For the past six weeks, I’ve been hobbled by a badly sprained ankle – specifically, a badly torn ligament. When I saw the doctor for the last time at the end of December, he told me that I should try to avoid playing basketball for the next month to be sure that I didn’t re-injure the already weak ligament. And despite my longing to get out on the court and run around, I resisted. Even though I haven’t been feeling much pain and probably could have risked it by now, I didn’t. Doctor’s orders.
Then, tonight, on my way home after work, having told my friends that I couldn’t play in tonight’s game for our recreational basketball league, a bizarre realization hit me. As I found myself in the midst of a rugby-style scrum complete with people kicking, shoving and screaming as I did everything I could to stay on my feet without falling over, it dawned on me: I’ve been playing a sport every day, twice a day, for the past five weeks. I’ve been riding on the subway.
Think about it. Riding on the New York City subway during rush hour is a sport. In my mind, it meets all of the prerequisites: it’s organized (everyone knows where they’re supposed to go), physical (people will shove, lean, sidle and lunge to get where they need to go) and competitive (if it’s between you and some lovely elderly woman and you’ve got some place to be, I’m sorry, but you’re getting on that subway). Look, if we’re willing to debate whether or not poker is a sport, then there should be no question about subway riding. Why, just the other day I was riding on the subway with my girlfriend, discussing the merits of having your feet pointed perpendicular to the direction of the subway car to best keep your balance while the car is moving. We were talking footwork, for crying out loud. Quite often, I’ll break into a full-on sprint blocks away from the subway station, thinking that I might miss a train if I don’t get there quickly. Think this is just me being neurotic? It’s not. I’m gaining a competitive advantage.
The parallels between subway riding and competitive sport go on and on. There’s equipment to deal with (the MetroCard must be deftly removed from the wallet and swiped precisely in order to expedite the entry to the station), and interestingly enough, there’s a certain degree of awe involved. Ever been with someone their first time riding on New York’s subway? For whatever reason, there’s a mystique about it not dissimilar from someone walking into a major league ballpark for the first time. They stare at the dirty tile, the rats and the festering matter on the tracks as though they were glancing around at the ivy on the outfield wall and the centerfield scoreboard at Wrigley.
So next time you’re rushing to make that train or finding yourself packed into one, think about it, and look around you: see the scowls on people’s faces; the determined last push to get into an already overflowing train. You’re in the midst of a sporting event, whether you like it or not.
Now please just be careful not to step on my ankle.
