I can’t give you a really good reason or excuse.
I played a lot of hockey, baseball and football in my youth, but there was one skillset that was, and still is, common within these sporting pursuits that I was never able to acquire.
It’s probably not that vital to the rest of the world, but as I reflect on my years on the fields, ice and players’ benches, I realized I never really learned how to spit properly. I never achieved the lofty goal of emitting a professional-like little gob of spittle.
Now, I don’t moan on about it much, I just do that reflection memory thing when I see those NHL stars sitting on the players’ bench. They’ve just come off the ice after a typical 48-second shift. What do they do? They spit on the floor of the players’ box or hit the wall with the spittle.
They chew on their mouthguard, spit, chew, spit, spit, spit, take a drink of water or energy drink, spit some more, chew some more, and spit again. By then it’s time to climb over the boards for another shift as their coach pacing behind the bench chews furiously on his 14th stick of gum, even though it’s only the second period. The coaches don’t spit … they chew gum … rapidly.
Football players have to be careful. They generally have to remove their helmets before they get to emit the spittle, otherwise, well, it could be embarrassing having to clean the iron or faceguard following a wayward spat. They generally wait until they make it to the sidelines.
Baseball is another area where a spit-recording artist needs to be careful. Baseball dugouts are generally filthy due to spit and sunflower seed shells, and an occasional gob of tobacco, although I see now that the few players and coaches who do choose tobacco use a paper cup, which is only the right thing to do really.
I mean the clubhouse guy can only take so much in the cleaning department before he’ll go on strike. Unless you are required to be in a baseball dugout, avoid it at all costs.
Now, I can’t say I have never spat; I have, a number of times, but it’s usually the amateurish spit process where you lower the head, aim downward and release the fluid because you have to. I have only had to do it twice as a result of my own attempts at preparing a meal. Other occasions have involved toothbrushes. You know, things like that.
I still marvel when I view baseball players tossing a handful of sunflower seeds into their mouths and then systematically release the spent shells, one by one, in a somewhat well-aimed projectile fashion. It’s a genuine art form. Messy, but then good art can be messy on occasion.
Now that I’m in full confession mode, I’ll also admit I never learned how to do that loud whistling thing that baseball outfielders are generally required to do. Oh, I can purse the lips and do a little singsong diddy whistle as I listen to some music or just want to entertain myself for 20 seconds.
No, I’m talking about those huge whistles, the kind they called the wolf whistle that some guys apparently used when they saw a gorgeous woman walk by. That whistle is usually only heard now in old movie rewinds.
But you know the sound, the kind of whistle the farmer uses to call the cattle home or the sheepherder’s dog. Some do it by placing fingers at the corner of the mouth.
I’m not sure why, but it sounds the same as the huge decibel whistles that come from the baseball outfielders, that I cannot duplicate even though I spent a great deal of time patrolling centre field landscapes.
So I’m a failure at these two vital factions in the sporting world. How I ever managed a couple of decades of sport participation without being outed as a non-spitter or big whistle emitter, I’ll never know. I do know I tried to be a good teammate and didn’t complain when an occasional, off-the-mark spatter from a fellow athlete hit my spikes, cleats or skates. It’s just part of the game but I wasn’t a participant in that vital element of it and will carry that shame right to the end.
Oh, one other thing – I never bothered getting tattoos either. Talk about abject social failures eh? But then, that’s sort of in the artistic file, although a lot of athletes sport a collection of them and I’m not sure why. Maybe they believe it enhances the fan’s interest in them and/or their sport? We may never know.
In the meantime, I didn’t know whether to be angry or happy when I would hear a relative declare, “Normie, you’re a spittin’ image of your grandfather.” I was never sure how to take that declaration … compliment or a slam-dunk? My grandfathers died early, so they weren’t available for any professional visual or spit-talent clarifications.
My apologies dear reader, I promise I will attempt to return to at least a semi-serious topic for next week’s offering.
