Let me set the scene. Medford, Texas. 1989. Our living room smelled of meatloaf and existential dread. My father, George Sr., was chewing his food with the enthusiasm of a man who had given up on flavor. My twin sister, Missy, was playing with her hair—a non-productive activity. And my older brother, Georgie, was trying to hide a stolen pack of baseball cards under his thigh.
I turned to my father. “Is that hyperbole, or does Georgie actually wish for orthopedic trauma?” young sheldon s02e12 m4b
I bought a soda—Diet, because I’m not a savage—and returned to the bleachers. Let me set the scene
The house my mother had found was larger. Three bedrooms instead of two. A backyard with an actual tree. From a real estate perspective, it was an upgrade. From a Sheldon Cooper perspective, it was a catastrophe. Our living room smelled of meatloaf and existential dread
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
As it turned out, that house became the backdrop for many of my formative traumas and triumphs. The football game did not turn me into a sports fan. But I did learn to appreciate the ritual of it—the same way I appreciate a well-run laboratory.