happy when Dartmouth gathered up points (or tossed in points, or racked them up, or whatever). It was exciting and it was fan, even to watch, and it became clear, even to me, that it must be a blast to play.

Not to worry: this did not make me purchase sneakers or anything drastic. But it did give me a sense of camaraderie with the tall guy that I hadn't felt before. I think we're both in agreement on one point: there are many students at Dartmouth, as at UConn, who deserve our cheers. There are the ones who wait tables to help pay for tuition, the ones who fought through rough and unready high school educations to come to Hanover, the ones who spend their time tutoring other students instead of (or in addition to) playing a sport. But when the students who are most visible achieve success and recognition, athletics can at the best of moments offer everyone a chance to yell and whoop and holler for them, and by extension, for the rest of our endeavors. Just do me a favor: don't tell the tall guy I agree with him even a little bit. I'll never hear the end of it.

REGINA BARRECA associate professor of English at the Universityof Connecticut, is a contributing editor for this magazine.