My Story of Sports: A Tale of Love, Loss and Respect

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.

At about the same time that my brother was wrapping up his hockey career, a new career was starting, and it was running, for my father.

I can't say that I know exactly where or how my father discovered a deep passion for the brutal hobby. Maybe it was a close friend who encouraged him to start, or perhaps  what attracted him was the heavily induced motivation and dedication attribute that running demands. Whatever it was, it sure caught hold of my dad—and had a strong grip at that.

My dad has been a part of more than a few full and half marathons. I would get tired after running mile five, let alone 15,23 of them.

Now, he was never the best at running; more a middle-of-the-pack vet who knew a thing or two to teach the newborns at the game. However, he had fun, and as he felt like he accomplished something at the end of races, running through that finish line, dead but still alive, I felt like I accomplished something too: and it was a deep level of appreciation and respect for him.

And I remain through all of this as Mr. Joe Average (except for I'm addressed as Mr. Taylor Rummel).

Now, a true gentleman doesn't talk about himself, so I'll give it my best efforts to keep this last part to a bare minimum.

I grew up a familiar path in my family. I was normal. I played hockey for a year (thanks bro), and I dabbled in my interests with baseball for a few seasons (thanks Grandpa, miss you), and also I have just retired from my two-year career in Cross Country (thanks be to you pops). 

I say retired because I have done just that, exited from the hobby because of a variety of different reasons (one primarily being the sheer physical strain that running caused, and my inability to keep up with it). For that reason,  I believe I grounded up a lot of my respect for Dad.

Currently, I am sport-less, although I am very interested and looking into joining the Rugby Squad next Spring. Who knows what that has in store for me? My guess would be a few broken bones mixed in with more than enough concussions (which frighteningly I hear is not even considered an injury in the Rugby World)".  -Gulp-

Hopefully the sport will fall into favor with me.  After all, sports have been pretty good to me in the past, supplying me with all sorts of fond memories, a number that I frankly can't put a number on.

A quote I've came across reads: "All good things must come to an end." 

Despite the depressing words, I remain determined to keep sports an integral part of who I am, and to also allow my love, loss, and respect to rub off into the generations that are to follow in my family's footsteps.