Why Sports Matter

I usually fill this space with sarcastic humor about the mundane happenings in my life. But lately, things have been so humdrum and uninteresting that I figured a post about paint drying or the art of sleeping in until 4pm would probably be just as painful for you to read as for me to write.

Instead, I want to step outside the box a bit. At the risk of writing another cliched article on Butler making it to the Final Four, how they're like Hoosiers and all that dribble, I wanted to relate to you what this means to me with a bit of politics sprinkled in. I went to my first Butler game probably fifteen years ago, when my dad and I sat just rows from the court, had a full meal of Hinkle hot dogs, popcorn, and Coke, and could hear the curse words from the coaches mouths for the same price as a single, bleacher ticket costs today. I mean, nobody was there. The Dawg Pound was more like the Puppy Box and the crowd mainly consisted of alumni who talked through the game, families of the players, and starry-eyed kids like me who grew up dreaming of even having the chance to play in a place like Hinkle in front of a handful of fans. So, for me, first and foremost, this isn't some bandwagon jumping experience that I've picked up. I watched games and followed box scores even when they sucked. I never thought something like this would happen.

But back to that starry-eyed kid. Too often, as in about 95% of my waking life, the keyword is "money", as in, "I don't have any money," or "What can we cut to save money?" There isn't an easy answer. And no matter what ends up on the floor in strips, someone is going to be affected. But this is where Butler and the Final Four come into play.

Every day, I see articles like this, and this, and this. Just Google "cut sports" or "athletic budget cut" and you'll see that at every level, from pee-wee to professional sports, everyone is making cuts. It's inevitable, I know. But, I think too often that some people point an angry finger at sports, say it's an unnecessary commodity, and start slashing at it like Edward Scissorhands. It's true: athletics are not essential in academics. A book is more important than a ball. An education is more important than a championship. But some of those same people who so easily point a finger at sports as unnecessary are the same people who stood next to me at 3 o'clock on a Sunday morning to welcome home a bunch of kids, who, without those same cut programs, would not be where they are today.

Sport is the great equalizer. You hear that so often that is becomes routine and loses its meaning. In context, it applies to schools such as tiny Milan and this Butler team. A little-known, lightly-regarded nobody does the unthinkable, slays Goliath, captures people's hearts and attention. This is why we root for underdogs, even when we have no vested interest. We love it when those who can't do. But it goes beyond that.

When I entered junior high, I was a big-eared, acne faced, goofy, awkward kid with little to no athletic ability. I had heart - I fought like hell to do what I did - but when it came to the social scene, I was a nobody. I had few friends and little hope of a social life beyond Dungeons and Dragons tournaments and Pokemon cards, and I hated both of those. But something cool happened. I joined the cross country team. And I met people like me. And wouldn't you know it, I was good! Not great, but better than a lot of people. Suddenly, this less-than-appealing, Alfred E. Newman look-alike became somebody. Suddenly classrooms full of kids I didn't know and that could have cared less about me were cheering when my named was announced because I won last night's meet or was named all-conference. People who used to chase me down at recess and beat me up were cheering for me, patting me on the back, and there wasn't even a "Kick Me" sign involved. Was it slightly artificial? Sure. Did I care or do I care? Hell. No.

The greatest moments of my life, the most vivid recollections I have - 90% of those memories involve sports. My freshmen year of high school, our little Butler team of runners (complete with a tall, goofy white kid) went from underdogs to sectional champions in one straight away pass. That pass gave me, a fifth-runner who had been dogged on all year, a full paragraph in the newspaper. My family gloated. My friends cheered. That trophy sits in a cardboard box, in the bottom of a trophy case, in a rarely used hallway in my high school gym. No one knows it's there. Ask anybody on that team, any parent, what that day was like, and you'll hear one hell of a story.

I've had success stories in the classroom. I've watched kids turn their lives around, stand up for themselves, become the leaders they never thought they'd be. I love it. But the greatest success I've ever had was to take a bunch of young kids who didn't believe in their own abilities and convince them that they could be incredible runners, that everything they did on that track, day after day, directly impacted their future selves. I saw runners who would never even sniff a sectional roster cry with joy because they beat their best time, or their goal, the first meet of the season. I saw kids who had so few friends that you could count them on an amputees hand become enveloped in a new circle of friends, find their place, fit in for once in their lives. Sports are never about winning and losing, despite the way some coaches and parents may act. It provides the opportunity for a perceived nobody to become a somebody.

I can't tell you how many times sports have saved me. And I'm not alone. My high school sport experiences gave me confidence and pride in myself when I was on the edge. Even winning a meaningless ultimate frisbee championship in college - we were the "unathletic" fraternity who had never won anything - was a memory that I still carry without a hitch or pause to this day. In Mexico, when I was ready to come home and give up, a stupid Saturday morning basketball league made me stay. In the absolute lowest moments of my life, sports have given me a reason to be happy, to have something to look forward to.

And that's what Butler going to the Final Four means. They represent the little guy who still has a chance, who isn't the flashiest or the most popular. They give a community that has been devastated by job loss and every conceivable rash of bad luck something to look forward to. Hell, they give people around the nation, people who couldn't name one player from that entire roster, something to cheer for. I've seen it before. The Colts in the Super Bowl, IU in the championship game, even my local high school girls team making the state finals. If you think for a second that events like these don't give people hope, don't give starry-eyed kids something to reach for, doesn't give a community a reason to cheer for something, then you're delusional.

And that's why sports matter. And why cutting sports kills moments like these. Most sports that are cut are sports like cross country and track, sports that don't make money, that aren't very popular, that people seem to think won't affect anyone. I have no idea where I would be if it weren't for those experiences I had, those moments, those dreams, if I didn't have a reason to hope. But I can tell you this: if it takes all the money in all of a budget to give a person who has been to hell and back, some kid with nothing else to look forward to, a reason to want to wake-up and look forward to the day, to give them one moment of uninterrupted happiness and joy, then to hell with budgets. Give me sports.