I followed the cheerleaders around like a loyal relentless puppy. I studied and imitated their movements and routines, and dreamt of the day I would shake my very own pompoms and chant enthusiastic cheers.
A bus ride to a football game
When I was three, I was given my most prized possession--my Dallas Cowboys cheerleader jacket. I aspired to grow up and join their glorious ranks. I couldn't wait to prance around in my tall white boots and blue and white starred uniform. What else would a coach's daughter born in the '70s envision for her future?
At a basketball game with my dad and brother, sporting my sweet Cowboys jacket and Muppet shoes.
On Sundays, we religiously gathered around the television to watch my dad’s beloved NFL team, the Cleveland Browns. In an unthinkable act of rebellion, my two older brothers declared their devotion to the Pittsburgh Steelers. They likely also jumped on the bandwagon of our successful rivals because it was more fun to root for a winning team. I continued to cheer for the Browns as an act of loyalty to Daddy. Our house was therefore evenly balanced, two against two.
When I was five years old, I met THE Ozzie. No, not Ozzy Osbourne. Ozzie Newsome! My dad volunteered at the Browns training camp and included us in the fun. I felt like a football in the grasp of Ozzie’s enormous arms. The moment was the absolute highlight of my summer and it awarded me supreme bragging rights.
My brothers, cousin and me with Ozzie Newsome. I was a loyal sister and didn’t rat out my traitor brothers.
Eventually, I outgrew my favorite jacket and dream of being a cheerleader.
My football overload was bound to have one of two results: I would grow up to love or shun the game. I veered down the latter path. I developed a keen ability to ignore the games that blared from our television. With nothing to contribute, I tuned out the family football conversations. I wondered if I was adopted, since I’m the only one in my extended family who didn’t inherit the football gene.
It’s not that I don’t understand the game. I know all about first downs, offense vs. defense, field goals, and quarterbacks. It’s that I just don’t care.
My only child is a natural athlete. He was groomed to love sports since birth.
My son, seven days old, with his first football tight in his grasp.
My son is also a trained Cleveland sports fan. I’ll share a funny story to illustrate: When my friend was pregnant with her first son, her family threw her a modern shower and invited children and guys. Her husband, a lifelong Steelers fan, opened a gift from his friends. When he held up the Steelers onesie, my son wasted no time and shouted a loud, “BOOOOO!!!” The crowd of adult Browns fans chuckled with a deep satisfaction.
Three generations of Ohioans: my son, my older brother & my dad. (Notice my dad’s shirt).
For years, our main living room fixture was a Little Tikes basketball hoop.
My five-year-old son, mid-dunk with my nephew. (Again, notice the shirt).
I cringed when my little guy decided to play pee wee football. I didn’t want to watch him endure tackles and worried he’d get hurt. I silently rejoiced when he chose golf over football. (Though he later suffered a concussion on the golf course, proving injury can occur in any sport).
My son playing football in the Ohio snow. (Notice his Browns hat).
Of course, I married a football fanatic. This year, he has pared down his fantasy football leagues to five. (Yes, FIVE!) I obliged his love of football when we first started to date and tried to watch games with him. Now, I tend to hide in the other room while he roots for his beloved Browns and fantasy players.
My husband and son (More Cleveland shirts to notice).
I do lift my sports boycott and watch an occasional game. I offer a genuine high five to a fan when the Browns win and I still root against the Steelers. I feel bad when the Browns disappoint their diehard fans. I even watched the Super Bowl last year, and taunted my brother when Pittsburgh lost. Some things remain ingrained, after all.
My oldest brother and dad: aka Steelers vs. Browns.
This year, I watched a tense Ohio college basketball game while I exchanged texts with my brother. I was a nervous wreck as the minutes ticked away. I explained to my brother via text why I don’t watch sports: I can’t take the pressure! It’s too nerve wracking!! He replied: That’s why you should love sports! Touché, Bro.
So where do I stand with sports today? I enjoy the Bitter Chicks’ posts so much that I’m inspired to return to my roots and give football another chance. I’m not making any promises, but I am trying to unearth my inner little cheerleader and give my family’s favorite game another chance.
“You can do it! You can do it! If you put your mind to it! Doesn’t matter how, just (clap clap), do it!”
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You could call Jenny bitter, but for the opposite reason than the Bitter Chicks. Her sullenness originates from feeling misplaced in a world full of professional sports fanatics. Her life would be much simpler if she would just embrace sports. She is her son's biggest fan and has always loved to cheer for him at his games. Jenny Fickey is a freelance writer, personal (not football!) coach, proud mother and wife of a Cleveland sports zealot. She writes the weekly Mom Matters column for Cuyahoga Falls Patch. She recently discovered Tumblr (thanks to Bitter KK!) and you can also find her on Twitter at @FickeyFiction. She hopes to eventually share a love for the Browns with her best bud and life cheerleader, Alanna Klapp (aka Bitter AK).
