Argue for Sport
The glass surface of Grandma’s pool was reflecting the lightning bugs’ dazzling display. Twirling yellow stars above and below the water burned out only to reignite in another time and place. Pool toys were stacked by the shed and it was somehow quiet enough to hear the trickling of the fishpond fountain in the far corner of the backyard. Such tranquility would have been difficult to even imagine five hours earlier, when the swarm of cousins was treating the backyard as if it were the last watering hole left on a barren savanna.
The evening calm extended to within five feet of the screen door, at which point the first buzz of the argument raging inside became audible. It was mid-summer 1989 and the big news of the day centered on ol’ Charlie Hustle.
You see, Grandma loved to argue. She was also the resident contrarian. A precarious, albeit hilarious, combination during family gatherings. So when all the “men-folk” were droning on and on about the injustice in the treatment of Pete Rose, Grandma stood up for the little guy. The MLB.
Just as Pete Rose would find a way on base, Grandma would find a way to win an argument. She enjoyed the sport and would probably have bet on herself, thus keeping her out of the argument Hall of Fame. So Grandma went off – of course he deserved it . . . he deserves far worse . . . he tarnished his legacy. You name it, she argued it.
Grandma ended, what was up to that point a very nice day, not with hugs and wishes for more time with the extended family, but with a heated debate that resulted in the slamming of doors; the sound of which Grandma regarded as a victory bell. She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied (read: shit-eating) smile and asked of her daughters, “Who the hell is Pete Rose?”
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Grandma must have known, if not feared, that one of her progeny would inherit her most admirable vice. Enter her third grandchild. Born with an inclination to argue for the sake of arguing, my skills grew by observing the best. I learned that you argue simply because it is fun challenging insufferable people that feel the need to vocalize their opinions on the most mundane of garbage. And like all young learners, I would try to take on the master. I often lost. But one glorious autumn, nearly 10 years after the Charlie Rose summer blow-out argument, I took on Grandma and won.
It was a back and forth battle between a grizzled veteran and a snot-nosed, know-it-all teen. What started out as a simple conversation between all members of the family devolved into a battle between just the two of us, with everyone else sidelined in silence. Grandma attacked and I parried. I tried to advance but Grandma held firm. Back and forth we went.
I had so little invested in the initial conversation that to this day I have no idea what we ended up arguing about. Try as I might, the only thing I remember is that we were in fact arguing. Well, that and the fact that I won.
It ended when Grandma said something that I was able to twist and contort into making it sound like she was racist, and I called her on it. Now, to be clear, Grandma was far from a racist. But when I got done with her, a klan Grand Wizard would have said that Grandma was too extreme.
My victory was announced with enthusiasm by Monsignor Kelley, a long-time family friend, who up to this point was trying to ignore everyone while watching the Notre Dame game. Without looking up from the game, Kelley laughed and proclaimed in his wheezing Irish accent, “Joan lost that one.”
Did I gracefully acknowledge my opponent’s skill and poise while accepting my accolades? Did I show remorse for the verbal evisceration? No. To both. The victory dance I performed was so elaborate that it reverberates through time, and my head and shoulders still jiggle in celebration whenever I recall that night.
But as much as I may have gloated, I don’t think Grandma bore me ill will. As well as being the all-time leader in hits, Pete Rose is also the all-time leader in outs. You can’t win them all. Grandma knew the score. She knew the game.
