It was Grey Cup Sunday and, wouldn’t you know it, my second-favourite team is playing for the CFL title.
That’s right, I was pulling for WIPTEE — Whoever is Playing the Edmonton Eskimos.
In this instance, WIPTEE took the form of the Ottawa RedBlacks but it could have been any team on Earth playing the Eskimos and I’d be pulling for them. Heck, why limit it to the Earth? If they happened to make the Grey Cup, I’d happily cheer for the Venus BlueGreens or the Uranus BrownBrowns.
Cheering for WIPTEE is something I picked up from my dad, a diehard Saskatchewan fan whose passion for the blessed Roughriders was almost matched by his distaste for the flashy, big-spending, freaking-sign-on-the-way-into-town-that-boasted-“City-of-Champions” Eskimos.
Naturally I picked up my father’s inclinations: I bleed Green and White and spit Green and Gold.
I’ve only just started to realize the power my parents had in shaping my preferences now that I have kids. My sons, age two and five, became obsessed with the Toronto Blues Jays this fall. My wife sets strict limits on the amount of TV they can watch but we relaxed the rules to follow one of our favourite teams in any sport roll through the playoffs.
Our kids picked up our passion and ran with it. Even now, more than a month after Toronto’s season ended, my two-year-old will light up when I catch a falling drink cup at the table and he will yell,
“Nice catch, Kevin Pillar!”
Our older went wild every time the Jays scored a run and flew into a rage when the other team scored. The passion carried over into other sports, and he’d always ask us who was playing and who he should cheer for.
“What’s this?” Looks like snooker, bud.
“Who are we cheering for?” Uhhhh, I don’t know. The guy in the tuxedo maybe?
“What colour is he wearing?” Black.
“Wooooo. I love tuxedo! Go, black, go!”
Things got out of hand when NBA season started. Just seconds after we started watching our first game of the year — once he’d confirmed that the Toronto Raptors were the chosen ones and the Milwaukee Bucks were evil incarnate — my son started freaking out. “Noooo,” he yelled, slamming his fists into his legs. “We’re losing!”
“Yay!” he screamed a few minutes later after the Raptors hit a very uneventful free throw. The score was 8-7.
It was then that we figured out that he really knew almost nothing about basketball. He did, however, know how to read the scoreboard. “S#@$!” he yelled moments later as the Raptors fell behind again. I didn’t even know he knew that word, let alone how to use it so perfectly in a sports setting. Thanks, kindergarten.
I had to pause the game and explain a few things. First, don’t say “S hashtag at money” when your mother can hear you. That’ll never go well. And second, there is a lot of scoring in basketball, so chill before family services comes around to investigate the boy suffering from Raptor abuse.
Regardless of the appropriateness of his responses, I was a little envious of the passion he was able to generate. I used to get super fired up for my favourite teams but as I get older, I find myself drifting away. My mind wanders to other important world events such as Twitter, and Syria, and where’s my beer?
I’m also amazed by the sway parents have over their young children, a power that I will do my best to use for the forces of good. We don’t hate anyone. We applaud good plays. We respect our teams, the officials and all opponents. Except the Eskimos — they’re “S hashtag at money.”
Andy Prest is the sports editor for the North Shore News.
[email protected]
@Sports_Andy
