Winter sports? Nah, grab a broom

The term “winter sports” has always struck me as something of an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms.

After all, winter is supposed to be spent inside, by a roaring fire if possible, cuddled under multiple blankets if that can be arranged, and preferably with a warm mug of something nearby.

Oh, sure, I confess to enjoying the act of shoveling snow now and then. (My enjoyment tends to peak with the first real snowfall of the season and trend downward, sometimes sharply downward, from there.)

I also love a hike in a quiet woods after a big snow, when there are no other tracks on the trail and the silence is like something out of God’s biggest cathedral.

And I’ll admit to throwing my share of snowballs over the years.

But sports? In winter?

That’s something I’ve always filed under “Things Other People Do.”

Part of that is a result of growing up in the Midwest.

My big brother, Steve, who fell in love with a young woman from Minnesota and who has lived in Minneapolis most of his adult life, has a theory about this.

Steve figures that the love of winter sports is all about having enough winter.

In Minnesota, they have plenty. More than enough.

So the ponds freeze over early and stay frozen. The skates come out, the hockey sticks and pucks come out, and they stay out for months.

The same with snow. An investment in cross country skis in Indiana or Ohio might seem a little iffy, but in Minnesota there’s enough winter to make those dollars well spent.

For those of us south of Chicago, my brother’s theory goes, there’s not enough consistent winter to justify hockey or skiing or figure skating.

Instead, we’ll have snow for several days, then gray skies and gloom, then a thaw, then a puny snowfall. Back and forth.

It’s enough to drive you inside.

Into a barn.

A barn with a basketball hoop.

In other words, a gymnasium.

So kids who might otherwise be icing the puck — or whatever the heck it is they do with the puck — grab a basketball instead.

And Hoosier Hysteria is born.

It may be a cultural thing, but it’s also a climate thing.

While I understand all that, I still have not been able to fathom my wife’s fondness for winter sports, particularly the Winter Olympics.

This is a woman whose skiing career ended at the bottom of the bunny slope with an injury that put her on crutches.

But when the Winter Games arrive, she is there.

Assuming there are enough blankets and there’s a warm mug of something nearby, I’ll be with her, feigning interest in competition after competition: Ski jumps, slaloms, hockey, speed skating, even figure skating.

Until it’s time for curling.

And that’s when I check out.

While the Olympians will be sweeping snow off the ice to let the stone slide as far as possible, I’ll grab a broom and sweep the kitchen floor.