Some WordPress questions are simple.
This is not one of them.
“What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid?”
A thing?
One thing?
That is adorable.
That assumes my childhood brain had a filing system. It did not. My childhood brain was a junk drawer with theme songs, baseball cards, TV crushes, paperbacks, action figures, box scores, and probably a melted crayon stuck to the bottom.
I was not obsessed with one thing as a kid. I had rotating obsessions. I had seasonal obsessions. I had emergency obsessions. I had obsessions that should have come with a laminated schedule and adult supervision.
There was Statis Pro Baseball, which allowed me to take America’s pastime and turn it into math homework I actually wanted to do. I had imaginary seasons, imaginary standings, imaginary statistics and imaginary front-office pressure.
Some kids went outside.
I managed the Phillies.
There was Battle of the Planets, which I loved even though I’m not entirely sure I knew what was happening. There were bird costumes, space battles, danger, drama and a robot who made noises. That was enough. At that age, plot was optional if the helmets were cool.
There was The New Mickey Mouse Club.
More specifically, there was Lisa Whelchel on The New Mickey Mouse Club.
Let us pause respectfully.
I did not understand romance, but I understood that Lisa Whelchel being on television was important to national morale.
There was Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons, which was probably my first introduction to the idea that a show could be confusing, stiff, oddly dramatic and still completely awesome. It may also explain why I grew up to tolerate a lot of bad special effects as long as somebody says something ominous.
There was Star Trek, because once you discover the Enterprise, phasers, aliens, transporter rooms and William Shatner speaking as if every sentence has pulled a hamstring, there is no turning back.
There was Starsky and Hutch, which convinced me that adulthood would involve leather jackets, dramatic tire squeals and solving crimes with your best friend.
This turned out to be misleading.
There were the Philadelphia Phillies, which was less of a sports interest and more of an unstable emotional dependency. I did not follow the Phillies. I entered into a long-term childhood relationship with disappointment, hope and box scores.
And then there was Mike Schmidt, who made the whole thing feel worthwhile. He hit home runs, played third base like he had been personally assigned to defend civilization, and gave a kid a reason to believe the Phillies were not merely a team, but a righteous cause.
Possibly a troubled cause. But still righteous.
There was Miss Robinson, my fifth-grade teacher.
I will not elaborate too much, except to say that childhood crushes are powerful, irrational and usually directed toward someone who is trying to teach fractions.
There was reading, which may have been the most useful obsession. Books were transportation, entertainment, escape and evidence that staying inside could be a noble choice.
There were The Monkees, because they had catchy songs, goofy comedy and appeared to live in a world where responsibilities were minimal and musical numbers solved most problems.
That still sounds appealing.
And that is only the short list.
Childhood obsession is different from adult interest. Adults say they “like” something. Kids reorganize their entire personality around it by Tuesday.
Adults watch a show.
Kids memorize the theme song, assign themselves a role, create backstories, rank the characters and then get offended when no one else in the family understands the importance of the mission.
Adults follow a baseball team.
Kids track statistics with the seriousness of a Pentagon analyst.
Adults have a favorite singer.
Kids decide a television band from the 1960s may hold the key to happiness.
Looking back, my childhood was basically a series of intense research projects nobody assigned.
And honestly, I don’t think I’ve changed much.
The subjects are different now.
Mostly.
But I still fall into things. I still chase details. I still overthink movies, baseball, bourbon, books, television shows and random pop-culture memories that absolutely no one asked me to analyze.
So maybe I was not obsessed with one thing as a kid.
Maybe I was obsessed with being obsessed.
Which is probably still true.
I’m just older now, so I call it “having interests.”
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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt
