Yesterday I poked a little fun at what it means to have hatred in sports. Hate is a strong word. I remember growing up always being told that we should never say we hate anything or anyone. Like most words, though, the meaning has changed and evolved over time. Now it can mean anything from wanting to seek out the death and destruction of an entire population to simply not liking a certain flavor of ice cream, or a particular football team. It just isn’t always a big deal.
But then again, it takes only a quick glance around the world to see that hatred, in it’s most intense and brutal forms, is completely alive. Ask those living under oppressive regimes, within systemic systems of poverty around the world and in our own country, and those in abused and abandoned minorities based on race, geography, sexuality, religion, or other arbitrary aspects of their lives.
Hate is alive in our world. In our country. In our community. Even in ourselves. Search that out. Take some perspective. Sports hatred may be a goofy, simple, and meaningless way to watch a game. Real hatred, even deeply rooted and hard to locate without ourselves, is painfully real.
And that actually matters.