Little kids yelling sports facts at me. This is my fate.

Raising a sporty kid after being raised with a sporty brother.

I’ve noticed most parents — at least most men — want their little boys to like sports.

Not us.

I wanted our child to love sketching flowers, collecting rocks, and writing songs about, well, nature. And guess what? We have one of the sportiest little children that a human could produce.

I’ll tell you why I didn’t want to raise a sporty kid. I grew up with another child whose hyper-focus was on sports: my younger brother.

I woke up every morning to the sound of the ESPN news show, Sports Center. Every weekend, I was dragged to loiter miserably field-side at his little league and soccer games. I had to listen to this little obsessive in oversized Marlins and Celtics shirts scream information memorized from baseball cards at me, all. the. time. I had to play catch with him very often.

And my current reality mirrors that. I play sports with my son in the yard. He only wears Nike or clothing with sports teams on them. He plays too much NBA 2K where he learned most NBA players’ names. But now, instead of facing this with furious anger, I meet it with wonder, enjoyment, and a lot less resentment.

So much of my childhood was consumed by my brother’s sports obsession that I felt compelled to build an anti-sports identity. I liked Garfield, pianos, Caesar salads, and one Gunne Sax-type, Laura Ingalls Wilder-looking red dress. Later I liked the Smiths and Bjork and vintage clothing. I barely passed P.E.

I was always drawn to community but did not like conformity — and sports, to me at that time, was all about sameness, masculinity, and competition. (I think I spent a lot of time ignoring my own sportiness and competitiveness and denying my own masculine nature, but that’s another essay. )

My dad is a Massachusetts native, so my family is a bunch of Boston fans. For those who could care less, Boston has perhaps the most obnoxious and devoted fans in the world (no offense to my cousins). When the Red Sox finally won the 2004 World Series after a near-eternal drought, my family brought Red Sox paraphernalia to my late grandmother’s grave. My brother ran yelling through the streets of Maryland. I think everyone but me wept.

And by chance, I gave birth to my son in Boston. And guess what? He’s also a fan of Boston teams. History repeated.

This was his birthday gift: the Wizards v. Bucks. And these are his stupid-expensive Jordans. He promised to learn to tie them. These were not tied by him.

The first time I “got” sports was when the Miami Heat were winning NBA championships with LeBron, D. Wade, and Chris Bosh. I lived walking distance from the (then) American Airlines Arena and had a roommate who enjoyed basketball. With her help, and the help of the Big Three, I got really into watching NBA games for a period of time. I learned the sort of soap opera of sports. There’s also a lot of hunks that play, which didn’t hurt the cause.

And it was the Miami Heat that were the gateway into my son’s obsession. Last year, we watched the Heat play in the NBA Finals. He was six and looking for his niche. It was like a door opened in the sky, down from which this passion rained upon him. And immediately sports became his whole personhood.

My experiences with my brother and with my former roommate prepared me for this moment. Do I wish my child was into crafts and baking? Yes, I really do, SO much. So I may not be 100% into what he’s into all of the time, but at least I’m ready with a deeply personal understanding of kids who are obsessed with sports and am familiar with the lifestyle. Though I am not ready for travel sports. I’m going to read Take Back the Game: How Money and Mania Are Ruining Kids’ Sports first, which I read about in the Evil Witches newsletter.

Sports have a lot of obvious perks. They’re generally healthy. They should give him some social connections. They offer us a tool to teach him things like geography. We can talk about issues like race, gender, even fashion, all stemming from this fixation.

But becoming a “soccer mom” has been confusing for me — not because this is my identity now, I will not do that to myself, but because I can’t figure out how and when to sign him up for extracurricular sports. They run in six-week sessions. Who does that benefit? Not me! I always thought I had decent executive functioning skills, but turns out, I can only manage one schedule, mine. Also, as someone who grew up in Florida: Why are some of these sports seasonal?

I’m also not sure how much to incorporate other non-sports activities into his schedule. Is it enough that we surround him with art and music and nature at home and on trips? I will say, recently, he’s gotten more into music in a more genuine way, singing along with songs and emotionally bonding with the lyrics. I think he’s going to find his way.

So I’ll just sit back in the bleachers with my book and my Instagram and watch him grow up. I’ll support whatever his interests are, play games with him in the yard, try to steer him away from football and look interested when he screams sports facts at me.