I have always been a fan of the Olympics. In 1960, when I was in the ninth grade, I wrote a report on the Rome summer games which my nasty English teacher, Mr. Spector, called "not bad." High praise from a haughty, pedantic, little "professor". I still vividly remember Ethiopian Abebe Bikila running the marathon barefoot through the ancient streets of Rome. From these and other Olympics I remember Wilma Rudolph, Ralph Boston, John Thomas, Bob Richards, Harold Connolly, Mary Lou Retton and Mary Decker. I can still see sprinter Michael Johnson taking the turn at unbelievable speed in the 200 meters. I remember the Russian weightlifter, Alexeyev, and the disdainful way he would throw down the bar after a successful lift. It was fashionable to hate the Russians back then. Valerei Brumel was a particular villain in my eyes. I remember the great Rafer Johnson vs. C.K. Yang.
Back then I was a big fan of the Olympic ideal, the notion of the amateur athlete, training on his own after he gets off work at the factory, and then competing against the "professionals" from the Eastern Block. What can I say? I was just a kid.
Every four years for about two weeks I find myself caring about archery or race walking or water polo. I re-learn the difference between a foil, an epee, and a sabre. I delight in the distinction between Greco-Roman and freestyle wrestling. I think in one of those you can't stand on the ropes or bash your opponent's head into the turnbuckle. I marvel at the new technology apparent in the bizarre looking equipment used in the air rifle competition.
With this in mind, I thought I'd let you in on a little secret: There are several Olympic events in which I could never win a medal, any medal. Here are the top ones:
1. Any event with a distance in it. Whether it's 50 meters or 26 miles, I could never win a medal in any distance-oriented event. This includes land or water, on horseback or bicycle. I tend to fade after a meter so there you have it. If there were a one meter dash, I think I could place. I used to be pretty good at "One-Two-Three Red Light." I happen to have good reflexes. Just not so much stamina. Plus I'm not a fan of horsies.
2. Skeet shooting. I just watched some American kill 46 out of 46 skeets. Even the poor slob in third place managed to kill about 42 of the little clay darlings. That's just amazing to me. I remember as a kid hiking over to Boston's Franklin Park where there was a grand old building called The Commissary. Inside were several ancient arcade machines, circa 1940 or so. One of the machines was a target shooting gizmo in which a bear with a glass belly would walk back and forth while I would try to "shoot" it with some sort of electronic rifle. If I hit the bear on his glass stomach, he would roar in disapproval and change direction. If I could hit him several times in a row, he would do several about faces and replicate the Curly shuffle from The Three Stooges. I probably spent well over $8.00 trying to make that bear my b-tch. Alas, I was always the one who faced the long walk home with the bear laughing at me all the way.
3. Badminton. There are two problems here. First, I'm, well, afraid of the shuttlecock. You know how some people are afraid of clowns? I love clowns. I'm terrified of shuttlecocks. It's irrational, I know, but what can I do about it? Another problem is the incredible speed at which the game is played. During my Temple University undergraduate days, I had to take several semesters of Phys Ed courses. I signed up for badminton thinking there would be lots of pleasant afternoon barbeques and cute co-eds. What a mistake that was! It turns out that serious badminton is vicious and many an unsuspecting player can find himself with feathers imbedded in places where feathers were never meant to go. No badminton medals for yours truly I'm afraid.
4. Kayaking. Earlier in these blogs I mentioned my recent aversion to kayaks, especially kayaks with no back support. Having just watched a number of kayakers take on a raging set of rapids as they maneuvered their non-back-supported crafts backwards and forwards through designated gates while trying desperately not to drown, I am forced to admit that a kayak medal is just not in the cards. Possibly if all the gates were lined up one after the other and all you had to do was ride that ol' current straight on through them, kind of like the tunnel of love, maybe my weight would prove to be an advantage in stabilizing the ship. Otherwise, it's "Iceberg, dead ahead!"
So there you have it. Very few Olympic dreams left for me.
But for my older son, Josh, a true Olympic struggle lies ahead. As most of you know, cancer has decided to torment this family again and Josh, with the help of his wonderful wife Cindy, and his awesome twins, Sam and Sara, will be doing battle with this formidable opponent head on. Believe me, there is no man better suited for this task.
How can I be so sure?
Hey, I knew his mother, remember?
Ain't life grand?
J
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