In January 1982, I almost decided to skip a trip home to Australia for two weeks to avoid missing the Super Bowl, even though my favorite team, the Dallas Cowboys, was not playing, and I had no emotional attachment to either of the teams in the contest.
I eventually came to my senses and made the trip. It was a good thing I did because in the newsstands on the way there, there, and on the way back, I took up a vigorous perusal — for the first time — of men’s magazines like Playboy and Penthouse.
I was 15.
I arrived in Australia after the game had concluded. I think my Uncle Val told me who won and I got to see highlights on the news that night.
I’m just thinking about how I almost chose to skip my sister’s wedding to watch a football game and it makes me question the role spectator sports has played in my life. For me, I think, it is a narcotic. It is a way I distract myself from the loneliness of my existence. I have an intimacy disorder and I try to numb the pain through sex, porn, sports, gambling, etc.
When I can lose myself watching some event on TV, I can forget about my discouragement with my own life for a few hours.
I don’t think happy people, generally, are the most devoted sports fans.
Through therapy and 12-step work and Judaism and the like, I’m starting to stare some of my addictions in the face and to look back on my life with greater clarity.
