This would be a breakthrough. In addition to making Garnett a reductive personification of all things Minnesotan, I’ve steadfastly refused to give a shit about any Boston team. I’m not the biggest Twins or Vikings fan, and any interest I had in the NHL died when shopping mall–building, Rolls Royce–driving magnate Norm Green moved the North Stars to, of all places, Dallas. But actually paying attention to the Red Sox or the Patriots (never mind the Bruins) always seemed to reek of opportunism. I didn’t grow up watching them; I hadn’t suffered with the die-hards; they weren’t mine.
Now, though, I’ve seen first-hand how destructive it can be when sports become a surrogate for place. And I’ve divvied up my self-imposed rehab program into two sets of complementary resolutions. First: stay connected to my home state by focusing on stuff that matters. Revive a dormant friendship or two; listen to more Prince; embark on a self-imposed Mary Tyler Moore bender. Second: drop the self-righteous, self-pitying Minnesota sports-fan crap. Follow the Sox. Watch the Patriots. And be there when the Wolves visit the Celtics on January 25, 2008 (allegiance TBD) — reminding myself, as I enjoy the game, that that’s really all it is.
: Lifestyle Features
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