Dash Those Olympic Dreams

When I was a kid, I raced the neighborhood boys. I lost the "telephone poles" (sprints from one telephone pole to the next) but won the runs around the block. We called these "Brightons" or "Runnymeades" after the names of the streets we traversed. I had found my calling as a distance runner.

In junior high and early high school, I lived at the bottom of Squirrel Hill Drive. I would run the 1.5 miles up hill to the top of the street at Hitchcock Road, and turn around and run back. I would kick it in on the final stretch, convinced that this brutal training regimen was preparing me for the 1984 Olympics. In 1976, I flipped over Nadia Comenice (get it?) and made a poster with color pictures of her from covers of the major newsmagazines. It was the only time (get it?) I ever made a hero-worship poster. She is a year older than I am, so I could totally relate. She trained with the infamous Bela Karolyi and I trained with Miss Roepke. Miss Roepke (pronounced rep-key) was in her first year of teaching when I had her as a basketball and track coach my freshman and sophomore years in Youngstown, Ohio. I was a stubborn brat who wanted to play basketball but was protesting having such an inexperienced coach (heck, my SISTER was her age), so I would shoot baskets on the court next to where the girls' team was practicing. I wanted them to know how good I was and what they were missing out on. God, what an asshole.

Miss Roepke could have ignored me. Instead, she came over and talked me into joining the team. It fed my ego, of course. Obviously, she had seen my talent and now was begging me to play. Or she was annoyed with the distraction of my shooting a basket and looking over to see if anyone saw me make it. In any case, she won me over by caring about me and I ended up becoming completely devoted to, inspired by, and ok, a little obsessed with her. I psyched myself up for basketball games by singing a song in my head dedicated to her. The words to the song were from a commercial to get people to quit smoking. The actual lyrics went: "Do it for her, do it for him, do it for all the loved ones in your life." I changed the words to: "I'll do it for her, I'll do it for me, I'll do it for Miss Roepke and me." God, what a dork.

Miss Roepke, who later became Mrs. Gorski, was nothing like Bela Karolyi. Well, who is? However, she has had a distinguished career as a track coach. One thing in particular made me realize how impressive she was. After I graduated from journalism school, I went back to Youngstown as a reporter for the local paper, The Vindicator. One day I called Mrs. Gorski to see if I could write a feature story about her. She declined, saying she wants the spotlight to be on the athletes, not her. This was the first and probably one of the very few people I've ever known who declined an opportunity to have a nice puff piece written about them. My respect for her grew, and this time it was a more mature and less approaching-on-stalker-like-behavior admiration.

Anyway, Miss Roepke led our junior varsity basketball team to an undefeated season, one of the highlights of my athletic career. In track, I ran the half mile and mile, unfortunately losing most every race to Lori Farkas, who I would have hated had she not been so sickeningly sweet. I could resent her, but I couldn't hate her because she just didn't seem to have a mean bone in her lean, long-legged body -- a body that covered a half a mile about 5-10 seconds faster than mine, and a mile about 10-15 seconds faster. God, what a bitch.

My defeats to Lori offered my first inkling that my 3-mile Squirrel Hills might not be sufficient preparation for an Olympic bid. I concluded my high school career in Munster, Ind., where I quit the cross country team my senior year under the delusion that I was destined for something greater, which I never did identify. Nonetheless, this setback did not entirely extinguish my flame for Olympic glory. In college, I didn't even join the track or cross country teams until my senior year, and then only cross country. That was 1984. As they said in another anti-smoking commercial from childhood, "That's when it hit me." I wasn't an Olympian nor would I ever be one. I boycotted the '84 Opening Ceremony, tears in my eyes. (You can't just say, "I didn't watch the Olympics on TV." You have to say, "I boycotted the Olympics.")

Now living in Chicago, I've watched the city make and lose its bid to host the 2016 Games. I can totally relate.

One heckavu tournament

This is just a beautiful golf course.

They did a great job getting this course ready.

This course sets up well for my eye.

The greens are fast.

The greens are slow.

He likes to hit shots.

That's a great golf shot.

He has great ball-striking ability.

He's never done it on the back nine on Sunday.

I can't worry about what the other guys are doing.

I've got to go out and play my own game, and we'll see what happens.

Bite! Bite!

I just wasn't hitting it today.

I have to put today behind me.

This is a long tournament.

He's dialed in.

Tiger is on the prowl.

Look at those eyes.

Tiger relishes shots like this.

He hit it pure.

In the cup.

I was hitting the ball well today.

I hit some shots.

I'm going to enjoy this tonight and get ready for next week.

Soccer, again?

