I’ve never really understood the allure of watching sports on television.
I do have some fond memories of watching the ABC Wide World of Sports each week with my dad--mostly I wanted to see the poor ski jumper wipe out again, “the agony of defeat” indeed. We also watched stock car racing quite a bit--but as neither of these pastimes survived my passage into adulthood, I suspect I was mostly interested just because these were Dad’s passions.
I’ve also enjoying watching TV sports at times, primarily the Winter Olympics--downhill skiing and ice skating especially. Summer Olympics not so much, except for gymnastics. Tennis can be interesting, watching from above, noting the chess like strategy of the shots, striving to move an opponent to a difficult position. At the same time, it’s never been something I made a point to watch. From time to time I’ve followed baseball, but each time I’ve quickly fallen away.
TV just doesn’t capture the real skill of the players. Once, visiting a friend in Chicago, I went to a Cubs game. We sat just over the dugout and watched a relief pitcher casually warming up. Nice, slow, relaxed toss--and the ball goes flying like a rocket in a straight line several dozen feet, neatly into the catcher’s glove. Amazing. Those outfield catches and double plays? A ball shooting like lightning hundreds of feet in perfectly straight lines in must a second. These are professional athletes. You don’t get that perspective on TV.
So I’m just not the stereotypical sports fan, sitting in a Lazy Boy with chips and beer, proclaiming “We’re #1!” I’d rather get out and be active myself.
Football just seems to be wait, wait, wait, line up, run into each other for a second, fall down. Basketball means endlessly running up and down a court. Hockey seems to be furiously skating around, hitting each other with sticks whenever possible. Boxing just seems brutal.
I can at least understand why others might want to watch these, but other TV sports mystify me completely. Golf, for example--walking, teeing, looking up the course, addressing the ball, a swing, then watching sky sky sky sky sky, bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce. Repeat. Or fishing. It’s a guy or two in a boat casting line into the water. What’s to see for half an hour?
At the same time, I’ve watched engaging movies about all of these sports--even on the small screen. What’s the difference? Of course, movies can spend more time setting up effective filming angles, and of course, feature a carefully crafted, scripted story. Regular sports fans, engrossed in a team’s fortunes, probably see more of a story.
Or perhaps I’m just a loner who prefers quiet time to think. I’d rather hike in the mountains than walk around a golf course, explore the waterways in a kayak than sit in a canoe with rod and reel.
Or maybe I just like a good story.
Writer
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Friday, September 28, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Shanti and the Kayaks
I start with a stop at the corner store for something for dinner, vainly hoping for something in the produce line, settling for an onion, a pepper, and a bunch of celery. Pretty much their vegetable inventory. No fruit. I add a bunch of carrots for my neighbor’s horse. And a six-pack.
Two twenty-somethings walk in, chuckling. “Never seen a dog driving a car before,” they laugh. “Oh, that’s his,” the woman behind the counter notes, nodding toward me. “Always does that,” she adds, referring to my dog Shanti, a white husky mix, who moves to the driver’s seat and patiently scans the scene for my return with each stop.
On the way to the state land at Stoney Pond she whines. I’m exhausted, but she’s bored. While I’ve been working my bizarre schedule all day, home now only as dusk approaches, she’s been stretched out under evergreen trees, watching birds, barking at an early morning hot-air balloon flight, rested and ready to go.
The weather has turned cooler too. I love September—I used to always schedule my vacations somewhere in the middle of the month. I had little competition for the dates, and it’s a perfect time to backpack in the Adirondack High Peaks—not too hot (the cool weather an asset when climbing), few bugs, no summer crowds on the trails, lean-tos readily available, and only early bear hunting season to circumvent. But alas, since becoming a college professor in 1990, Septembers are spent frantically fielding all the fruckus administration and circumstances channel my way. Hence my fatigue. But the cool weather also energizes my dog even more than her light daily itinerary.
Further, a week or so back she somehow slightly injured her foot, limping for a few days. “Give her these antibiotics, three times a day,” the vet instructed. He knows my hectic schedule, and added, “If some days she only gets two, that’s fine. Just continue it for two weeks. Also, here’s some Rimadyl—twice a day.” My last dog, a shepherd mix, lived almost sixteen years, so I know Rimadyl well—a powerful non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory pain killer. I shook my head. Shanti already is a mountain of energy stuffed into 50 lbs. of fur. Now she’ll feel no pain.
We start our walk—it’s usually a run, but I can feel myself getting sick—pain in my chest, the first signs of the bronchitis that twice has taken me out for a week in the past few years. Emboldened by the lack of people relative to August, deer wander across the path, and Shanti takes off like a jet, slamming around in her harness when she abruptly reaches the end of her 26’ retractable leash. She looks at me, then spins around and tries it again. And again. And again. “Shanti!” I finally intervene, my lungs aching from the effort. Damn. I’m definitely getting sick. I later contemplate those leftover antibiotics—500 mg. Cephalex. Keflex, I know from my pharmacy tech days. Usually prescribed every six hours, but for 7-10 days. I can think of several reasons not to flirt with a short course. I eventually give in to temptation, spreading eight doses over three days, hoping my immune system and some rest can pick it up from there.
The deer now gone, Shanti turns to sticks. She’s not fond of “fetch,” but she love to jump for sticks. I hold them out at shoulder height, and she jumps two and a half times her height to grab them. She plays hard, and I remember to hold the stick lightly, or she’ll sharply wrench my wrist or elbow yet again. [Even other dogs don’t like to play with her, since she’s just too rough.] The stick game, though, eventually tires her, at least a bit.
We round the corner of the pond (a small lake, really) and find three kayaks full of loudly laughing, joking people. Shanti goes ballistic, lunging and lunging to run out and do just-what-exactly-I-can’t-even-begin-to-imagine. As much as I love these daily outings, I’m relived when we’re back at the car.
I haven’t been kayaking all summer—just too much work. I love doing it, and even take Shanti with me—she sits right in front, anxiously watching the geese, ducks and beavers. I did think about going, although transporting the kayak is now a challenge; I used to put my short kayak atop my Toyota Echo’s roof with some hard foam designed for the purpose and a complicated system to tie it with rope to the frame. My new Yaris, however, has an antenna right in the middle of the roof (by the hatchback). Perhaps I can get it in the back with the seats down. Wonder how far it would stick out. And where would Shanti sit?
Then again, there’s always my girl’s Taurus. And where she’ll sit. And whether it can handle two kayaks. And the irony of transportation for transportation.
I had my first kayak lesson twenty feet offshore at Stoney Pond, capsizing and swimming back to shore. I’m an excellent canoeist, capable of a speedy pace in any size canoe, capable of righting a canoe in the middle of a lake and getting back in (a skill I had to learn in Scouts). I accidentally impressed my coworkers years ago at a summer gathering when my shepherd mix took off after me when I borrowed a canoe. With motor boats racing about, she wasn’t safe in the water (she was an excellent swimmer—we used to swim long distances together), so I pulled a wet, 90 lb. dog into the canoe, keeping us level and above water. Kayaking was a little different.
Balance. Sit low and straight. Soon you can even race about the lake with a dog in your kayak with you. Balance. Something my work life and, apparently, health could use. Maybe I should kayak more often. Maybe I should spend more time under evergreens myself. Maybe Shanti should drive.
Writer
Two twenty-somethings walk in, chuckling. “Never seen a dog driving a car before,” they laugh. “Oh, that’s his,” the woman behind the counter notes, nodding toward me. “Always does that,” she adds, referring to my dog Shanti, a white husky mix, who moves to the driver’s seat and patiently scans the scene for my return with each stop.
On the way to the state land at Stoney Pond she whines. I’m exhausted, but she’s bored. While I’ve been working my bizarre schedule all day, home now only as dusk approaches, she’s been stretched out under evergreen trees, watching birds, barking at an early morning hot-air balloon flight, rested and ready to go.
The weather has turned cooler too. I love September—I used to always schedule my vacations somewhere in the middle of the month. I had little competition for the dates, and it’s a perfect time to backpack in the Adirondack High Peaks—not too hot (the cool weather an asset when climbing), few bugs, no summer crowds on the trails, lean-tos readily available, and only early bear hunting season to circumvent. But alas, since becoming a college professor in 1990, Septembers are spent frantically fielding all the fruckus administration and circumstances channel my way. Hence my fatigue. But the cool weather also energizes my dog even more than her light daily itinerary.
Further, a week or so back she somehow slightly injured her foot, limping for a few days. “Give her these antibiotics, three times a day,” the vet instructed. He knows my hectic schedule, and added, “If some days she only gets two, that’s fine. Just continue it for two weeks. Also, here’s some Rimadyl—twice a day.” My last dog, a shepherd mix, lived almost sixteen years, so I know Rimadyl well—a powerful non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory pain killer. I shook my head. Shanti already is a mountain of energy stuffed into 50 lbs. of fur. Now she’ll feel no pain.
We start our walk—it’s usually a run, but I can feel myself getting sick—pain in my chest, the first signs of the bronchitis that twice has taken me out for a week in the past few years. Emboldened by the lack of people relative to August, deer wander across the path, and Shanti takes off like a jet, slamming around in her harness when she abruptly reaches the end of her 26’ retractable leash. She looks at me, then spins around and tries it again. And again. And again. “Shanti!” I finally intervene, my lungs aching from the effort. Damn. I’m definitely getting sick. I later contemplate those leftover antibiotics—500 mg. Cephalex. Keflex, I know from my pharmacy tech days. Usually prescribed every six hours, but for 7-10 days. I can think of several reasons not to flirt with a short course. I eventually give in to temptation, spreading eight doses over three days, hoping my immune system and some rest can pick it up from there.
The deer now gone, Shanti turns to sticks. She’s not fond of “fetch,” but she love to jump for sticks. I hold them out at shoulder height, and she jumps two and a half times her height to grab them. She plays hard, and I remember to hold the stick lightly, or she’ll sharply wrench my wrist or elbow yet again. [Even other dogs don’t like to play with her, since she’s just too rough.] The stick game, though, eventually tires her, at least a bit.
We round the corner of the pond (a small lake, really) and find three kayaks full of loudly laughing, joking people. Shanti goes ballistic, lunging and lunging to run out and do just-what-exactly-I-can’t-even-begin-to-imagine. As much as I love these daily outings, I’m relived when we’re back at the car.
I haven’t been kayaking all summer—just too much work. I love doing it, and even take Shanti with me—she sits right in front, anxiously watching the geese, ducks and beavers. I did think about going, although transporting the kayak is now a challenge; I used to put my short kayak atop my Toyota Echo’s roof with some hard foam designed for the purpose and a complicated system to tie it with rope to the frame. My new Yaris, however, has an antenna right in the middle of the roof (by the hatchback). Perhaps I can get it in the back with the seats down. Wonder how far it would stick out. And where would Shanti sit?
Then again, there’s always my girl’s Taurus. And where she’ll sit. And whether it can handle two kayaks. And the irony of transportation for transportation.
I had my first kayak lesson twenty feet offshore at Stoney Pond, capsizing and swimming back to shore. I’m an excellent canoeist, capable of a speedy pace in any size canoe, capable of righting a canoe in the middle of a lake and getting back in (a skill I had to learn in Scouts). I accidentally impressed my coworkers years ago at a summer gathering when my shepherd mix took off after me when I borrowed a canoe. With motor boats racing about, she wasn’t safe in the water (she was an excellent swimmer—we used to swim long distances together), so I pulled a wet, 90 lb. dog into the canoe, keeping us level and above water. Kayaking was a little different.
Balance. Sit low and straight. Soon you can even race about the lake with a dog in your kayak with you. Balance. Something my work life and, apparently, health could use. Maybe I should kayak more often. Maybe I should spend more time under evergreens myself. Maybe Shanti should drive.
Writer
Thursday, July 12, 2007
An Education at the Bar
In my early twenties, the economy was in full stagflation, and finding a job—even after graduating cum laude, ink wet on my diploma—was simply not easy.
I walked into a mall restaurant, no experience, wearing a jacket and tie, bearing a resume, to seek a job as a waiter. The hostess brought me to Mike, one of the managers (and a very nice guy). “We don’t need any more waiters,” he told me, “but let me introduce you to the bar manager.” Yikes. I knew nothing about bartending.
Mark, the bar manager, was also a great guy, and invited me to sit down for a chat. I was up front about my lack of bartending experience. “Oh, that’s fine,” he explained. “We can teach you to mix drinks. People who present themselves professionally is another matter.” So I became a bartender—and got quite an education.
I quickly learned that most people ordered the same basic drinks, so moving up to serving customers directly happened almost immediately. Mark was cool—when someone ordered a drink, he just calmly rested his hands on the appropriate bottles, pretending his attention was elsewhere, tipping me off. I once asked about the cost of drinks—wouldn’t we earn more if the drinks weren’t so expensive? “That’s intentional,” Mark explained. “The cost keeps the kids away, and that’s how our clientele likes it.”
I learned a few other things too, like the day Mark cornered me and asked, “Those two girls—did you proof them?”
I looked at the two attractive young women I’d just served, aghast and confused. “No, I replied—they’re clearly over 18” (then the drinking age).
“Yeah,” he replied, “but don’t you want to know where they live?” Oh. Got it.
I’d been working since I was fourteen with my farm papers, but this was my first full-time job, and thankfully, all in all it was a good opportunity—in particular because I was treated so well. Yes, I contributed to this, taking my dad’s advice (for once) and showing up 15 minutes early, ready to work, and staying 15 minutes late, still working. But really much of the credit goes to the wisdom of the owners. I earned above minimum wage, even as an inexperienced worker in a slow economy. Every three months, I got a small raise.
Once, the owners had some sort of special celebration in the bar, and asked for the lead crystal wine goblets we kept on a very high shelf, a restaurant warming gift to the owners. I climbed to retrieve them—and dropped two of them, watching them shatter. I was dismayed, stunned, shocked, immobile. The principal owner did not look happy. But he said not a word about it, then or ever. Accidents happen.
Another night, the same owner and several friends were drinking far into the night. We had always been instructed to strictly follow the law, and two a.m. was legal closing time. They wanted another round. I had to tactfully (and nervously) inform the owner and his buddies that I was sorry, but we had passed last call, and they would have to drink up. I got no argument. I also got a big tip.
Conventional wisdom—and likely true—is that bartenders cheat their establishment out of untold dollars worth of liquor. Not here. And not only that—we worked as a team. The night guy working past 2 a.m. busted his butt making sure the morning guy was well stocked, including cut fruit, fresh towels, everything sparkling clean—and every one of us did this. We were proud of our bar. When we took breaks or changed shifts, we quietly filled each other in on the customers, so that when they wanted another round, they didn’t need to repeat their orders. This led to some fun incidents, too. One of our bartenders, a flashy guy named Tony, took over my shift just before two elderly ladies reordered. Tony walked over, gave each empty glass a casual sniff, nodded, and mixed new drinks, to their utter amazement—and my utter amusement (we pooled tips, so this was all to the good).
Another time, Tony playfully tossed a few tip coins over his shoulder into our tip can. Only by dumb luck, they went in. Tony played it cool, I pretended nothing was out of the ordinary, and the customers all stared with their jaws hanging wide.
I had my own luck once. One gentleman ordered vodka martini after vodka martini after vodka martini, until finally I really had to cut him off—not something that happened often in this establishment. I was as polite and tactfully as I knew to be, but he nicely thanked me for my concern and insisted. Now what? I took a chance—vodka is tasteless anyway, and he was already smashed, so I grabbed a rocks glass, stuffed it with ice, then filled it with water and plopped an olive in it. I figured he’d be too drunk to notice—but I certainly couldn’t charge him for it. I quickly moved to other customers, deliberately missing his eye, while he waited to pay, before finally going back to his seat, no doubt figuring he’d settle up later.
Several minutes later, the glass half empty, he walked back to the bar. “Excuse me,” he asked. “This is just water, isn’t it?” Nervously, I admitted it. “I like your style,” he said, shook my hand, gave me a large tip, and left the bar. Whew. It could have gone differently.
Aside from learning lots of interesting drink lore and lots of ways to mix multiple drinks quickly and well when business was brisk, I also learned some fun bar tricks—and invented a few. One of my favorite standards was the disappearing drink—you mix a drink directly in front of the customer, shake it up, and when you pour the drink into the glass from the shaker, it’s gone. Not a drop. [Like most tricks of its kind, the secret is mind-numbingly simple, but people love to overanalyze.]
We had some house specialty drinks, and I learned what naturally goes with what well enough to invent new drinks. My favorite, stunning even the talented bar manager, contained both citrus and cream—something that shouldn’t be possible, since the citrus would curdle the cream. Yet there it was. [One hint—like many fancy drinks, the order in which ingredients are mixed is crucial. In this case, it meant getting that citrus into a solution.]
I also learned a great deal about women—my Catholic upbringing and college education had left me rather sheltered. One night, for example, I was quite taken aback when, in response to watching a dancer rapidly move his hips from front to back on the bar television, the cocktail waitresses wondered if he could do that in bed. And talk about naïve—one of the cocktail waitresses, a heavily made-up, snotty Asian girl drove a very expensive car and always seemed on remarkably friendly terms with many of the wealthy older gentlemen customers. Took me months to put two and two together.
I learned a few other things too—liar’s poker, for example. This became a bit of a fad during slow periods at the bar, and I was bitten by the bug. On my break once, though, I ran into Mike (remember the nice manager?), and asked, “Hey, Mike—do you play liar’s poker?”
“Not when I’m working at the bar where gambling is illegal and could get me fired,” he answered, not unkindly. Oh. Point taken. So much for liar’s poker.
That was Mike--responsible, but always able to see things from the other side. One incredibly busy New Year's Eve, one of our kitchen prep/dishwasher people, another great guy, got stuck working by himself, then asked to stay for four hours overtime. As good hearted and cheerful as he was, at the end of a frantic twelve hours, the poor guy was exhausted. I just happended to be in the kitchen when Mike came in with two bottles of champaign and a bonus check for $100. "I know you're beat, and you've every right to go home," Mike said, "but I'm asking if you'll please stay." He stayed (and got the next few days off).
I also learned to appreciate sports on TV, something that had never really appealed to me before. In particular, I remember the Winter Olympics, when the U.S. hockey team battled to defeat the quite frankly better U.S.S.R. team. None of the ridiculous fights that have marred professional hockey, but sports as they should be. Sheer determination—will against will, skill against skill.
And perhaps a job as it should be. Certainly it was an education.
Writer
I walked into a mall restaurant, no experience, wearing a jacket and tie, bearing a resume, to seek a job as a waiter. The hostess brought me to Mike, one of the managers (and a very nice guy). “We don’t need any more waiters,” he told me, “but let me introduce you to the bar manager.” Yikes. I knew nothing about bartending.
Mark, the bar manager, was also a great guy, and invited me to sit down for a chat. I was up front about my lack of bartending experience. “Oh, that’s fine,” he explained. “We can teach you to mix drinks. People who present themselves professionally is another matter.” So I became a bartender—and got quite an education.
I quickly learned that most people ordered the same basic drinks, so moving up to serving customers directly happened almost immediately. Mark was cool—when someone ordered a drink, he just calmly rested his hands on the appropriate bottles, pretending his attention was elsewhere, tipping me off. I once asked about the cost of drinks—wouldn’t we earn more if the drinks weren’t so expensive? “That’s intentional,” Mark explained. “The cost keeps the kids away, and that’s how our clientele likes it.”
I learned a few other things too, like the day Mark cornered me and asked, “Those two girls—did you proof them?”
I looked at the two attractive young women I’d just served, aghast and confused. “No, I replied—they’re clearly over 18” (then the drinking age).
“Yeah,” he replied, “but don’t you want to know where they live?” Oh. Got it.
I’d been working since I was fourteen with my farm papers, but this was my first full-time job, and thankfully, all in all it was a good opportunity—in particular because I was treated so well. Yes, I contributed to this, taking my dad’s advice (for once) and showing up 15 minutes early, ready to work, and staying 15 minutes late, still working. But really much of the credit goes to the wisdom of the owners. I earned above minimum wage, even as an inexperienced worker in a slow economy. Every three months, I got a small raise.
Once, the owners had some sort of special celebration in the bar, and asked for the lead crystal wine goblets we kept on a very high shelf, a restaurant warming gift to the owners. I climbed to retrieve them—and dropped two of them, watching them shatter. I was dismayed, stunned, shocked, immobile. The principal owner did not look happy. But he said not a word about it, then or ever. Accidents happen.
Another night, the same owner and several friends were drinking far into the night. We had always been instructed to strictly follow the law, and two a.m. was legal closing time. They wanted another round. I had to tactfully (and nervously) inform the owner and his buddies that I was sorry, but we had passed last call, and they would have to drink up. I got no argument. I also got a big tip.
Conventional wisdom—and likely true—is that bartenders cheat their establishment out of untold dollars worth of liquor. Not here. And not only that—we worked as a team. The night guy working past 2 a.m. busted his butt making sure the morning guy was well stocked, including cut fruit, fresh towels, everything sparkling clean—and every one of us did this. We were proud of our bar. When we took breaks or changed shifts, we quietly filled each other in on the customers, so that when they wanted another round, they didn’t need to repeat their orders. This led to some fun incidents, too. One of our bartenders, a flashy guy named Tony, took over my shift just before two elderly ladies reordered. Tony walked over, gave each empty glass a casual sniff, nodded, and mixed new drinks, to their utter amazement—and my utter amusement (we pooled tips, so this was all to the good).
Another time, Tony playfully tossed a few tip coins over his shoulder into our tip can. Only by dumb luck, they went in. Tony played it cool, I pretended nothing was out of the ordinary, and the customers all stared with their jaws hanging wide.
I had my own luck once. One gentleman ordered vodka martini after vodka martini after vodka martini, until finally I really had to cut him off—not something that happened often in this establishment. I was as polite and tactfully as I knew to be, but he nicely thanked me for my concern and insisted. Now what? I took a chance—vodka is tasteless anyway, and he was already smashed, so I grabbed a rocks glass, stuffed it with ice, then filled it with water and plopped an olive in it. I figured he’d be too drunk to notice—but I certainly couldn’t charge him for it. I quickly moved to other customers, deliberately missing his eye, while he waited to pay, before finally going back to his seat, no doubt figuring he’d settle up later.
Several minutes later, the glass half empty, he walked back to the bar. “Excuse me,” he asked. “This is just water, isn’t it?” Nervously, I admitted it. “I like your style,” he said, shook my hand, gave me a large tip, and left the bar. Whew. It could have gone differently.
Aside from learning lots of interesting drink lore and lots of ways to mix multiple drinks quickly and well when business was brisk, I also learned some fun bar tricks—and invented a few. One of my favorite standards was the disappearing drink—you mix a drink directly in front of the customer, shake it up, and when you pour the drink into the glass from the shaker, it’s gone. Not a drop. [Like most tricks of its kind, the secret is mind-numbingly simple, but people love to overanalyze.]
We had some house specialty drinks, and I learned what naturally goes with what well enough to invent new drinks. My favorite, stunning even the talented bar manager, contained both citrus and cream—something that shouldn’t be possible, since the citrus would curdle the cream. Yet there it was. [One hint—like many fancy drinks, the order in which ingredients are mixed is crucial. In this case, it meant getting that citrus into a solution.]
I also learned a great deal about women—my Catholic upbringing and college education had left me rather sheltered. One night, for example, I was quite taken aback when, in response to watching a dancer rapidly move his hips from front to back on the bar television, the cocktail waitresses wondered if he could do that in bed. And talk about naïve—one of the cocktail waitresses, a heavily made-up, snotty Asian girl drove a very expensive car and always seemed on remarkably friendly terms with many of the wealthy older gentlemen customers. Took me months to put two and two together.
I learned a few other things too—liar’s poker, for example. This became a bit of a fad during slow periods at the bar, and I was bitten by the bug. On my break once, though, I ran into Mike (remember the nice manager?), and asked, “Hey, Mike—do you play liar’s poker?”
“Not when I’m working at the bar where gambling is illegal and could get me fired,” he answered, not unkindly. Oh. Point taken. So much for liar’s poker.
That was Mike--responsible, but always able to see things from the other side. One incredibly busy New Year's Eve, one of our kitchen prep/dishwasher people, another great guy, got stuck working by himself, then asked to stay for four hours overtime. As good hearted and cheerful as he was, at the end of a frantic twelve hours, the poor guy was exhausted. I just happended to be in the kitchen when Mike came in with two bottles of champaign and a bonus check for $100. "I know you're beat, and you've every right to go home," Mike said, "but I'm asking if you'll please stay." He stayed (and got the next few days off).
I also learned to appreciate sports on TV, something that had never really appealed to me before. In particular, I remember the Winter Olympics, when the U.S. hockey team battled to defeat the quite frankly better U.S.S.R. team. None of the ridiculous fights that have marred professional hockey, but sports as they should be. Sheer determination—will against will, skill against skill.
And perhaps a job as it should be. Certainly it was an education.
Writer
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Why I Hate Sports
I didn’t have an older brother, and my dad was working while going to night school, so I never really learned how to play catch or whatever else young boys supposedly learn about sports. Consequently, when I entered school, my male classmates did the only thing sensible to another child—they ridiculed me, making sure I’d be alienated.
Gym class was worse. First, I had to change in front of other boys, then spend an hour wearing shorts. They made fun of my knees (nothing wrong with them, but I didn’t know that). The “class” consisted of little more than playing Dodge Ball, or, more properly named, Slam Anyone You Can as Hard as You Can, and the more timid the target, the better. Gee—I didn’t prosper (someone should adjust the rules to allow points for the force of the tag). Sometimes we had to climb ropes—no instruction, just a drill sergeant gym teacher screaming while students helplessly swing. Other times, we practiced on spring boards or on the horse—the purpose still escapes me.
In fifth grade, when my dad was transferred, I got to enjoy going to a new school where no one knew me. What fun. Talk about bully target! I was regularly attacked on the mile long walk home by either Claus or Robelard. I spent a lot of time on my back while someone sat on me. Even my friend Mike seemed to enjoy this pastime. I didn’t. I DID learn a lot about squirming, but I wanted as much distance from these tormentors as possible.
Looking for something more fun, I pestered my parents for a bike. Our old home had been far out in the country on a highway, but now we lived in a suburb! My parents relented—although my mother wouldn’t let my sisters or me ride in the street until we could prove we had enough control to ride around the yard without wavering handlebars. What a fascist.
I rode everywhere—for hours and hours. I rode to Mike’s house. I rode to explore the surrounding countryside. I rode across town to the village library—I loved to read. A few years later, after pestering my parents again for private music lessons (which I later learned were secretly subsidized by my grandmother), I rode to the next town for music lessons. When my Boy Scout troop proposed a 50 mile bicycle trip, my fellow scout Terry and I practiced by taking several such trips (or at least as close to them as our understanding of the maps allowed).
My parents loved to camp. Every vacation, and several weekends, we headed for forest campgrounds, where I learned to climb trees—sometimes climbing 60-80 feet (I fell once, hitting several branches on the way down—getting the wind knocked out of you is wicked awesome scary, especially when you don’t understand what’s happening). “Why don’t you shinny up the trees?” asked the fascist, noticing my choice of trees with low hanging limbs. Well! I wasn’t going to let HER win! I practiced and practiced on my many long walks on forest trails, and in time, I could climb any tree strong enough to support my weight—and quickly, too. Take that, Mom!
I took another look at that gym rope. It DID look like fun, just not with the drill sergeant “helping.” I snuck into the gym from time to time to practice—no spotter. Before long, I could reach the top! The next time we did this in class, my gym teacher just looked at me in disbelief. [OK, I misplaced the fascist label.]
Sixth grade featured the class going outside from time to time to play softball. I, of course, was always chosen last, and stuck far in the outfield, I was mainly bored. One day, a batter hit a foul far to the right of first base. Well, someone had to retrieve the ball, so I headed over and caught it. My team mates went wild, rushed over, and carried me back to school—I had just, unwittingly, won us the game. A few months later, when Robelard was terrorizing me over recess, suddenly he was pulled off me—a dozen of my classmates, who had watched this all year, decided enough was enough, sharing their insights with Robelard. The bullying stopped.
In Junior High School (another new school), I briefly flirted with joining the wrestling team. One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Neufang, was the coach, our school excelled in wrestling, I liked what little I had learned about it in Gym, and I also learned something about the sport—when a new bully targeted me, the new kid who couldn’t throw an effective punch, I rushed in close and pinned the stunned attacker to the ground. A nice change—but ill fated. The school nurse/doctor had to approve us before we could join a sports term, and thus, they discovered I had a heart murmur. Before I could continue, I would need to see my own doctor and get written permission. Scared the hell out of me.
My family doctor, a wonderful man who let kids feed lollypops to his very fat dog, was not concerned. My heart murmur was congenital, not a news bulletin—and, as he explained, could very well heal (it did). “You’re not going to have a career in professional football,” he jokingly explained, “Or run up mountains” (he was wrong about that one), “But you’re fine, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t join the wrestling team.” Weeks had passed, however, and I was frustrated. “I’ve decided not to make the commitment,” I explained to him as I quit the team. “OK,” he accepted, “But you do know that you’ll have to make a commitment to whatever you decide to pursue?”
I nodded. I don’t know if he believed me, but I did understand (hey, how many people remember the name of their seventh grade teacher?). Another favorite teacher in eighth grade, Mr. Wiltze, coached the track team, and I considered it, but I had just had enough.
I still rode my bike everywhere. I rode to the next town just to have an awkward conversation with Lisa, who I thought of as my girlfriend. I met the Woodruff twins on my travels, two very gregarious boys who welcomed me into their almost non-stop basketball game—and given their popularity, other participants just learned to live with my poor skills.
High School changed things. I decided I wanted to be a professional musician, I needed lessons from professional symphony musicians, and my parents (thanks, Grandma!) eventually acquiesced. “I’d like to do this piece for NYSSMA (a state music competition),” I told my teacher, indicating the Mozart flute concerto in D. “Well, to do that,” my teacher explained, trying to discourage the choice, “you’ll need to practice 3-4 hours a day.” I missed the discouragement. I had chosen my commitment, and much to the amazement of teacher and parents alike, I practiced 3-4 hours a day.
This is not a light thing. The strain on fingers alone is extreme (when I move a finger even slightly, you can see the tendons ripple up my arm). The breath control involved in mastering wind instruments (I added bassoon to hedge my bets) at a professional level is extreme—I got up at 5 a.m. each day to run five miles before breakfast (the average person at rest breathes 12-16 times a minute—I breathe 2-3 times). I didn’t have time for sports—although a musician girl friend got me into tennis and ice skating.
I continued with Boy Scouts, enjoying the down time, just having fun. I learned to swim quite well, started mile long swims, and took lifesaving lessons from an instructor who would practically drown any student giving her the slightest opening (I’m not exaggerating). I learned to canoe quite well, including how to right a capsized canoe in the middle of a lake while fully clothed. (This proved fun when, at a camp party as an adult, I took off like a rocket in a canoe across the lake. My shepherd mix, concerned she might be left behind, took off after me. As motor boats were racing about the lake, this was dangerous, so I pulled my 90 lb. dog into the canoe without capsizing it. People were impressed. I was drenched.)
College offered me my only fun taste of sports. My housemates organized a weekly baseball game, and I tagged along. Much to my surprise, though, I wasn’t stuck in the outfield, and I wasn’t buried in the lineup. My teammates took a close look at available skills. “OK, he can’t hit far—but he always gets a hit,” they noticed, so they had me bat first. First! That’s because they also noticed I could run. So, I hit the ball, the infield jogged over for an easy out, turned to throw—and found I was already comfortably settled on first base, unpacking, ordering room service. They shook their heads. From there, they had to constantly watch me, the lead runner, as our stronger hitters batted me in. We scored a lot of runs.
The field was equally fun, for once. I wasn’t stuck in the outfield—I could catch, but I still threw like a girl, so unless I caught the hit, I wasn’t much use. Well—where do you put a guy who can’t throw but can always catch (as long as you didn’t Dodge Ball me)? I became our First Baseman. We won a lot of games.
That, though, was the last of my interest in sports. Today, I just have little time. When I can free a day or two, I go hiking in the mountains. Every day, depending on the weather, to exercise my dog and to keep in shape, I either run or cross-country ski for an hour or two along forest trails with my dog. Sometimes I’ll take off for a day in my kayak. But I just don’t have time for sports.
Writer
Gym class was worse. First, I had to change in front of other boys, then spend an hour wearing shorts. They made fun of my knees (nothing wrong with them, but I didn’t know that). The “class” consisted of little more than playing Dodge Ball, or, more properly named, Slam Anyone You Can as Hard as You Can, and the more timid the target, the better. Gee—I didn’t prosper (someone should adjust the rules to allow points for the force of the tag). Sometimes we had to climb ropes—no instruction, just a drill sergeant gym teacher screaming while students helplessly swing. Other times, we practiced on spring boards or on the horse—the purpose still escapes me.
In fifth grade, when my dad was transferred, I got to enjoy going to a new school where no one knew me. What fun. Talk about bully target! I was regularly attacked on the mile long walk home by either Claus or Robelard. I spent a lot of time on my back while someone sat on me. Even my friend Mike seemed to enjoy this pastime. I didn’t. I DID learn a lot about squirming, but I wanted as much distance from these tormentors as possible.
Looking for something more fun, I pestered my parents for a bike. Our old home had been far out in the country on a highway, but now we lived in a suburb! My parents relented—although my mother wouldn’t let my sisters or me ride in the street until we could prove we had enough control to ride around the yard without wavering handlebars. What a fascist.
I rode everywhere—for hours and hours. I rode to Mike’s house. I rode to explore the surrounding countryside. I rode across town to the village library—I loved to read. A few years later, after pestering my parents again for private music lessons (which I later learned were secretly subsidized by my grandmother), I rode to the next town for music lessons. When my Boy Scout troop proposed a 50 mile bicycle trip, my fellow scout Terry and I practiced by taking several such trips (or at least as close to them as our understanding of the maps allowed).
My parents loved to camp. Every vacation, and several weekends, we headed for forest campgrounds, where I learned to climb trees—sometimes climbing 60-80 feet (I fell once, hitting several branches on the way down—getting the wind knocked out of you is wicked awesome scary, especially when you don’t understand what’s happening). “Why don’t you shinny up the trees?” asked the fascist, noticing my choice of trees with low hanging limbs. Well! I wasn’t going to let HER win! I practiced and practiced on my many long walks on forest trails, and in time, I could climb any tree strong enough to support my weight—and quickly, too. Take that, Mom!
