The Art of Sport

In some ways, I’m a very girly girl. I write women’s fiction and erotica for women. I read romance and love romantic movies. I do my hair and makeup every single morning whether anyone will see me or not. I have nails that are polished to match my toenails. I buy new bags or shoes almost every week, I’m on a first name basis with Irene, the woman who sells me my cosmetics.

But in other ways, I’m totally not a girly girl. I love sports, not playing them so much, but watching them? I’m addicted.

Any sport played at the highest of levels is gorgeous. I know enough about most sports (the exception being cricket) to follow them and I know the difference between good and great. When it’s great? It’s like watching ballet.

I’m a huge fan of soccer – Go, Blues (that’s Chelsea in the English Premier League for those of you who aren’t quite so addicted). I know all the players and I know the rumours about who might or might not be playing for them next year. I’m a hockey fan – hard not to be having grown up with a father who play on the frozen ponds of Manitoba and who coached my brother who played from the time he was five or six.

I love tennis and will watch all the Grand Slams and cheer for Rafa until my throat is sore. I want to go to London next summer for the Olympics, though I suspect I’m more likely to get to the next World Cup in Brazil.

If I won the lottery, I would do a whole bunch of things, but on my list is having great seats at:

a World Cup – Brazil or Qatar would be nice, and even nicer if Holland would win
a summer and a winter Olympics
a World Series game, preferably the year the Chicago Cubs win
a Chelsea game, a Barcelona game
the Superbowl, preferably in New Orleans (with the Saints winning, of course)


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