Being a sports fan is like raising my baby

Frequent readers of the Sports Baby blog might be under the impression that raising a baby is the coolest, easiest thing in the world.

Teething is no big whoop. Adding solid foods is as natural as hemp shoes. Sports Baby is cuter than homemade undies and even his sicknesses are cherry-coated.

Probably the only person who will see right through this is my dentist. I haven't been to see him since Sports Baby was born but when I do finally hit the chair I can envision him taking one look at my grille and declaring, "New parent I see."

"Haaaaa iiiiiiiii huuuuuuu oooooooo aaaaaaaa?" I'll blurt out in response.

"You've been clenching you're jaw a lot, grinding your teeth. And I also see you're related to Vikings."

Actually, he says that every time I see him. Not the clenching part, the Viking thing. He won't shut up about the Vikings. Apparently my mandibular tori are a dead giveaway. Plus I pillaged like three boxes of floss from him.

Anyway, I have noticed recently that I am unconsciously clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth a lot when I am around my baby. It often happens when I am carrying him or holding him or spotting him so that he doesn't slam the back of his head into the floor while he works on sitting up. I certainly wouldn't want that to happen. Again.

Sorry Buddy.

I think the clenching is just part of the overall worry, anxiety and stress that arrives at the exact same moment that the baby does. Every second that I am in charge of his wellbeing is a beautiful gift from God and/or Buddha but every second is also terrifying. Every second is one more moment that I could lose focus and he could do a header off the change table, putting me on the front page of The Province under a huge headline "Daddy's worst nightmare!" I don't remember grinding my teeth very much when I used to spend an entire Sunday afternoon tinkering with my fantasy baseball lineup in between naps while "watching" golf. 

Now on top of the constant fear of breaking my baby there are things like sleep training to worry about. Sports Baby knocks out his night sleeps but still has trouble napping. The baby books say he is sleep deprived and if he doesn't get a good nap soon his development will be stunted and he'll end up at some third-rate kindergarten that doesn't even have a Latin teacher.

The sleep program will help put him on a consistent schedule and give him good sleep habits for the rest of his life, they say. It's tough going, however, and the only thing it seems to have added to his schedule so far is a good hour or two of puzzled whimpering. Grind grind grind.

It kind of reminds me of what it can be like to be a devoted fan of a sports team. In every league in every season the fans of all but one team end up disappointed. While the ride can be thrilling, there's also constant dread about when and how the whole thing will come crashing down.

As a young boy I was won over by the slap shot of Al MacInnis and the moustache of Lanny McDonald and became a Calgary Flames fan. I don't live and die with their every move anymore but my gut still churns deepest for them. This season I've followed their playoff drive from afar, even listening to one important game on the radio.

For those of you under 20, a radio is a thing that airs music that you don't like and gassy windbags that don't like you. It also plays the Flames games that you can't watch on Sportsnet West in Vancouver because of some ridiculous blackout rules enforced by the ridiculous NHL — what better way to build up a following for your league than massive blackouts!? (See my Twitter rant on March 21 for an elaboration on my thoughts about this arrangement.)

Of course, this meant that I got to listen to my team lose on the radio. Fun.

Somehow the Flames are still alive in the playoff race, leaving just enough hope for fans so that they'll sit through a few more molar-mashing games before finally getting their teeth punched out once and for all.

There's a difference between being a fan and being a parent though. Unless you're a 70-year-old fan of the Montreal Canadiens or the New York Yankees or a five-year-old fan of the San Francisco Giants, most of your sports seasons have come to a grinding halt at some point.

As a parent, however, I find that the teeth clenching is far outweighed by every little awesome thing Sports Baby does from laughing at my funny faces to barfing on my shoes.

There isn't a Stanley Cup at the end of this journey. There's something infinitely better. 

Photo: CP Photo/Bill Grimshaw

Follow me on Twitter @Sports_Andy

Super Bowl parties are like my baby

The Super Bowl is this weekend and so I thought I'd post a column I wrote a couple of years ago for the North Shore News about the different levels of parties there are surrounding the big game.

