My mom and I were never really on the same page when I was growing up. While I definitely shared some eccentric qualities with her, we didn’t align quite like she did with my siblings. The more into adulthood I got, the wider the chasm became.
The one thing that did connect us was sports.
Among those eccentric qualities we shared was a habit of pursuing whatever new and interesting thing sparked our curiosity. That, combined with my parents’ insistence on consuming tales and adventures of all kinds, meant I accumulated quite the oddball collection of athletic knowledge and equipment — not to mention, finally, topics I could talk to Mom about.
I remember in small-kid time watching World Wrestling Federation matches and being alternately fascinated and terrified by the various characters. When journalism became my career, I was able to translate that early fondness and familiarity into opening the door to Hawaii’s own pro wrestling past and present.
The best part was talking to Mom about what I’d learned and hearing her recall her experiences growing up as a fan of local wrestling.
If I read or watched something and wanted to try it, Mom and Dad usually indulged me. I would balance on and hop off my grandpa’s construction horses after watching the Summer Olympics. With a hand-me-down baseball mitt and ball I would play catch and imagine that one day I might be good enough to join a team. The day I took off on a bicycle on my own was possibly the most freeing of my life.
Need a hockey stick? After watching “The Mighty Ducks” I became the proud owner of one to go along with the inline skates I already had. Yes, my parents got me a puck too.
I also am the proud owner of a unicycle. Why? Why not? I read about unicycles, got excited, and Mom and Dad in their loving (and probably nearly-broke way at that point) managed to find one for me. I still don’t know how to ride it.
Thanks to my parents I got to attend basketball camps and the occasional University of Hawaii game. I was in athletics throughout grade school and briefly in high school. My childhood bookshelves are filled with sports books and magazines.
When I got older — when my mom’s and my differences became more pronounced — the only thing I could settle on discussing with her was whatever was going on in the sports universe.
My job as a copy editor allowed me to know a little about a lot; that is, I could read a bunch of recaps, keeping in mind which teams Mom followed, then chat with her about all of them. I don’t care much for pro sports, but for the sake of being able to talk to Mom I tried to keep up.
Mom passed away unexpectedly a week ago . At first I was worried I wasn’t mourning enough — then I realized all the sports we never got to talk about, and that’s when it really hit me.
We’ll never be able to muse over how UH will fare next year with its new head football coach.
I never got the chance to tell her about the crazy NFL quarterfinal games two weeks ago, or who’ll be playing in this year’s Super Bowl.
I can’t gloat that my alma mater, Marquette, cracked the top 25 in men’s basketball while my sister’s alma mater, Notre Dame, got just a handful of votes in the latest Associated Press top 25 poll. (Rewind to football season, of course, and all I can muster is “Well, Marquette’s been undefeated for 60 years!”) (We don’t have a football team.)
I think the saddest realization I’ve had, though, is that my daughter will miss out on her own sports time with Mom.
Clare is already a fan of sumo, i.e. “two fat men,” thanks to Tutu. They sat together and watched each match, giggling at the spectacle and cheering when a wrestler prevailed after a long bout. They never knew who won the tournaments, but that wasn’t the point.
It was about the experience they shared. That’s something I’ll miss with Mom too.
