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

Ben Roethlisberger is NOT like my baby

                                           Obviously not Roethlisberger. The new champ, Aaron Rodgers.

Any parent can tell you about a not fun game we all play called "Is my baby breathing?"

It starts the moment the baby pops out as you wait for the lungs to fill with air and that first cry that lets you know the little guy gets the whole breathing thing. Hours later as exhaustion kicks in on that first night, most parents still have trouble falling asleep, fearing that if they take their eyes off that newborn for just one second he may forget about the whole breathing thing.

As far as I can tell, the fear never really stops. (Sorry this post is such a bummer so far. I blame Ben Roethlisberger.)

One of my favourite times to worry about choking out my baby is when I'm out walking with him strapped to my chest in our baby carrier. On Super Bowl Sunday I took him out for a pregame stroll. My baby usually likes to take in all of the scenery on these walks, only falling asleep after I cover his head with a hood like a falconer putting away his peregrine.

Feeling my baby warm against my chest is one of my favourite things in the world. I always ruin it, however, by imagining that I've put him in wrong or the straps are too tight and I'm slowly choking him out. Is he breathing? Is that him or me that's moving? Should I poke him? What if I fall and smush him? What if a wolf attacks? What if I cut off a nerve and his legs fall off. Oh my God I'm hyperventilating! Brown bag, breathe in, breathe out. For the love of God, somebody get me a beer!

Sorry again, I got carried away. That's what it's like to have a baby.

Eventually the kid shifts around in the carrier, sighs, or just wakes up and tells me to stop being such a puss.

Anyway, on to Ben Roethlisberger.

I thought of following my normal convention with the title of this post but if I actually finished the sentence "Ben Roethlisberger is like my . . . " I would either be immediately put in jail for child abuse or my son would grow up, read it and then come hunt me down and thrash me like a Boy Named Sue.

This all because of Big Ben's well-documented penchant for getting accused of sexual assault and other acts of general dirt-baggery. His misdeeds earned him a four-game suspension to start this season but he returned with a vengeance (for football opponents, not college girls), leading the Pittsburgh Steelers all the way to Sunday's Super Bowl. And as the Onion Sports Network pointed out, his team's success coupled with his string of no sexual assault charges for almost one year seemed to place him just one Super Bowl win away from earning a complete pardon for all of his sins.

But alas, Green Bay's defenders locked Big Ben in the proverbial gridiron bathroom and had their way with him while their buddies stood guard to keep Ben's friends from saving him. Ick — this post really is getting gross. Thanks a lot, Ben.

Anyway, Roethlisberger did get his comeuppance, throwing two interceptions — including one that was returned for a touchdown — and missing an easy touchdown pass before failing to finish off a late comeback attempt. With two Super Bowls already to his credit, Roethlisberger had the chance to cement his status as one of the best big-game quarterbacks ever and to further rebuild his image. Instead he opened the door to questions about whether it was his play that led Pittsburgh to their recent titles or whether he was just a good player blessed with a great team. In other words, he choked.

Let's sum up.

Big Ben: Former dirt bag who is either a reformed dirt bag or still a dirt bag but pretending not to be one; cost his team the Super Bowl; eye-opener; choker.

My baby: respects women; never lost a Super Bowl; can chew on own toes; not a choker. 

Photo Perry Knotts/NFL 

Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby