I recently made a new friend. Amanda is the mom of one of my grandson Jeremy’s classmates – a Jersey girl that I am not old enough to be her mother. We met during the holiday festivities at the elementary school and formed an instant bond. She invited us for a play day at the park. To be honest, it felt almost like I was bringing my puppy to a new dog park for a test-run to see how well our boys would act outside of the structure of school before bringing them into each other’s homes.
There seems to be a territorial trait in boys. I am only learning this from Jeremy because I only had daughters, so I was blissfully unaware until now. Feeling confident that they would play nice together, she invited us to play pickleball with them. She said they play a couple of times a week, and Jeremy and I were welcome to go with them anytime.
I told her I would love to get involved in anything fun for Jeremy, but we have never played before. “Okay, what about golf?” She asked. “Do you and Jeremy like to play golf?”
To which I questioned, “putt-putt?”
By her facial expression and instant giggle, I knew she did not.
I was slightly embarrassed to admit that sports were not my thing. I have never been into sports – either playing or watching them. The most I ever played was softball in high school gym class, and even then, I was terrible. I’m a prima ballerina, and if by chance I did manage to ever catch the ball, which I hardly ever did, I’d lift my foot up off the base and the runner would end up safe. Needless to say, I’ve always been a better snack keeper than a coach’s assistant.
Aside from my lack of sports experience, I also explained that Jeremy was more of a “Crossfit ninja-type” who enjoys trampoline parks, rock climbing, and anything that involves a harness or a holster. He’s never played a group sport yet, and DeMarcos usually don’t do too well in quiet, structured environments, even during playtime.
Realistically, friends have always busted my chops about how they would never take me to a tennis match or a golf tournament. They say my constant chatter would be too much of a distraction to everyone. My old fisherman buddies, whom I served at the Diner daily, also joked that they would NEVER take me out on the lake with them. “You’d scare all the dang fish away before we even had a chance to anchor the boat,” they’d jest.
Then, they’d add that my voice alone could cause an echo that would off-kilter the entire ecosystem!”
Luckily, I’m thick-skinned, and silly comments like that never really bothered me – especially on topics that I knew I’d lose. Sadly my knowledge of sports is as bad as my ability to sit quietly.
Recently a family friend asked my husband Joe, “What kind of sports does Lisa like?” to which my hubby laughed so hard, he actually spit. “My wife?” he questioned, “She’s sports illiterate!
“Don’t get me wrong, she makes a great cheerleader and an even better party hostess. There’s no one better at keeping the party going and the snacks and beverages flowing than my sweetie, especially seeing that she has absolutely no interest in the game,” he added.
My brain just doesn’t properly connect to that kind of information. But if you want to know how many shades of red nail polish there are or how to make cupcakes that look like Easter baskets, then I’m your gal.
Although Joe has a notebook of all my “sports-term bloopers,” his favorite “epic blunders” would have to be my hockey tale.
While I attended the University of Central Florida, I worked at a sports bar called “Coach’s.” At the time, I was neither a sports enthusiast nor a drinker, but the work hours were perfect for my already hectic class schedule. I had served food and alcohol before, but this was my first job working in a sports bar serving alcohol to sports fanatics during game times.
The bar was a local hangout that featured every sports event legal to broadcast. It had over 25 TVs and six big screens strategically placed throughout the two-story building. On one particular day, we had several events going simultaneously and in the middle of total chaos, we ran out of chicken wings. My boss had to leave everything and run to the nearby wholesale store to restock. For some reason, I guess because I was standing there, he handed me the master remote control as he ran out the back kitchen door, shouting, “No matter what you do, don’t take hockey off the big screen!”
Knowing nothing about the games or their schedules, I hoped that I wouldn’t get any requests while he was gone. I shook my head and said to my cook, “What the heck?”
He just smiled and said, “I don’t do the ordering. I just cook!”
As luck had it, the minute I went back onto the floor, a group of guys approached me. Almost grabbing my arm, one of the gentlemen shouted, “Hey, the bartender said you could hook us up with a television to watch the Stanley Cup?”
I was already scattered, and I had no idea what the Stanley Cup was – not to mention – my own section was quickly filling up, and although I was helping the bossman, no one was helping me cover my station. I told the “Cup” guys that I would gladly put whatever they wanted to watch on one of the small screens as soon as I got a minute because, as instructed, I had to keep hockey on all the big screens.
“For real,” the one guy questioned. “You’re joking, right?”
He and his buddies started to laugh, but I’m sure my blank stare was enough to prove to them all that this was not a joke nor an act on my part. “Serious!” another guy said. “Someone actually left you in charge?!” he snickered.
With that, I was awarded “Dummy of the Day,” and everybody in the bar got a good laugh. To my advantage, I managed to find just enough space left in my section with a clear view of a large screen to seat my whole group of Stanley Cup knuckleheads. This made them very happy, and very generous when their team ended up winning.
This just goes to show – you don’t have to bet on the game to come out a winner.
Laugh on. Peace out!
Lisa DeMarco is a columnist for Villages-News.com
