Each season Hank Williams, Jr. asks that rocking rhetorical question, "Are you ready for some football?" Granted, he is asking NFL fans, tonight millions of college football fans will be singing a united chorus of, "YES!" A brief moment where fans of all teams agree, it's time to play.
In a few short hours, "what if" will become "what might have been." "I'm telling ya" will become "I told you so" or "I didn't see that coming" or even, possibly, "I guess I was wrong." In a mere matter of days, normally reasonable people will suddenly lose their minds and become completely absorbed with numbers, not those in their checking account, but those that make up the BCS. Polls will become the new obsession. Before accepting invitations to weddings, parties, and, yes, even Thanksgiving, wives will ask their husbands, "who's playing this weekend....are they important....did you plan to go...watch...." They'll then shrug their shoulders and exclaim, "it's only football!"
Only football?!!! Anyone who has ever caught the fever knows it's more than just football. It is a camaraderie with those you'll never know. It is about more than the two teams playing on the field; it is being ten again back in your old neighborhood rounding up all of the other kids for a few hours of football before heading into the house to watch the game with your family. It is the first time you walk into Jordan-Hare or Bryant-Denny holding your dad's hand, overwhelmed by the spectacular display of fanfare. It is watching the eagle soar around the stadium as the low rumble of "War Eagle" builds to a frenzied roar. It is the buzz on Sunday morning of the congregation trading friendly barbs before opening their hymnals. It is those traditions and memories that are savored each time you watch your team take the field, thinking, once again, "this could be our year!"
Are you ready for some football? I know I am. War Eagle and good luck!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
A Tri-ing Anniversary
"If it were easy, they'd call it FOOTBALL: Try a tri" I laugh as I read the caption on the t-shirt and wonder if it would be all right to purchase it even though I am only participating in 1/3 of a triathlon. I can imagine someone commenting on my cute, sassy shirt and then picture my response: "It is cute, but I've never actually done an entire triathlon, just the running portion. How far?! Oh," I'd say sheepishly, "3.1 miles." I decide not to buy the shirt and go grab my husband, who is currently ogling a $3,500 tri-bike.
It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.
The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.
My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.
I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.
With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??
It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.
The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.
My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.
I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.
With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Growing Pains
Nothing takes me back to the awkwardness of middle school quite like a morning at the gym. Within seconds of stepping into a room filled with perfect coifs and even more perfect bodies, I am transformed into a clumsy, self-conscious seventh grader. While small, muscled, compact bodies glide gracefully from side-to-side, I flail my way through the work out, three feet of unwieldy legs and arms flying through the air. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I suddenly see her staring back at me, the red-rimmed glasses, mouth full of shiny metal, the short curly hair (oh, how I must have loved Annie), the long limbs that her parents kept promising her she'd grow into. I see her, never quite comfortable in her own skin, and although my body is trying desperately to keep up with the aerobics instructor, my mind is transported back twenty-years to the high school football field where I first discovered that my athletic prowess was, well, nonexistent.
Captivated by the opening night of football season and my first night as a high school cheerleader, I run with the other girls across the field to welcome the visiting team, also our school's biggest rival. Translation: packed house. With peppy grins tattooed on our faces, we proceed to wow the spectators with that classic, Two Bits. Just before the pyramid finale, we all perform a toe-touch simultaneously before moving into our formation. Pumped full of adrenaline, I jump, really more like soar, high into the air, spreading my legs perfectly parallel to the ground. And that is how they stay, all the way down, until my bottom meets the ground bouncing me a few feet backwards.
Stunned, I sit there, realizing that I have mere seconds to decide what to do. My first option is, of course, to jump up, cry, run, and move to Canada. The second and more reasonable option is to jump up and move into formation acting like nothing ever happened. Of course, it did happen. I fell, not just a stumble and catch yourself, no, it is a full-fledged, tail-bone cracking bust, so I act, but they notice. After the cheer, I giggle madly as we run across the field for introductions. Of course, for me, there is no introduction needed. How I ever made cheerleader, I'll never know, perhaps they needed someone tall to spot the girls on top of the pyramids.
Failing to learn my lesson, I decide to go out for basketball. I am tall, right? Clearly, I can play basketball. Clearly. I am marvelous, scoring point after point at practice. The problem is that I am just a little unsteady on my feet, falling and tripping, not just myself but the other girls, as well. After two weeks of practice, my coach informs me that he has neither ordered me a uniform nor shoes. Clearly, I cannot play basketball, so I move on to my next attempt at athletic greatness: the band.
For years, my parents kept saying that I would eventually become like a gazelle, growing gracefully into her limbs. In reality, I am a newborn calf awkwardly navigating my surroundings, a stubborn calf who longs to be athletic. After countless falls, even my family gives up on that dream and lovingly dubs me Gracie. I'd like to say my clumsiness does not affect me, but it does, and for years I resent my long, discomfited limbs.
I am jolted from my reverie by the voice of our instructor shouting "Sprint!" Much like in high school, I am still three inches taller than everyone else in the room, but at the moment I am running faster than they are. I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror, it would be impossible not to since we are surrounded by them. This time I see my body and realize, with God's grace, all it has accomplished since college: carrying and giving birth to my beautiful daughter, two half-marathons, spin class three days a week, and at 32, it can still do the splits.
I finally leave class to go get my girl from the nursery. In her excited flurry, she does what her father and I call her happy dance then proceeds to run to the mat to retrieve her shoes and falls flat out on her face. I try not to laugh and see in her cute clumsiness a bit of myself. For a moment, I feel pained for her. What if, like her mom, her inability to walk steadily interferes with her athletic goals? A , all of 17 months, nonchalantly gets up, smiles, and reaches for me, and I stop worrying, because like her mommy, I know that she'll continue to get up and try again.
Captivated by the opening night of football season and my first night as a high school cheerleader, I run with the other girls across the field to welcome the visiting team, also our school's biggest rival. Translation: packed house. With peppy grins tattooed on our faces, we proceed to wow the spectators with that classic, Two Bits. Just before the pyramid finale, we all perform a toe-touch simultaneously before moving into our formation. Pumped full of adrenaline, I jump, really more like soar, high into the air, spreading my legs perfectly parallel to the ground. And that is how they stay, all the way down, until my bottom meets the ground bouncing me a few feet backwards.
Stunned, I sit there, realizing that I have mere seconds to decide what to do. My first option is, of course, to jump up, cry, run, and move to Canada. The second and more reasonable option is to jump up and move into formation acting like nothing ever happened. Of course, it did happen. I fell, not just a stumble and catch yourself, no, it is a full-fledged, tail-bone cracking bust, so I act, but they notice. After the cheer, I giggle madly as we run across the field for introductions. Of course, for me, there is no introduction needed. How I ever made cheerleader, I'll never know, perhaps they needed someone tall to spot the girls on top of the pyramids.
Failing to learn my lesson, I decide to go out for basketball. I am tall, right? Clearly, I can play basketball. Clearly. I am marvelous, scoring point after point at practice. The problem is that I am just a little unsteady on my feet, falling and tripping, not just myself but the other girls, as well. After two weeks of practice, my coach informs me that he has neither ordered me a uniform nor shoes. