The story goes that on May 12, 1987, my mom knew something was wrong. She was pregnant with my brother at that time, and she knew the pain she felt that day was a pain she shouldn’t have been feeling. One urgent trip to the hospital later, my parents were told that my brother’s heart rate was bouncing back and forth between a normal rate and zero, all thanks to the umbilical cord that was tangled around his neck, choking him. She would have to have emergency c-section immediately. What was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my mom’s life was starting to look like a nightmare come true.
One frightening but successful operation later, my brother, all five pounds of him, was born. My parents had made it through the trauma of possibly losing their first child and was given a healthy one, with all ten fingers and all ten toes.
Now, most parents hold photo shoots in the hours following their child’s birth, but my dad had different plans. Only three hours after meeting his son for the first time, my dad had one simple request: if he could go watch the Lakers playoff game.
When I first heard this story, I remember creating a pro and con list in my head: Okay, he had just had a baby. But he had tickets to a Lakers playoff game! Okay, that baby nearly died. But Magic was playing!
Most people would shake their heads at the seemingly insensitivity of my dad’s request. My mom recalls being too tired from surgery to be angry at that time, but now jokingly yells at my dad everytime the story is recalled. It doesn’t help that my dad actually didn’t have tickets at all – no, he just wanted to go home and watch the game on TV!
However, when I think back on this story, I secretly smile at my dad. You see, there are a lot of reasons why I love sports: the loyalty, hardcore fandom, irrational trash talk, yelling at the TV with my brother, Kobe fading away, Kobe driving to the basket, watching grown adults act like little kids, Nadal fist-pumping…the list goes on. But the cherry on top is watching sports with my dad.
As close as I am with my mom, I’ve always believed that I am my father’s daughter. We’re both quiet when my mom and brother are excitable. We both have a keen sense of direction while my mom and brother don’t know north from south (though he’d argue the opposite). So watching sports with my dad is a treat for me – I feel like it’s another thing to bond over, and what a great thing at that. My dad is a fountain of sports knowledge, and watching any game with him is usually a lesson in history. Maybe it’s because he’s a professor, but when he explains a facet of the game to me, he does it with precision and sincerity, like he’s letting me in on some hidden treasure. He knows why the ref threw the yellow flag on the field before I even see the flag. When a basketball game comes down to the final ten seconds, he knows when and who should be fouled.
What’s great is that all of this aside, he is still a pure fan at heart. He sits at the edge of his seat when Kobe is at the line in the fourth. His palms sweat out of so much nervousness. He (lovingly) yells at my mom to stop teasing him for being so into a game. He’ll trash talk my brother and I if we’re rooting for a team that’s playing his beloved USC. Don’t even get me started on USC football.
So thanks, dad. Thank you for passing on your sports love to me. Thank you for explaining to me how players who stay humble can outshine the players who fill up the stat sheets. Thank you for showing me what loyalty is, on and off the court. Thank you for our sports talks that inevitably lead to talks about life in general.
But most of all, thank you for teaching me that the Lakers rule.
p.s. The Lakers beat the Warriors that day, 118-106.
