Being a Bad Winner

I remember as a little girl that on Sunday afternoons when the Giants’ games were blacked out, my father would still watch it through the snow-interference on channel 3. He loved the Giants that much. He also hated them that much. My father reveled in their glory and became a very unpleasant man when they lost. My father did not accept the Giants losses well. He would say they get paid all the money and I get all the aggravation.

I am just like my father only worse.  Not only am a bad loser but I am also a bad winner. I like routs. I like knowing unequivocally that my team will win. Last September after the Yankees had clinched their division and were playing an inconsequential game, I was a little miffed at Joe Girardi. The Yankees were winning 7-1 at home going into the bottom of the 9^th and Girardi did not put Mariano in. My husband told me that I was ridiculous---there was no reason to risk Mariano getting hurt before the playoffs particularly when the Yankees were ahead by 6 runs. I disagreed. It was only 6 runs. I did not want it to be less than that. I wanted the score to remain 7-1.

When Samantha was little she and her friend Amanda played softball. My husband and Steve (Amanda’s Dad) were the coaches. The team was not very good. In fact they had not won a single game the entire regular season. So when the playoffs came, Samantha’s team played the #1 team in the league for the first round---as is typical in a draw.

One of the little girls from the other team came up to Samantha before the game and in a sing-songy taunt said You’re gonna lose. You’re gonna lose. And then the     little girl may have stuck her tongue out---I am not sure if that is a memory or a wish. But the important thing is that Samantha said nothing. She walked on to the field and played ball.

And in the bottom of the last inning, Samantha’s team was losing  by more than 7 runs. So Steve and my husband asked the coach of the other team if he wanted them to concede the win. And the other coach said no—and not only did the other coach want to continue play, he wanted to forfeit the 7 run rule also.  And by some Mookie Wilson/Bill Buckner type miracle, Samantha’s team won. And when the game was over Sam went up to the girl who had taunted her and said Who’s the loser now. And the little girl began to cry.

And I probably should have scolded Samantha for stooping to the little girl’s level. I should have taught her that 2 wrongs do not make a right. I should have given Samantha a lecture on good sportsmanship. I should have at least consoled the little girl who was crying. But I did not. I smiled. I was elated. That little girl got what was coming to her. Samantha made a bully cry and I was proud. It was a win on many levels.

And no matter what team is annoying me when they play, I hear my father’s voice in my head saying they get paid all the money and I get all the aggravation. But I learned the converse can be true too, Samantha’s team didn’t get paid any money and I got all the glory. Some wins are just priceless. And you can never win by too many runs, touchdowns, goals, or sets either.