<\/p>\n
In my house, my dad and I were never the sports lovers, at least compared to the rest of our family. It was my mother who would be shaking us awake for the Indian national cricket team\u2019s matches at 4 a.m., and who would be in a mood if Rafael Nadal<\/a> had an early exit from Wimbledon<\/a>. It was my little brother who would cry every time Brazil<\/a> was knocked out of the World Cup<\/a> and talked so incessantly about Barcelona<\/a> that I began supporting Real Madrid<\/a> out of spite.\u00a0<\/p>\n Sure, my dad and I liked<\/em> sports. My mom and brother unabashedly loved<\/em> them. We too had favorite teams and certainly dedicated many hours to being planted on the couch for one event or another, but it definitely wasn\u2019t a dominant part of either of our lives.\u00a0<\/p>\n But now, years later, sports run my life. In the little time that I\u2019m not at The Michigan Daily\u2019s Sports desk editing or covering a game, I\u2019m watching an unbelievable Patriots Super Bowl run<\/a>, scrolling college sports on X for college transfer portal updates and fighting tears through Tottenham Hotspur\u2019s battle<\/a> against relegation.<\/p>\n Such a transformation could be attributed to my mother and brother \u2014 their passion, surely, had to have rubbed off on me. Yet, actually, the roots of my passion for sports were planted, nurtured and inspired by my dad. Not because he taught me to love sports, but because he taught me something far more important: No matter how foolish you may feel, there\u2019s always a reward in trying something new.\u00a0<\/p>\n