I took another look at that gym rope. It DID look like fun, just not with the drill sergeant “helping.” I snuck into the gym from time to time to practice—no spotter. Before long, I could reach the top! The next time we did this in class, my gym teacher just looked at me in disbelief. [OK, I misplaced the fascist label.]
Sixth grade featured the class going outside from time to time to play softball. I, of course, was always chosen last, and stuck far in the outfield, I was mainly bored. One day, a batter hit a foul far to the right of first base. Well, someone had to retrieve the ball, so I headed over and caught it. My team mates went wild, rushed over, and carried me back to school—I had just, unwittingly, won us the game. A few months later, when Robelard was terrorizing me over recess, suddenly he was pulled off me—a dozen of my classmates, who had watched this all year, decided enough was enough, sharing their insights with Robelard. The bullying stopped.
In Junior High School (another new school), I briefly flirted with joining the wrestling team. One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Neufang, was the coach, our school excelled in wrestling, I liked what little I had learned about it in Gym, and I also learned something about the sport—when a new bully targeted me, the new kid who couldn’t throw an effective punch, I rushed in close and pinned the stunned attacker to the ground. A nice change—but ill fated. The school nurse/doctor had to approve us before we could join a sports term, and thus, they discovered I had a heart murmur. Before I could continue, I would need to see my own doctor and get written permission. Scared the hell out of me.
My family doctor, a wonderful man who let kids feed lollypops to his very fat dog, was not concerned. My heart murmur was congenital, not a news bulletin—and, as he explained, could very well heal (it did). “You’re not going to have a career in professional football,” he jokingly explained, “Or run up mountains” (he was wrong about that one), “But you’re fine, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t join the wrestling team.” Weeks had passed, however, and I was frustrated. “I’ve decided not to make the commitment,” I explained to him as I quit the team. “OK,” he accepted, “But you do know that you’ll have to make a commitment to whatever you decide to pursue?”
I nodded. I don’t know if he believed me, but I did understand (hey, how many people remember the name of their seventh grade teacher?). Another favorite teacher in eighth grade, Mr. Wiltze, coached the track team, and I considered it, but I had just had enough.
I still rode my bike everywhere. I rode to the next town just to have an awkward conversation with Lisa, who I thought of as my girlfriend. I met the Woodruff twins on my travels, two very gregarious boys who welcomed me into their almost non-stop basketball game—and given their popularity, other participants just learned to live with my poor skills.
High School changed things. I decided I wanted to be a professional musician, I needed lessons from professional symphony musicians, and my parents (thanks, Grandma!) eventually acquiesced. “I’d like to do this piece for NYSSMA (a state music competition),” I told my teacher, indicating the Mozart flute concerto in D. “Well, to do that,” my teacher explained, trying to discourage the choice, “you’ll need to practice 3-4 hours a day.” I missed the discouragement. I had chosen my commitment, and much to the amazement of teacher and parents alike, I practiced 3-4 hours a day.
This is not a light thing. The strain on fingers alone is extreme (when I move a finger even slightly, you can see the tendons ripple up my arm). The breath control involved in mastering wind instruments (I added bassoon to hedge my bets) at a professional level is extreme—I got up at 5 a.m. each day to run five miles before breakfast (the average person at rest breathes 12-16 times a minute—I breathe 2-3 times). I didn’t have time for sports—although a musician girl friend got me into tennis and ice skating.
I continued with Boy Scouts, enjoying the down time, just having fun. I learned to swim quite well, started mile long swims, and took lifesaving lessons from an instructor who would practically drown any student giving her the slightest opening (I’m not exaggerating). I learned to canoe quite well, including how to right a capsized canoe in the middle of a lake while fully clothed. (This proved fun when, at a camp party as an adult, I took off like a rocket in a canoe across the lake. My shepherd mix, concerned she might be left behind, took off after me. As motor boats were racing about the lake, this was dangerous, so I pulled my 90 lb. dog into the canoe without capsizing it. People were impressed. I was drenched.)
College offered me my only fun taste of sports. My housemates organized a weekly baseball game, and I tagged along. Much to my surprise, though, I wasn’t stuck in the outfield, and I wasn’t buried in the lineup. My teammates took a close look at available skills. “OK, he can’t hit far—but he always gets a hit,” they noticed, so they had me bat first. First! That’s because they also noticed I could run. So, I hit the ball, the infield jogged over for an easy out, turned to throw—and found I was already comfortably settled on first base, unpacking, ordering room service. They shook their heads. From there, they had to constantly watch me, the lead runner, as our stronger hitters batted me in. We scored a lot of runs.
The field was equally fun, for once. I wasn’t stuck in the outfield—I could catch, but I still threw like a girl, so unless I caught the hit, I wasn’t much use. Well—where do you put a guy who can’t throw but can always catch (as long as you didn’t Dodge Ball me)? I became our First Baseman. We won a lot of games.
That, though, was the last of my interest in sports. Today, I just have little time. When I can free a day or two, I go hiking in the mountains. Every day, depending on the weather, to exercise my dog and to keep in shape, I either run or cross-country ski for an hour or two along forest trails with my dog. Sometimes I’ll take off for a day in my kayak. But I just don’t have time for sports.
Writer
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