--- SPORTSDAD.TXT created: 10-22-2001 11:04pm author: NM | recovered from backup disk "NOTES04" I worked at Montgomery Ward for a while back in the '90s. Electronics section. You know, TVs stacked like monuments, VCRs in glass cases, satellite dishes nobody really knew how to install. Most of the customers were middle-aged men--soft around the edges, dressed in the unofficial uniform: t-shirt, mesh shorts, white sneakers, and that weird sports energy in their step. You could tell they’d already been thinking about the game before they even stepped through the doors. They weren't coming for the picture quality. They weren't asking about specs or signal fidelity. They wanted cable sports packages. ESPN2, NFL Sunday Ticket, whatever made the weekends feel like something was happening. They'd grin while signing the financing form, eyes lit up like they were finally buying happiness in a box. > "Gonna break this bad boy in for the big game Saturday, you feel me?" I didn't. Not really. I was seventeen. I didn't watch much TV. Maybe Frasier reruns or late-night TNG if I was eating dinner. But these guys--they couldn't comprehend that. It short-circuited their whole script. They'd look at me like I was from a different species. Maybe I was. There was something unnerving about them. Not evil. Not dumb. Just... dulled. Like whatever used to live behind their eyes had been replaced by processed enthusiasm. A kind of secondhand joy, rerouted through beer commercials and halftime reports. They talked in slogans. They laughed like people on sitcoms. They didn't know they were quoting advertisements--they thought they were making conversation. I sold a lot of TVs that summer. And years later, I started noticing something. Some of those same guys--or maybe just the next version of them--driving around with bumper stickers that said: > "UNC DAD" "AUBURN DAD" "FLORIDA STATE DAD" It struck me as... ceremonial. Like a badge. Like they'd completed the next level of the game and were issued a decal to prove it. Not their own name, not their job, not something they made. Just a pre-approved identity: DAD of someone who did a thing. You could almost hear the unspoken message: > "I followed the rules. I kept my head down. I watched the games. I paid the bills. And now my kid got in. So here’s my proof. Please let that be enough." They weren't boasting. They were asking for recognition. Validation. A sticker to say that their life meant something. And maybe it did. But not in the way they thought. They'd been fed a script from the moment they were old enough to buy a six-pack. A script about hard work, brand loyalty, and cheering for the home team. And when it was all over--after the TV was obsolete, after the cable package expired, after the stores closed down and the factory jobs vanished--what was left? A car decal. A last-ditch attempt to say: I was here. I mattered. I got my kid through the gate. But it was never about the sticker. It was about everything they gave up for it. NM ---