Hot, Cold and thinking about the Falcons!

Life is grand, here in the Land of

Cotton; temps are high and the

Falcons are soaring!

PHOTO / Nor Grebnief

Apparently someone forgot to tell Mother Nature that it’s winter. Here we are in the middle of January and the temperature is hovering around the century mark!

Okay, not really; it just feels that warm! If my high-tech inside/outside thermometer has it right – and that’s not a given – it’s in the low 70s here in the Land of Cotton.

I’ve been staying cool and calm most of the morning, dashing about in gym shorts and a tee-shirt. Another few days of these unseasonably warm temps and my azaleas will start budding and the weeds in the lawn will start stretching out their tendrils! Can you say yard work – sheesh!

What’s particularly bothersome is the vibe is all wrong for the Falcons – I’m referencing football here, not the feathered, winged, bipedal, endothermic, egg-laying, vertebrate animal. The, um, birds will be taking the field tomorrow to face off against the Seahawks – yes, another football reference.

I imagine the feathers will be flying, in one fashion or another, and today’s warm temps will grow even warmer inside the Georgia Dome.

And just to carry all this weather talk to its logical conclusion, I’m thinking it will be a cold day in hell before the Falcons actually make it to the Super Bowl!

Runners and swimmers and soccer – oh my!

 

Every four years I can get excited about beach volleyball, badminton, weight lifting and swimming. Heck, I can even stand up and cheer for the world-class athletes taking part in synchronized swimming, gymnastics, boxing, wrestling, archery and the dozens of track and field events that define speed, endurance and skill!

All I need do to have a really grand time is push aside the politics, egos and nationalism that hover at the heart of the Olympics and focus on the athletes and their hopes, dreams and mighty efforts to win a gold medal. When it all comes together, there aren’t many other sporting events that capture the drama, excitement and sheer spectacle offered up by this quadrennial event.

I spent the last week or so lost in the whirling and swirling efforts of our women gymnasts and synchronized divers; dashing about with our sprinters and long-distance runners; holding my breath with the U.S. swimmers. There was much that was golden, nicely blended with silver, bronze and a sprinkling of tears.

I also journeyed along with Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh Jennings as they battled their way through the sand at the House Guards Parade, site of the beach volleyball competition. They dominated the field of world-class competitors, losing only one game (not a match, but a game) before facing the other U.S. team in the gold-medal finals of the event. Did I mention they were all wearing bikinis?

The U.S. - China match leading up to the finals was as dramatic and exciting as any sporting event I’ve ever witnessed. Four competitors, one ball, a few thousands screaming fans surrounding the court and a few million others watching the action on the tube! I did mention the bikini thing, right?

It was all captured on video tape by NBC and offered up in prime time across the U.S., hours after the actual game. NBC has paid a gazillion bucks for the rights to televise the Olympics and it’s their call on how best to handle the logistics. Unfortunately, unless you’re free to spend hours in front of a TV, or hours more surfing the web, what you’ll end up with each evening is a highlights reel of events!

The world these days moves along at warp speed, but all that high-tech power hasn’t yet dramatically changed the way we watch the Olympics. Go figure! Meanwhile, I’ve got a seat reserved in my den for the men’s marathon on Sunday, followed by the closing ceremony.  In honor of our beach volleyball champs, the lovely Miss Wendy and I will be wearing bikinis!

What it means to reach for gold at the Olympics

Blogger’s note: I came across this essay I wrote for that place with the printing press where I was working when the Olympics played out in the Land of Cotton 16 years ago. I’m thinking what I had to say then remains true today.

Winners and losers. It’s at the heart of the Olympics, the stuff of Olympian dreams and nightmares.
We remember the glow of gold medal winners, arms extended in victory. But just as compelling, just as memorable are the tears of those who valiantly tried, but came up short.

For those who prevail, dreams of a lifetime become reality. Cheers. Headlines. Fame. A golden medal.

But for every winner in the Olympics there are legions of losers, those who have fallen short of their goal.

“There’s evidence people remember, and it can ruin lives,” said Dr. Roy Baumesiter, a psychologist at Case Western Reserve University who specializes in the study of guilt. He noted that Albel Kiviat, who won the silver medal in Stockholm in 1912, was still regretting when he was 91 that he’d come in second, not first.

“I wake up sometimes and say, ‘What the heck happened to me?’ It’s like a nightmare.’’

Dr. Tom Gilovich, a Cornell University psychologist who did a study last year of Olympic athletes in the ’92 Games, found that those who finished second felt worse than men and women who finished third, or lower.

‘’Whatever joy the silver medalist may feel is often tempered by tortuous thoughts of what might have been had she only lengthened her stride, adjusted her breathing, pointed her toes and so on,’’ Gilovich said.

For the also-rans the cheers are hushed, the headlines bitter, fame elusive. For them there’s no golden medal to caress, to help remember a day, a moment, an instant when glory was there for the taking.

And yet … isn’t there also glory in the effort? Isn’t there fame for being one of the best in the world, an Olympian among Olympians?

Won’t the tears of defeat slowly give way to pride, knowing that there was a day, an hour, a moment when the world stood still … and waited?

The Olympic Games represent the noblest characteristics of mankind; but, sadly, also the worst. At the Centennial Games of Atlanta, marred by unspeakable tragedy, the good has nudged out the bad in a photo-finish.

And what of the winners and losers? For most of us, they remain the stuff of dreams, a lovely blend of Olympian beauty, grace and joy.

Fall, football and the Land of Cotton

Watched ULC – that would be the University of the Land of Cotton – lose yet again over the weekend after playing a good, close game for three quarters or so. It’s been a tough season and the only chance for redemption is for ULC to put a whuppin’ on LCT – that would be, um, Land of Cotton Tech – its longtime rival.

Area residents and football fanatics know what I’m talking about when I reference this final game of the regular season. If you happen to live elsewhere – especially those of you outside the U.S. – all you need know is that American-style football is a spiritual experience for many, a religion that demands not only your heart, but also your soul!

Truth to tell, I’m the fairest of fair-weather fans. If LCT wins, I cheer and go about my business. If they lose, I shrug my shoulders and take off my red and black sweatshirt.

The only reason I bring all of this up now is because this weekend’s game ended badly – and I’m not talking wins and losses. Players on both sides let their emotions take charge in the final moments – the winners pounding their chests in an ugly sort of way and the losers lashing out in anger. Character, that word broadcast commentators toss about with ease, seemed lost in the shuffle.

There was lots of pushing and shoving, a few punches thrown and two players tossed from the game. Factor in all the pre-game hoopla surrounding the opposition’s quarterback that involves a series of possible infractions – cheating while a student at another university and several possible recruitment violations – and all of a sudden there’s a shaky vibe underneath the excitement and passion of college athletics – again!

There’s no denying that fall in the Land of Cotton, when the weather chills and the landscape miraculously turns from lush green to golden orange, is a splendid season. Football is a cultural icon that is inextricably linked to the region, but for me there has often been a disconnect between the thrill of sport and the mission of a university.

Once, decades ago, back when life was a bit slower and priorities were hugely different, student athletes were, um, students first and athletes when they found the time. All of that has changed and universities rise and fall based on BCS placement now – if the acronym means nothing to you, don’t worry, it’s a football thing.

It just seems weird that a bunch of kids, tossing around a ball, is the only link most of us have with our colleges and universities. Millions of dollars are spent each year on football programs across the land and millions of dollars are brought in by these programs.

Somewhere in the distant past, there might have been a moment when sports programs could have been pulled away from our schools and some sort of club system created. Instead of cheering for ULC and other such university-sponsored teams, we could all be pulling for teams that represent our cities.

Oh, wait, that already exists. I think it’s called professional ball and nobody would want to mess around with the pros and their feeder system. Meanwhile, I’ll be in front of the tube a week from Saturday. And at least for awhile, I’ll be wearing red and black!

AH, THIS IS THE PROBLEM: The Three Stooges (photo above) aren’t really part of our state university team. It just seems like they’re playing in the backfield this year.

There's been a change in the weather

I dashed out to move the garbage can from my driveway yesterday and after only an instant realized something had changed. The humidity here in the Land of Cotton had dropped from hellish to heavenly and the temperature was no longer on bake.

Some cosmic hand had dialed back the celestial burner for the moment and there actually seemed to be a vague hint of fall in the air. So I ignored my trashcan and kept on walking, down the block, around the corner and alongside a lake that can be found at the back of my subdivision.

Poets often play around with the seasons when musing about aging and death and fall is that period when we are in decline – the green leaves of youth first turning lavishly red and golden before wilting away in the early days of winter.

Phooey. I love autumn. The chill of the season is invigorating, the perfect remedy for the torpor brought on by the heat and humidity of summer. People actually become willing to leave the sanctuary of their air conditioned homes and, well, do stuff.

There are fall festivals, fall fairs and fall trips – gee Harv, let’s go to the mountains and look at the leaves and pick some apples. There are fall clothes and fall holidays – the boo fest we call Halloween and the food fest we call Thanksgiving.

And, hallelujah, there are fall sports, which is to say there’s football. And in the Land of Cotton, football – especially college football – is often a religious experience. And let us all say Amen!

In fact, toe meets leather for the first time this season on Saturday, when our Bulldogs go up against the Ragin’ Cajuns of Louisiana-Lafayette between the hedges – trust me, it’s a Georgia thing! A week later, the calendar might still read summer, but the vibe will be full-blown autumn-ee as Georgia travels to South Carolina to do battle with the Gamecocks!

Still not buying the rejuvenating juju of autumn? Then ponder these two words: Fall Classic. For months, baseball has moved along at a snail’s pace, the natural rhythm of America’s great summer pastime.

But when the temperature starts to drop and the days grow shorter, baseball becomes serious business for a few weeks in late September and early October when, finally, the champs from the American and National Leagues do battle. This bit of Americana we call the World Series and, I do believe, the series has come to be known as the “Fall Classic”.

So remember. A little morning chill means that once again the leaves will be changing color soon and the Dawgs will be at home between the hedges. All the rest is commentary. And let us say, Amen!

Running to capture a dream

It was a fantasy, one of those little dreams that float through your mind when thinking about goals well out of your reach.

And it was long forgotten until earlier this month on Mother's Day when Dallas Braden of the Oakland A's did the impossible -- pitched a perfect game. The Tampa Bay Rays took 27 shots at Braden and he accomplished what only 19 other pitchers in professional baseball have managed in the history of the game.

Perfection!

He's now a member of a tiny fraternity that includes such iconic personalities as Cy Young, Sandy Koufax and Randy Johnson. "It's pretty ridiculous," Braden told The New York Times, "to be in that kind of company."

Watching the news clips and hoopla play out on the evening news, my mind started drifting back a few years -- actually a few decades. And there it was -- the fantasy! I was once again back on the road, huffing my way through another training cycle, living the dream.

The fantasy, in one fashion or another, is out there in many of our minds -- the quarterback in the Super Bowl, tossing the winning pass as time runs out; the humble slugger facing a fiery closer in the seventh game of the World Series, whacking a walk-off homer; the tiny point guard, playing for a cinderella team in the Final Four, going for three and hearing only the whoosh of the net and the roar of the crowd.

But my fantasy was never about such mega-events, team sports played with a ball. Truth be told, I was always too small and too slow to make it big in football, baseball or basketball. I played at all three sports as a youngster, even made the all-star team my last year of playing little league baseball.

But after vegetating on the sidelines for two decades, I joined a softball league when I was in my early 30s and immediately realized that I had absolutely no talent for the game.

So I started searching for the athlete I knew was part of my life and ended up finding that guy while jogging in my neighborhood. It began with a very slow mile -- 15 minutes or so. But something clicked and over the next few days, weeks and months I managed to shed a few pounds, significantly increase my pace and create a fantasy. But first, a little history and context.

In 1972, I found myself in Germany, in the army and stationed at a NATO base outside of Heidelberg. That summer, the world returned to Germany after kicking Nazi butt 25 years earlier. The summer Olympics were being held in Munich and each evening the international community I was part of gathered together to watch the Games and cheer for our country's athletes.

The men's marathon took center stage as the Games were coming to an end. It's the first time I recall watching a long distance race and it was an American, Frank Shorter, who entered the Olympic stadium first that day, tens of thousands of fans calling his name, millions of others watching the event on television.

Twelve years later in Los Angeles, a young woman, Joan Benoit, managed to capture center stage and the world's attention by winning the first woman's Olympic marathon.

It was a breathtaking achievement, this wisp of a woman from a small community in Maine pulling away early from the pack of world-class talent, cheered on by hundreds of fans on the streets of Los Angeles, thousands waiting for her to enter the Olympic stadium and millions watching the spectacle play out on TV.

It's that spectacle that became my fantasy, my dream, to run into an Olympic staidum, my name on the lips and in the hearts of thousands. It's a fantasy, a mind game really, that I thought about each time I laced up my running shoes and pounded the pavement.

And, of course, it's a fantasy that never came true.

No, I've never experienced the thrill of dashing through a darkened tunnel into the light of a packed Olympic staidum, or heard my name called out by thousands as I floated around a track.

But this much I know is true. All those years ago when I was running every day, I managed to grab hold of something special, a tiny piece of the magic that Benoit and Shorter shared.

The dream kept me running and kept me company when I was tired. It was there on frigid mornings in winter and blistering days in summer, on painful runs that lasted for hours and short sprints that took my breath away. The fantasy pushed and pulled and prodded and waited patiently as I grew faster, stronger, willing to go the distance.

My reward?

There was a slight chill in the air as I approached the Queensboro Bridge, just one of thousands of runners pounding onto the span that would take us into Manhattan. We were two hours into the New York City Marathon and I knew the winner would cross the finish line in minutes.

I was yet another two hours from Tavern on the Green in Central Park and growing weary. I had managed to hold to my pace, a mile every eight minutes, but now I was slowing, banging against the proverbial wall, just about ready to call it quits.

And then I heard a noise, a rumble off in the distance. With each step the sound grew, a tiny muffled roar that seemed to call my name. The dream was waiting, out there again, pulling me into the Big Apple.

The noise grew and my pace quickened. The shadows of early afternoon cast me into momentary darkness and for an instant I was running toward the light, through a tunnel and into my dreams.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of fans were clustered at the foot of the bridge. They were filled with energy and good cheer, offering a hearty welcome and words of encouragement for family and friends, neighbors -- and me!

This was real. No fantasy, no dream. I had done the work, paid the price and here was my reward. Magic!

POUNDING THE PAVEMENT: Thousands of runners (photo above) make their way into Manhattan, looking for magic as they take part in the New York City Marathon.