From a young age, I developed a passion, no
, a love for sports. Maybe it was the result of my upbringing in a "sports oriented" family. After all, my father had played first base and pitcher in baseball, and also point guard for basketball during his high school days, and his father, (my late grandfather) had also pitched for his high school ball team (the same one as his son, my dad).
The elder Rummel was even a local star, having no-hit Harbor Beach, (the article of which I still fondly have hung up, over top my bed).
My older brother, too, wasn't about to leave suit. He, (like many growing up) spent his youth days playing baseball for one of the local little league teams before acquiring a taste for hockey (which went on to consume the better part of ten years for him).
I remember the times that I had at his games like they were yesterday, when in reality, they were most recently a long three years ago.
The atmosphere was always a competitive one
—one that I liked, and one that I felt comfortable in as well (oddly enough).
I remember all too well his championship game while a part of the Farmington Hills Club in 2000. I was five; my brother nine. And while the game was too far back in memory for me to remember the correct final score, what remains clear in my mind is the feeling that blew over me when my brother's team had scored.
It was sort of a, "Stick that in your juice box and suck it," kind of moment for me. I would stare and make my best grimace face, while nodding up an down, up and down, as these words echoed in my head.
The following season, the team finished second, and I recall resisting the overwhelming temptation to cry, as I felt the empathy of my brother's loss. It probably didn't help that the opposition's fans were most likely bathing in the same wonderful, high-spirited, congratulatory atmosphere that I was, one year prior.
Fast forwarding his hockey career to his high school years, the only thing changed being the size of his hockey stick to compliment his growth over the years. All else remained constant, and I think I felt comfort in that. His love for the game, my love for his love of the game, and the atmosphere that all of this love created were all un-touched.
What also contributed to this expressive atmosphere were rowdy parents and players on other teams skating in and out of the rink shop, eagerly waiting for their games to start. The players' younger brethren played games of hacky-sack in the corner, pretending to be oblivious to their family's activities, and perhaps best remained in my mind is the remembrance of children begging their parents for "just a few measly dollars" as to buy a snack at the concessions, regardless of whether or not dinner was held right before departure.
As a part of the high school squad, my brother developed successfully on the rink. From bench player to assistant captain, to donning the diplomatic "C" on the shoulder of his jersey, he grew, and my respect grew for him as well.
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