LARGER THAN LIFE

My family recently got back from the most low-brow vacation imaginable. No exaggeration. This was even less ambitious than a trip to the beach – at least there you might read a few books. This was more like a trip to a sand box. And I was playing the role of the grade-school-aged big brother.

Our destination was the Twin Cities, or at least that’s where we told everyone we were going. But that part of the trip was hardly the highlight. I confess that we did have a very nice time seeing friends who own a frozen custard shop in Minneapolis – Liberty Frozen Custard is its name, and next time you head up to the north pole and want to take a pit stop, check it out. (Actually they do a great job, jokes aside.)

We spent a fair amount of time at Liberty -- my daughter Hannah had a couple of gigs there. But this vacation wasn’t about the arts, it was about sports. Lots and lots of sports. I realized when the trip was over that without sports, I become way too much of an adult. And I don’t want to be an adult; it’s highly overrated.

First of all, we went to a state-of-the-art putting course. The first time was my idea, but the second and third times were definitely the choice of my daughters. We also went to the Metrodome to see my Twins get shut out. I certainly preferred the putting to that.

The vacation’s piece de resistance had nothing to do with baseball or golf. Nor did it involve the roughly $400 we spent on sports memorabilia – including five jerseys, three sweaters, and a bunch of other knickknacks that you’d have to see to believe. (That amount may not sound like that much to you, but to a guy like me who drives around in a 1991 Honda without a working radio or CD player, believe me, it’s a lot of money.) Anyway, most of that happened in the Twin Cities, and like I said, the real eye-opener of this vacation took place well away from any urban area. I’m referring instead to beautiful Mankato, Minnesota -- home of the Minnesota Vikings Training Camp.

The first day at Mankato, my whole family went. We left the Twin Cities around 9:30 and reached Training Camp by 11. Most of the next hour was spent waiting in lines for autographs. Some of the guys looked like normal human beings, but others looked like giants. We were fortunate to have arrived on Offensive Lineman day – meaning that the players signing autographs were all 300 pounds or more. Even the Jewish Viking, Mike Rosenthal, measured about 6’7”, 310 pounds. Wouldn’t you know, my daughter Rebecca, who wants to be a rabbi, wanted Rosey’s autograph more than anyone else’s? Sure he rides the pine, sure he might not even make the team, but she didn’t care. His name was Mike Rosenthal and he’s 6’7” 310. You don’t see many people like that at synagogue.

After we got some autographs, grabbed a bite, and shopped for more Vikings memorabilia, we finally made it over to the afternoon practice. My wife and older daughter took off to find some shade. That allowed Rebecca and me to sit alone in the bleachers and watch a bunch of men we didn’t know play pitch and catch for a couple of hours. I thought it was kind of a strange way to spend a day, but I was glad I came. I only hoped that the others had fun.

Apparently, one of them did. The next morning, Rebecca had a request. She really, really wanted to go back later that week and get more autographs. “Yes!” I thought to myself. Another ridiculous, moronic day in Mankato. Exactly what I wanted. I especially wanted to get there early enough to see the players put on pads and hit each other.

Three days later, Rebecca and I were on the road again, and this time we were alone. We left early enough in the morning to see a real practice – one where the players weren’t just running around, but were allowed to make tackles. After the practice was over, we tried to get autographs again. I went in one line and got a football signed by the quarterback of the future (the rookie, Tavaris Jackson). Rebecca got in another line and tried to get her jersey signed by the QB of the present (Brad Johnson), only she was too late – apparently, you had to wait for an hour to get his signature.

Rebecca was crushed, but I knew how to lift her spirits. We went and stood with other fans behind a fence near the bicycles that the Vikes use to go from their locker room to their dorms. There, one player after another came out and signed for us – jerseys, footballs, you name it. By the time we left, our football was covered with signatures, and Rebecca’s jersey was signed by some players as well. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her so happy. And the strangest thing was that I was nearly as happy as she was -- not just because they signed their autographs for my daughter, but because they signed their autographs for me.

What the heck is up with all this adulation? Who are these people? Some of them are drunk drivers, some are wife beaters. Others have trouble speaking intelligibly. Then again, a pro football team also has players who are extremely intelligent, and who are just as tough as they are smart. I’m tempted to say that I was especially impressed by the latter group, but that would be a lie. When you’re standing by a fence waiting for an autograph, the last thing you’re thinking about is the character or the intelligence of the players. Candidly, you’re not thinking all that much about the differences in their skills either. Mostly, your thinking about what they have in common: they’re all amazing physical specimens, and they all wear the Vikings uniform. Ultimately, it’s the uniform that matters. Put that on, and you become almost like a super hero. You become larger than life in the minds of the children – and the adult children – who follow your sport like a religion.

Periodically, I run into people who laugh at the whole notion of spectator sports. It seems so silly, so pathetic to them that grown men and women spend hours of their week watching other people play with little round objects. Now playing sports, that’s one thing. That requires fitness, athletic skills, even courage. But watching? Any loser can do that.

True. But perhaps that’s the beauty of it all.

While I’ve always viscerally appreciated that sports fanaticism is a wholesome activity, it wasn’t until I spent my second day in Mankato that I understood why. The sports fanatic may not be a Buddhist, but whether he’s watching his team play, practice, or simply take the field, he’s enjoying a near ego-less experience. The true sports fan joins in a loving venture with hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of other “losers.” And we become almost like the Borg, only with emotions – empathizing with one another, experiencing the same agonies and ecstasies, and hoping for the same results. The world can be a lonely place, but sports fanatics are never lonely, at least not when they’re interacting with fellow fanatics, or getting autographs signed by those honored few who wear the beloved uniforms.

Rebecca was happy enough just getting autographs. But your humble narrator likes to talk a lot – so to feel completely at peace, I felt compelled to say a few words to the players and ask them questions. Guess what? They were regular guys. They smiled. They laughed. They even appreciated the honor bestowed on them by their fans. They felt honored, and I felt connected. How uplifting it was to the spirit.

For a few hours, I realized what I had been missing for the bulk of my 46 years. I had grown up way too fast. Kids, you see, appreciate the value of being connected, and of idolizing people who – deep down – even the kids know are really just like everyone else. Kids understand that such “idolatry” is nothing more than wanting to honor and empathize, and appreciate a job well done. Kids don’t worry about how stupid it makes them look when they extend those courtesies. Usually, no adult is around to remind them that they’re acting like idiots.

In some ways, I still prefer dogs to children. But at least my respect for kids – and for the kid in me – has increased. I have Mankato to thank for the lesson.