Sorry to those of you who read this blog solely to keep tabs on the wee Sports Baby himself (Hi Nana!), there's no baby info in the column. But here's a quick update: Sports Baby likes to party too. All day. Thankfully he doesn't rock and roll all night.

No, our little guy bangs out nighttime sleeps like a coal miner after 14 hours of hammer and 13 shots of Jack. But in the daytime he fights sleep like Captain Kirk (slowly) fights boulder throwing green hissing monsters.

We've tried everything to get him to nap: baby hypnotism, baby-strength valium, Matchbox 20 music (note to social services: we haven't actually tried any of those things. We're not monsters).

He just seems to be so darn curious with the world that he never gets tired of looking at stuff. Any suggestions in the comment section would be greatly appreciated (ridiculous ones only please — I don't want to hear any of that "start a routine and stick to it" crap).

Enjoy the game!

Some of the references in this article are a bit dated but I've chosen to leave them as is for the sake of posterity and to open old wounds for my friend Bone.

Don't be a super jerk at super party

North Shore News

Sunday, Feb. 1 2009

Andy Prest

Last year my friend Bone threw a Super Bowl party that was heavy on the party and light on the bowl.

For some odd reason Bone is a New England Patriots fan and so for the entire game he was glued to the TV trying to focus on the field while more and more revelers kibitzed, canoodled and keg-tapped just inches away from him. A miracle play by quarterback Eli Manning and receiver David Tyree gave the New York Giants the Super Bowl and, to the joy of everyone not named Bone, ruined New England's perfect season.

Bone's problem, aside from being a Patriots fan, was that he was on a different game-watching level than the people around him who were eating his cheesy poofs and spilling on his carpet. My recollection is hazy but Bone may have punched someone in the spleen.

With today being Super Sunday -- and with other big-ticket events like the Stanley Cup playoffs on the horizon -- it's time to review the different game-watching levels. If you're throwing a party, make sure everyone knows what level they should be on. If you're going to a party, try to gauge the level before you arrive -- nobody wants to be the only guy in full body paint.

Level 1: There's a game on?

This is the type of party where half the guests don't know or don't care that two teams are playing their hearts out for the chance to pour expensive champagne on a reporter. At some point in the evening the game could be pre-empted as two drunk girls the host has never met stumble through Willie Nelson's On the Road Again on Guitar Hero. If you are a die-hard fan, or a die-hard gambler with a C-note on the game, DO NOT go to this party -- it's 50/50 that you will stab someone in the neck with an especially pointy nacho. How do you like those odds?

Level 2: Family fun time

At this type of party lots of people are enjoying the game in a festive atmosphere with lots of food and root beer. Mom is in and out with trays of brownies, there are kids flying around and screaming and probably at least one dog eating candy corn off the floor and then barfing behind a plant. Dad is really into the game before he falls asleep with his head tilted back and mouth open.

Attend this party if you're into the game but don't mind missing some plays and not hearing the play-by-play all the time. The only time it will be completely quiet is at halftime when grandma makes everyone shut up so she can watch that dreamy Neil Diamond sing Forever in Blue Jeans.

Level 3: Down in front

When the game is on at this party, everybody is watching.

Don't go to this party if you can't go 15 minutes without blabbing about some crap like how convincing Clint Eastwood is as a racist bastard, how the new Greek place down the street tastes like every other Greek place, or how your third marriage is crumbling.

Conversation is not encouraged but if it occurs it is to talk about the game, make fun of John Madden, or to tease Bone about cheering for a team of big cheaters.

Level 4: Official apparel dress code strictly enforced

At this game there is no talking, only screaming, fist-shaking, wall-punching or, hopefully, high-fiving. In Vancouver you'll most likely find a party like this for a Canucks game. If you are not a die-hard fan these parties suck because the die-hards will scream at you if you block their view and are likely to kick a table, spilling vodka and coke all over your cat.

Plus, if the favoured team loses everyone will be bummed and the party dies a horrible death. If it's a Canucks party during an important game this is guaranteed to happen.

Those, sports fans, are the party levels. As the gamblers say, know your limit, stay within it. And for God's sake wake dad up, it's the fourth quarter and time to shine for Eli Manning.


Photo Getty
Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby