Who's on First?

I'd be the first to admit that I sometimes take sports just a little too seriously. When the Cubs were a couple of outs away from getting into the World Series and blew it (I know it wasn't your fault, Mr. Bartman); when the Bears failed to beat the Colts (and that no-talent Peyton Manning) for their second Super Bowl; when the Europeans stole the Ryder Cup from us at Medinah, I let those crushing defeats get to me in a way that was only marginally less than how it must have affected the actual participants. I know it's only a game. But it's a game I often get way too emotionally invested in.

Take last Monday.

After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?

I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.

Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.

Giving Up the Game?

I’ve written often about my love of sports; how watching talented athletes pushing themselves to achieve life-long goals inspires me. Today, I’m writing about the flip side – when talented athletes falter and rip your heart out in the process.

The other day I wrote about my perfect day walking around the grounds of Medinah Country Club with my family, enjoying the scenery as well as the atmosphere of the first Ryder Cup to be held in the area. By the time Saturday night rolled around, the American team had taken a huge lead in the event and it looked as if we had finally beaten the Europeans at their own game. If you’ve been away from your TV or can’t be bothered with this stuff, you might not know that we left that beautiful venue empty-handed. And now my club, (okay, I don’t belong but thanks to my dad I do get to play there on a regular basis), will always be known as the site of one of the biggest disasters in American golf – and that stinks.

I can’t tell you how much I hate myself for taking this stuff so seriously. I can’t believe I woke up twice during the night and the first thing I thought of (no, it wasn’t that I had to use the bathroom) was that stupid golf tournament. My poor dad, who’s been working at Medinah for twenty-three years, said he did the same thing; certain that he was just waking up from a bad dream. But that’s the thing about sports. You invest your time, your energy and your spirit rooting for your team and, if you let it, a crushing defeat will devastate you almost as much as it devastates your team.

You don’t have to remind me that it’s just a game. I’ve been telling myself that all day. I know no one died; everyone will live to fight another day. But we were so close; so close and now we have to wait two years to have another chance.

So now it’s up to the Bears. C’mon guys, I’m counting on you. Don’t ruin my Tuesday.

Cheerio, London

For as long as I can remember, I've looked forward to the Olympics. Every four years, I couldn't wait to get wrapped up in the patriotic salute to athletic excellence. It was a chance to see hard-working, dedicated, impossibly gifted athletes pursue their dreams and I devoured every moment of competition that I could. I knew I would never be able to skate like Janet Lynn (my favorite way before Michele Kwan) or prance around on the balance beam like Nadia Comaneci but I lived vicariously through every routine; held my breath through every dangerous move. And I loved it.

Then, the Olympics changed. Amateur athletics was infiltrated by a parade of professionals. I know I'm not alone in thinking that the day they allowed the Dream Team on the floor was the day the Olympics lost a lot of its appeal. Watching NBA players beat Croatia by fifty points doesn't interest me in the least. And if I want to see Roger Federer square off against Andy Murray, I can wait for the next Grand Slam. All these professionals, with plenty of hardware in their cabinets and money in the bank, provided a few thrills but The Olympics, as I knew and loved them, were over.

I know I'm living in a fantasy land hoping the current configuration will change. I know sports are big business and The Olympics will never go back to the original celebration of amateur athletics. That's why I so appreciate a moment like the one that happened Saturday night when three platform divers, one from America, one from China and one from Great Britain were separated by .15 going into the final dive. One dive, one chance would determine the gold medal; a lifetime of practice would come down to this one moment in a pool in London.

No one flinched; each of the young men standing on the top of that platform performed the dive of his life. And as I watched our guy come out on top, I finally broke into the tears that had eluded me for two weeks. The underdog, digging deep under unbelievable pressure in the most important moment of his life, had triumphed.

And that's how I remember the Olympics.

Digging In

I've written a few times in this blog about my love for sports; how watching athletes dig down and find hidden reserves when their backs are against the wall inspires me over and over again. Yesterday, I had another opportunity to observe a sporting event that brought out the very best in two impossibly rich young men who, by the end of their meeting, looked as if they would rather crumble to the ground in exhaustion than relinquish their goal of taking home that trophy.

Modern day tennis matches are the equivalent of civilized boxing matches. Two warriors stand on opposite sides of the net, slugging it out until one of them can claim victory. Grand Slam finals are the ultimate goal, the end game that all the pros aspire to but usually the matches leading into the final are more exciting, more in doubt than anything that transpires in the final. Not this time. This time the Australian Open Men's Final produced an amazing display of physical endurance, consummate skill and sportsmanship. For 5 hours and 53 minutes, two athletes at the peak of their powers showed their fans what never giving up looks like. Through multiple momentum shifts and shots that missed their mark by centimeters, both men behaved as true champions and, at the end, there wasn't anyone in that stadium who wouldn't have wanted to take a chainsaw to that trophy to split it in two.

Right now, my daughter is going through one of the most difficult challenges of her life. She is trying to dig down and find her hidden reserves to defeat an opponent that is every bit as inexhaustible and unrelenting as those two men facing each other across the net. Like a world class athlete, she is using every resource at her disposal to give herself the tools she needs to triumph. The last step is searching her soul and finding the belief that she can be victorious.

No one will be cheering louder when she finally claims her trophy.

Rooting for the Underdogs

My kids will tell you that I'm a sap about sports. I love watching people rise to new heights to accomplish a goal that they've set for themselves. I love seeing people realize a dream. It's great when it happens to anyone but it's phenomenal when it happens to an underdog who comes out of nowhere to beat the best of the best. Whether it's an unheralded eighteen year-old skater who has spent years practicing triple salchows having the performance of her life in the Olympics or a sixty year-old golfer trying to beat the young lions who weren't even born when he won his last major, I'm riveted to the TV, cheering them on. I'm a complete sucker for the triumph-over-adversity-never-give-up sagas played out so often in sports. Today, I spent far too much time in front of the television (c'mon, it was 100 degrees outside) captivated by two such events.

The British Open, usually won by highly ranked golfers like Tiger Woods, was won by an overweight, forty-two year-old Irishman ranked 111th in the world. He had tried nineteen times before and suffered through the breast cancer death of his wife before having his moment of triumph. He didn't win because the younger, stronger contenders blew it (although they did misstep enough to make it easier in the end), he won it because he hung in there and did what he needed to do under the pressure of trying to achieve what he called "a lifelong dream". By the trophy presentation, I was crying as much as his own mother.

Next, I watched, (as I threw in a load of laundry, I don't want you to think I'm a total slug) a never-say-die Japanese soccer team beat the mighty Americans in a World Cup final that went to overtime and ended in a three to one victory in penalty kicks. While I started off rooting for team USA, it was impossible not to be happy for the victors. Their country has been through so much, their triumph is sure to bring temporary relief for millions of people anxious to celebrate anything, even something as ultimately meaningless as a sporting event.

Yes, I should have been doing something constructive with all those hours I spent observing someone else's achievements. Yes, I could have been cleaning out a closet or editing that book that refuses to edit itself. Instead, I got inspiration from being reminded that with a little hard work, some luck and perseverance, great things can happen. To anyone.

There are worse ways to spend a (did I mention it was hot?) Sunday afternoon.

It's Only a Game

It's taken me a couple of days to bring myself to talk about it. As anyone who reads this blog regularly knows, I'm a bit of a sports nut. Okay, more than a bit. Instead of January, February, March, etc., my calendar reads football, Australian Open, hockey, The Masters, Wimbledon; well, you get the picture. I support all the Chicago teams but I am an especially rabid Bears fan. Unfortunately.

Sunday was a sad, sad day for Bears fans. Hoping against hope that this unbelievably lucky streak that they've been on all season would hold until they made it to the Super Bowl, I invited my entire family to share in the glorious victory over the hated Packers. We didn't get the victory. We didn't even get any points on the board until the second half. What we did get was an exciting (although totally predictable) ending. We also got acquainted with our third string quarterback. Seems like a nice guy, which is more than I can say for our first stringer.

The day wasn't a total loss. My family brought tons of food and lots of alcoholic beverages. There was even a giant chocolate cake to drown my sorrows in. They're a fun group; they refuse to let anyone wallow. If I have to have my dreams crushed, these are the people I want to have talking me off the ledge. As they pulled out of the driveway, I thought about how much worse it could be.

I could be dreaming about the Cubs winning the World Series.

Ready for a New Team

I've decided that being a Bears fan is a lot like that Disney ride, Tower of Terror. You ride up slowly, trying not to think about what's going to happen next. You can lull yourself into thinking that you're on a fun, little ride when, all of a sudden, the bottom falls out and you want to barf your brains out. Since I do my best to avoid those stomach churning rides whenever possible, I think it's time for me to pledge allegiance to a football team that won't simulate the feeling every freaking week.

I don't think it's going to be easy. I've been a die-hard Bears fan for forty years. But enough's enough. I've wasted too many Sundays hanging on the hope that this team would get better. And, just my luck, the only time they actually did win the Super Bowl, I was living on another continent. Oh, sure, they got back to the big dance a few years ago. Cruelly, they returned the opening kickoff for a touchdown before stomping on our hearts yet again.

Still, I remained loyal. Like most of us in Chicago, I drank the Kool-Aid when Jay Cutler was signed as the franchise quarterback who would lead us to the promised land. But now that his favorite receivers are wearing the other team's jerseys, I find myself thinking about the Rex Grossman era as the good old days.

I do have something to look forward to. There is no Bears game next Sunday. It's their bye week. That should give me plenty of time to survey the other 31 teams before picking a worthy successor. I find it ironic, however, that the Bears aren't playing. After all, it is Halloween.