Outdoor soccer season starts tomorrow. Whatever fitness gains I realized from the indoor season over the winter have evaporated. I'm no longer in "soccer shape," and don't expect to be until this season's end.

I'm dreading the experience. I don't run anymore because it hurts my joints too much. What makes me think soccer is any different from running? Sure there is a ball involved to distract from the pain, but that just means I can hurt my joints AND get smashed in the face with a ball.

What I like about soccer is the experience of passing the ball into an open space, into which my teammate runs to receive the pass. Then I run into an open space and receive a well-placed pass back. This is essentially how soccer is supposed to be played. The reality of the recreation league, however, is another story. In rec league the person with the ball is immediately surrounded by five kicking and scratching opponents, much like a scrum in rugby. Theoretically, the ball handler should pass the ball before the group mugging. This never happens because the ball handler either lacks the skills or lacks teammates with the wherewithal to move into an open space. And by wherewithal I mean wind.

When I was in my 20s, I was one of those exceptional players who covered the entire field. I was a distance runner, so it was easier for me to run the length of the field nonstop the entire game. Normal players would watch patiently from the other side of the field while their teammates handled their own responsibilities, then would sprint into that open space for a well-placed pass. I attribute my style of play to the fact that I have more slow-twitch muscle fibers, best suited for endurance activities, than fast-twitch fibers, which are good for short bursts of power. Uneducated observers--and teammates--may have viewed my style as "selfish" and "show-offy." What did they know? Certainly not much about anatomy.

Now in my mid-40s, I have to play "smarter." Meaning, stand around a lot. And let my teammates cover their own territory. It kills me to do so. How can the game proceed without my expert intervention at every possible turn?

Erin and I met while playing in a women's baseball league. I was the league president and organized the practices. I pitched for batting and fielding practice. As I recall, I ran efficient, high-energy sessions that gave everyone ample opportunity to practice their skills and were just a ton of fun. As Erin recalls, I fielded nearly every ball hit in play, leaving the other infielders at best bored and at worst irritated. It's possible that they may have viewed my behavior as "selfish" and "show-offy." Apparently Erin was the only person who thought my behavior was hilarious. Not cute or endearing. Just hilarious in an I'm-not-laughing-with-you kind of way.

Erin and I started dating right after I got her to help me set up the league database. I checked the box for "organizational skills" on my list of girlfriend requirements and asked her out. Well, who really asked whom out is another story, but the point is, I clearly wasn't so selfish and show-offy that I couldn't get a girlfriend, especially one who had seen this so-called obnoxious behavior with her own eyes.

I guess now I can admit to a degree of selfish show-offiness. But to all those teammates I irritated over the years, I just want to say that I've learned my lesson and will no longer try to take control of every game for my personal glory. Because I now have maturity and integrity. That, and no wind.

Now Hear This

When I watch TV, I have a remote in each hand. One to bleep 30 seconds ahead past the commercials, when I'm watching recorded TV, which is most of the time. And one for active volume control. Down for fight scenes. Up for dialog. Down for dramatic music. Mute for horror scenes and most sex scenes, which often are one and the same. Down for sports commentary, unless it's about Tiger Woods or Derrick Rose. Down for the screaming Ellen DeGeneres audience. Actually, the Ellen show requires active use of both remotes. The welcome screams can last two minutes. That's four, 30-second bleeps. If my bleeps fall short, my eardrums get pierced. Timing is tricky. Mute is the best option. I actually wait until a few seconds after I see her moving her lips in any way that does not resemble "Thank you," "Have a seat," or "Back at you," before turning the sound up.

When I do want to hear something, I have to turn the sound way up. Because I need the volume up so high, and because I'm always asking Erin to repeat herself, she is convinced that I'm hard of hearing. So I got my hearing tested. My hearing is in the normal range. It's possible that my listening is below average.

Besides the major volume adjustments for entire scenes, I also make precision adjustments throughout an entire show. A show or movie with good sound quality requires few adjustments, but such shows are rare. A box on my TV that serves some unknown purpose also assigns a number to the volume level. My default number is around 45. (It took a while to learn that when I increase the volume, the number goes down. Maybe it won't take you as long to remember that, but I'll walk you through it at first.) I may go up (quieter) three numbers, down (louder) two numbers, and up (quieter) one number during a single sentence. When I watch TV at other people's houses, I feel naked and out of control, which I am, except for the naked part.

One of the reasons for my precision adjustments is to strike a balance between my ability to hear and Erin's ability to tolerate my preferred volume level. I know, for example, that if I increase the volume to 39 from 45, Erin will cringe. She used to yell at me, but we've learned to compromise. She cringes, and I don't take it down, er, up, to 32, where I would be guaranteed to hear.

