Mother Hen has often pondered the peculiar relationship males have with sports.
It almost makes sense that jocks of either gender getting all worked up about whether a large/small ball/puck makes it over the line/into the goal/basket. After all, despite the fact that the fate of the world doesn’t actually depend on the outcome of the game, at least these folks who play the field (so to speak) have exhibited a certain dedication to their sport. It’s the armchair athletes, the otherwise sedentary Joes, who puzzle Mother H. the most.
Why is every male, from the time he can wear a logo on his onesie, expected to swear undying loyalty to “his” team? Why are team affiliations passed down from father to son like sacred heirlooms? What is with the yelling, swearing, and yes, screaming, at poor innocent TV screens that haven’t hurt a thing?
Never think this shocking behavior is limited to the human race. No, no, much as it pains MH to admit the fact, roosters young and old have been known to get their tailfeathers in a frazzle over a game of clawbowl, or a friendly cockfighting match. Even the youngest, scrawniest specimen in the coop will puff up his chest and peep wildly when the Rhode Island Reds play the California Grays at the Popcorn Bowl.
Fortunately, Father Rooster is a dignified type, without any predilection for hollering at helpless electronics. No, Father prefers to preserve his voice for the job, like a sensible rooster. Mother Hen couldn’t approve more.
No, it is Junior Rooster who is caught the sports, which is almost as bad as catching the politics, (see Politics and Chicken Pox) but with less voting. The youngest member of the Coop family has suddenly gone all macho over the latest craze, something called “cockey” which is like hockey except without the ice, skates, sticks, or pucks…or so Junior says. It doesn’t make sense to MH either. Honestly, dear reader, who thinks up these things?
Whatever it is, Junior is rippy-tail snorting around the coop with a helmet on, “checking” all of us and peeping “He scores!” constantly, which is unbelievably annoying. Missy Hen is perching in the rafters squawking “Mama, make him stop!” and Father Hen is inexplicably absent.
If anyone out there has a cure for the sports, please let Mother Hen know yesterday. Her shins are getting awfully sore.