On the mend

Sports help give life a semblance of normalcy

Aren't you glad it matters again? Aren't you glad it ticks you off when a pitcher won't throw Barry Bonds a strike, or when Argentina beats our NBA players, or when Randy Moss runs a lazy pass route? Isn't it a relief to know that you can still feel that tingle of anticipation when Venus plays Serena in the final or when Randy Johnson takes the mound or when Miami invades Florida on a college football Saturday?

You care again. You care about something so inconsequential as sports, and that's no small thing, because a year ago you thought it would never happen. In your head, you had always known that the games were trivial, but after seeing those planes crash and those buildings crumble, you knew it in your heart, as well. Your life would never be quite the same in so many ways, and not the least of them, you were sure, was that you would never get that same rush from the bounce of a ball.

But here you are, a sports fan again, and there's nothing wrong with that. It doesn't mean you don't still feel the grief, today even more than most days. It doesn't mean that you don't sing the national anthem with a little more emotion than you did before, that you don't hug your loved ones a little more tightly than you did before, that you don't look around in a public place a little more carefully than you did before. It just means that you're human, and that you're healing.

SI Writers Phil Taylor: On the mend Mike Fish: Playing it safe at venues Kostya Kennedy: A week in Sept. John Donovan: From horror, hope Features 9/11 Faces: For love of the game In Their Words: 9/11 Remembered Flashbacks Frank Deford: Let the games go on Richard Hoffer: A break in the action Rick Reilly: Four of a kind Peter King: Tagliabue on the spot McCallum & Wertheim: War games Multimedia Photo Gallery: Stars & Stripes forever Photo Gallery: Unflagging return

It's hard to say exactly when it happened. Maybe it was when Luis Gonzalez punched that little single into center field to beat the mighty Yankees in Game 7 of the World Series. Or maybe it was when Tom Brady (Tom Brady?) shocked the St. Louis Rams by leading the New England Patriots to the Super Bowl title. More than likely, though, it was no one big moment but an accumulation of little ones -- a 3-2 curveball on the corner, a sweet little drive and dish for a layup -- that moved you back to normalcy.

All you know is that somehow you found yourself waking up in the middle of the night to watch World Cup soccer and shouting at the television when that cute little Canadian couple got robbed in Olympic figure skating and ripping up your basketball pool sheet when Duke got bounced from the NCAA tournament. As if it mattered. As if any of it really mattered.

But that's the beauty of these silly little games. You can see that now. It's precisely because they don't matter that we can feel free to care about them so much. We can live and die with our favorite team because we know that no one literally lives and dies with his favorite team. It is often said that real life puts sports in perspective, but the opposite is just as true -- sometimes sports helps us make sense of real life. They help us realize that even in the face of a tragedy more horrible than we ever could have imagined, the world continues to turn. Pain eases. Tears dry.

This anniversary of that terrible day will no doubt open old wounds, make you remember how ambivalent you were about sports a year ago. Maybe that feeling is back with you today, that lack of enthusiasm about the games people play. The difference is that now you know the feeling is temporary, that soon -- maybe even as soon as tomorrow -- you'll be ready for the next tackle, the next pitch, the next serve. Because one of the many things you've learned in the past year -- one of the many things for which you are grateful -- is that even in the wake of overwhelming sorrow, somehow you are still able to feel joy.

Sports Illustrated senior writer Phil Taylor writes about a Hot Button issue every Monday on CNNSI.com.

 

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