I can't read lips, but I have found that I cannot understand a word someone is saying, either on TV or in person, if I can't see their lips moving. It's like I assume no one is speaking if I can't face them head on and see clear signs of verbal expression. This is handy at work.

I sit in a cubicle. What a funny word. And sad existence. Anyway, no matter where I've worked, I've never been happy with the position of my computer. I don't want people to see my monitor. Ideally, I would position it right in front. When people approached my desk, I would have a measure of privacy. And I could welcome visitors quickly with just a short movement of my eyes and a smile that said, "Aren't I lucky you stopped by?"

Since that is not my default demeanor, I could use the face-front position as a deterrent. Visitors to my cubicle would be greeted by the back of my monitor, a nest of cables, and my suspicious eyes peering out from the side. "What do you want?" they would say. The idea is to scare away anyone who wants to say hi just because they happen to be passing by. I've never had the guts to position my computer there. That, and the cords won't reach. It's seen as too anti-social.

The socially acceptable position for a computer is to the side of your cubicle "entrance." This friendly position sends the "my-door-is-always-open" message without appearing too needy. The problem with the door-is-always-open message is that visitors assume you are ready and waiting to talk with them. And passers-by talk to you, assuming you are just waiting for them to pass by and say something. Presumably because they can see half of your face, they think you are at least half listening to everything going on around you. What they don't know is that I used to work in a newsroom. Desks abutted each other. There were no sound-absorbing cubicle walls, and no white noise to further reduce background clutter. Reporters were always on the phone interviewing people or banging too hard on their old computer keyboards because they all learned on electric or god-forbid manual typewriters. Editors were screaming for reporters to finish their damn stories. To survive, you had to shut out the noise. My current workplace is a tomb by comparison. Even so, I have been known to work away at my desk, pounding too hard on my keyboard, while someone stands right there calling my name. So by keeping my computer to the side, I send a false message, that I hear what people say when they approach my desk or just pass by.

Recently, I decided to be honest. I don't want people to approach my desk and just start talking. I'd like just a small pause, a knock, something to get them to realize that they are interrupting my work and would like permission to do so. So I turned to the back. Now, when someone comes to my cubicle, they can see my monitor, but I don't care anymore. Because they can't see my face. They can't catch my eye. There's nothing welcoming about it. Unbelievably, people still approach my cubicle and just start talking. But either I don't hear them or I pretend I don't hear them. The best way to get my attention is to knock on my desk or say, "Excuse me, Ellen." Is this too much to ask? After they knock, I could complete my thought, turn around, give them a welcoming smile and my full attention. And then I could hear what they are saying because I could see their lips moving. If only I had a mute button.

One Good Night's Sleep to Go, Please

Driving from Chicago to West Lafayette, IN, this weekend, we passed a Holiday Inn Express. Without cheating and looking it up online, I've been trying to figure out what Express means. I know some fast food places have Express versions of themselves. Years ago I saw a McDonald's Express in the Old Town neighborhood of Chicago. It had a limited menu and just a few chairs. So how would that translate to a hotel? Choice of bed or bathroom? Which would you choose? What's the price differential?

Express could mean drive-through service. You pull up to the menu board, order a one-night stay, pull up to the first window and pay, proceed to the second window to pick up your pillow and blanket, and since you don't like to sleep while driving, you pull into a space in the parking lot and sleep there. Weekends they offer sweet and sour sauce.

Express could mean fast and no frills. No unpacking, no channel surfing, no wireless internet. In fact, they might just have cots lined up in the lobby. Come in, swipe your credit card in the card reader by your cot, snooze 'n go. Somehow I just don't think the Holiday Inn is that cutting edge. At least not as cutting edge as this sewer pipe hotel room.

I don't mean to knock Holiday Inn. In West Lafayette, we stayed in the Holiday Inn Select. Sewer pipes were available, but they hadn't been cleaned yet.

spurned we

I really like those security word combinations you get when you want to post a link to your Facebook page or a comment to a blog. They're probably generated randomly by a computer, but I like to think laid-off journalists are holed up in a basement, eating Skittles and drinking Mountain Dew, cranking out these combinations and laughing uproariously when they come up with a particularly clever one. I know because as a former journalist, I remember laughing uproariously at what we thought were especially clever turns of phrase. Turn of phrases. Turns of phrases. Sentences. When we went and shared what we thought was so funny with our non-journalist friends, we got that memorable Blank Look.

