<\/p>\n
For most of my life, or at least as far back as I can remember, my dad and I have bonded over everything. From books to movies, music to journaling, Papa and I have always seemed to have an endless array of topics to choose from and dive into together. Most of my playlists are made up of songs he recommended and he asks me for tips on how to improve his reading habits almost daily. He is my best friend, my ultimate sidekick and my everything person.<\/p>\n
However, even the most close-to-perfect relationships seem to always stay at just that \u2014 almost<\/em> perfect, but not entirely. While Papa and I share almost everything with each other, there are some topics we never touched with each other. Among these lies the topic of sports.<\/p>\n I am not a sporty person. Never have been, never will be. Papa isn\u2019t either, not really. But his lack of innate athletic ability (Although I don\u2019t want to sell him too short, he did bike a 100-mile marathon a few years ago which will never cease to amaze me) doesn\u2019t mean he won\u2019t sit down for hours on end and watch a football match or a Sunday Formula 1 race. He may not be an athlete, but he most certainly is a sports fan. I, on the other hand, am not.<\/p>\n Now, I did play volleyball for six years as a kid and I even tried my hand at soccer, although the latter attempt only lasted four months. And while I wasn\u2019t the worst volleyball player ever, you would never catch me dead watching a volleyball match on television. Nor a tennis open. Nor a basketball game. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Sports as leisure amuses me as little as possible.<\/p>\n