Memoir of an aging sports junkie

When I was a kid, I lived in the jerseys of my favorite players — Walter Payton, Mike Singletary, Ryne Sandberg, Mark Grace, Greg Maddox, Chris Chelios, to name a few — but now I feel kind of goofy wearing my Brian Urlacher jersey. The guy is a year younger than me.

As the Chicago Cubs continue through their, hopefully, historic campaign, much celebrated has been the final season of David Ross. The longtime Major League catcher, who will retire following the World Series, has been playfully tabbed as ‘Grandpa Rossy’ by his teammates.

Ross is only about two months older than me.

Grandpa?

The mere thought of anyone calling me ‘Grandpa Bartzy’ makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

Peyton Manning recently retired after an 18-year career in the NFL, and he’s about my age.

On the verge of turning 40, I’m now older than most professional athletes I follow.

It’s weird.

I feel so old.

As Garth Brooks once said, “Now I’m much too young to feel this damn old.”

Growing old is strange. Especially when your life revolves around sports.

Next to my girls — my wife Amber and daughters Alyson and Abigayle — sports are my life.

I write it. Eat it. Sleep it. Breathe it.

If I’m not covering something for the Frontiersman, I’m probably home in front of the flat screen watching the Bears, Cubs, Blackhawks, Bulls or Fighting Irish. Or SportsCenter for the third time in an evening.

If the Bears are playing, there’s a good chance I’m probably shouting at the television.

Ya, I know I’m narcotic.

Yes, I realize I probably need therapy.

But my true therapy comes by listening to Doc Emrick call an NHL game, or Pat Hughes broadcast a Cubs game. Watching my favorite team. Convincing my daughters to be part of my madness.

Sports are a weird animal. And frankly sports fans are weird. I know because I am one of them. I actually believe that something I do has an impact on how my team does. Order chicken wings from a certain place, and my team loses, I’m not ordering from there on a game night again.

Stupid right?

But in the superstitious sports mind, it makes sense.

Sports fans — all of us — are superstitious. Can’t deny it.

And we are all sappy.

How many of us have cried like babies when our team wins a championship?

Go ahead. Deny it.

At least I have the footballs to admit it.

I guarantee this. If the Cubs do win the World Series, there is potential for water works that rival Splash Mountain.

But sensitive sports dudes are sexy, right?

Sports neurosis should actually be a field of science. The best shrinks should gather to tackle this phenomenon.

Or maybe not?

Maybe it’s our freedom?

Freedom to feel like a general manger of an NFL squad with our 14 fantasy football teams. Freedom to gamble heavily with our friends. Freedom to send crass, down right ugly text messages to your best friends after their favorite team losses.

Yes, we’re all crazy.

In late August, a group of friends gathered in a living room. It was our fantasy football draft. The core has been a part of the league for about 15 years. Ten sports nerds under one roof. FEMA wasn’t called surprisingly. Smack talk flowed as fast as the Denali Brewing Company Twister Creek IPA from a kegerator with a giant Michigan State Spartans logo. But the camaraderie was as big of a hit as the smoked ham and bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers.

Sometimes sports does make me feel old. I can’t count the number of current head coaches in Valley high school sports I covered while they were athletes in high school. One of our reporters, Caitlin Skvorc, was an athlete on teams I covered during her time at Colony High School. During my career at the Frontiersman, Caitlin went through four years of high school, four years of college, a year abroad, and now she’s the veteran reporter at the paper.

Damn, Garth is right.

I’m much to young to feel this damn old.

But sports also makes me feel young.

Football especially.

Being around a sport I love so much on a daily basis in the fall.

Writing about and broadcasting a football game on Friday night, I wouldn’t trade it for any 9-5 job in the world.

Unless I can convince Theo Epstein to add me to the Cubs front office.

Contact Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman sports editor Jeremiah Bartz at sports@frontiersman.com.