Sharing a love for sports, watching a game (or round or match or any other term for an organized competetion) together seems to be the ultimate bonding experience.

I'm a loser when it comes to such a bonding experience, for I really stink at watching sports. I try. But something always grabs my attention far more easily than the action on the field or court or whatever.

I wanted to be a football fan. I even bought a Tebow jersey last season when Tim Tebow seemed to be the savior of the Broncos (of course, real fans would have plenty to say about that statement). I did enthusiastically watch the televised games in which Tebow played. But I must admit that more so than his throwing game—or lack thereof—I continually found myself entranced by that yellow line that magically appeared on the field to show where the ball is...or should go for there to be a first down...or something like that. I marveled again and again, much to the chagrin of Jim and Brianna who really did want to watch the game not bond with my babbling self, about the money surely made by the guy who came up with that magical line on the field, the marking that's not really on the field but visible only to those watching from home. Forget post-game interviews with game MVPs and winners and losers—I want to hear from the genius that invented that line.

Basketball distractions are similar. Sort of. It's not really anything magical or technical that distracts me when watching the tall and tattooed (and, honestly, rather thug like) players dart from end to end, passing and shooting, though. It's the squeaking that distracts me. Yes, squeaking. That incessant squeaking of their darn athletic shoes catching on the shiny court floor. Makes. Me. Nuts. So nuts, in fact, that I can't concentrate. So nuts that I usually won't watch. If I end up with no choice but to watch, I'm not really watching, I'm thinking about those squeaks and shoes. Or thinking about something completely different as I try to not think about those <cuss> squeaks.

Thinking about something totally different is typically my default game while watching baseball, too. I try, I really do try to keep up with an inning, from beginning to end. But I can't. I'll watch one hit, maybe two. Or possibly a few strikes or balls or whatever else takes place. But then I realize everyone around me is cheering—or booing—and I have no idea why. Because I'm lost. Not by way of misunderstanding the game, but by simply being lost in thought about something monumental and important. Like how much it might cost for the advertising signs lining the ballpark fence. Or how hot the mascot might be in his or her costume. Or how often birds must duck and dodge foul balls.

I'm just not meant to be a sports fan, I think.

Jim, on the other hand—like most normal folks—seems to manage just fine, despite not being one of those heavy hitter widow makers who watches any and all sports on television, season in and season out. Yet his first question to Brianna about a guy she recently went on a date with was, "What kind of sports does he like?" Which, of course, created a moment of bonding between Jim and Brianna.

Sports are undoubtedly important to men. And many women, too. My longtime friend Debbie is a top-notch Rockies and Broncos fan, rivaled in her dedication to the orange and blue of the Broncos only by my diehard, forever fan Carol. Most of my sisters? Football fans. Brianna and Andrea? Well, they're fans of most sports, too.

Fortunately my middle daughter, Megan, is much like me when it comes to sports. At least baseball. Which was quite fortunate the evening my entire family spent at a Sky Sox game (that's the local AA team, for those readers as unsporty as I am). Megan and I chatted, roamed the place with Mac and Bubby. As others bonded while watching the game, Megan and I bonded while not watching the game...but still at the game, giving the illusion we were just as much sports-bonding fans as the next guy. Or gal.

While at the stadium, Mac made it abundantly clear he's more like his grandma and his mom in his inability to concentrate on the game, as he required lots of distraction by lots of different family members. Of course, he just recently turned one, so what else might we expect. Odds are it won't be long before Mac's right there in the thick of spectating along with all the other sporty folk with whom I can't quite relate.

Odds are even higher, though, that Mac won't be one of those watching sports but will be one of those out on the field playing, especially considering his early prowess at ball play.

I look forward to such games. They may be just the ticket to making me a fan, as I have no doubt I'll be fully engaged in watching Mac—or Bubby or any other grandchild in the future—from the first whistle to the last.

I may not be a sports fan, but I'm definitely a fan of my grandchildren—even if they choose to be one of those squeaky kids on the basketball court.

Today's question:

What organized sports to your grandkids and/or kids play?