Anyway, the bad two-word combinations are thrown out, set aside for use as fortune cookie fortunes. Mean laid-off editors are probably making those decisions and keeping the pressure on the writers to produce, barking out reminders that the next round of word combinations is due in 30 seconds. Then reversing the order of the combinations that you, as a professional writer, painstakingly crafted during the last 5 seconds. Because editors know best. Writers may not think so. But editors know. Because they get the last word. They have the power. And they know it.

But ha ha! The laugh's on you, editors! (Laugh is on you? Laughs are on you?) Because now we can blog and publish, circumventing the eagle eye of someone who might actually improve the readability, grammar, spelling and punctuation of our work.

Back to those word combinations. It's exciting to see what pair pops up. I try desperately to find meaning in them. It. The words. The pair. The combination. (Ed. note: The official name of these so-called "word combinations" that this lazy writer has not bothered to look up is CAPTCHA, for "Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart." I don't know why we even have writers, because everyone knows editors are better writers minus the spunky personality.)

When I signed on to follow a friend's blog recently, it said, "spurned we." Did that mean his followers would be spurned? Or would he be spurned by his followers? Either way, it sounded ominous. It portended. Raised a red flag. Was a sign. A bad omen. (Ed. note: I'm not going to bail the writer out of this one.)

The journalist-turned-CAPTCHA writer probably crafted "spurned we" to send a message to people who chose to follow a blog other than his own. The writer originally wrote "You spurned," with the word "me" understood. Then an editor changed "You spurned (understood 'me')" to "spurned we." Because that follows the rules of security and makes much more sense. (Ed. note: Damn write.) (Writ. note: right) (Ed. note: Damn)

Another theory holds that journalists use CAPTCHA (Ed. note: reCAPTCHA is now the official recommended designation) (Writ. note: Why didn't you say that in the first place?) (Ed. note: Because it's taken you so long to write this piece that new recommendations have been drafted, reviewed with the eagle eye of an editor, and disseminated while you eat your Skittles and ruminate on a particularly clever turn of phrase.) (Writ. note: Damn) to send out an SOS (Ed. note: Writer stole that phrase from "Message in a Bottle" by the Police without permission from Sting.) (Writ. note: You are ruining the readability of my piece with all your damn Ed. notes) (Ed. note: Ha ha!).

You have to read between the lines to understand the distress codes, but they all mean essentially the same thing. Just as the Whos down in Whoville, the CAPTCHA-writing ex-journalists are all shouting, "We are here! We are here!" Actually, all the CAPTCHA, as originally written, are "we here." Then are rewritten by editors into the indecipherable code that they so cleverly called CAPTCHA. Only an editor would come up with a word like CAPTCHA. I know because I heard them laughing uproariously when they came up with it. When they told me my new job was to write CAPTCHA, I gave them that Blank Look. Then surrendered and asked if the plural of CAPTCHA is CAPTCHA or CAPTCHAs. And they said, "Look it up yourself."

When Presented with a Challenge

Americans love a challenge. We will do anything if you add the word "challenge." I think it all started in the '70s with "the Pepsi Challenge." First we saw the commercials where a blindfolded person drank some Pepsi and some Coke and said which one they liked. Of course, they only showed us the ones that chose Pepsi. Then we saw it in-person at the mall, or a Little League game. It was so exciting. Everyone wanted to take the Pepsi Challenge. Even if we didn't drink either one, it seemed important to know which one we liked better.

Now we can Take the Challenge to get fit (President's Challenge), cure cancer (Livestrong Challenge), and eat fruits and vegetables (5 to 10 a Day Challenge). Some challenges try to look altruistic when they're just trying to sell you something, like the 21-Day Jamba Juice Challenge, which aims to get people eating a healthy breakfast and "learn about a featured Jamba breakfast product."

My old karate school has a fundraiser called the "Spirit Challenge," offering "the opportunity to take on both physical and 'fiscal' challenges." Tricycle, a quarterly Buddhist magazine, is promoting the 90-Day Meditation Challenge. There's just something inherently wrong about that one, since isn't meditation about letting go and no longer "striving"?

Apparently our lives are not difficult enough, so we have to manufacture challenges for ourselves. Or we just can't motivate ourselves to do anything altruistic without the opportunity for bragging rights afterward ("I Met the Challenge!).

Here are some other challenges you can find online:

Arlington's Car-Free Diet Challenge
The Positivity Challenge
The Navy Seals Challenge -- ok, that's a real challenge
The Oregon 150 Challenge -- "prove your love for Oregon!"
Stouffer's Let's Fix Dinner Challenge
Take the Challenge and Make Home-Made Pasta

Right now I'm going to take the Go to Bed Challenge so that tomorrow I can meet the Get Out of Bed Challenge. My next challenge will be to resist the urge to take or meet any manufactured challenge and see if I can still function as a productive member of society.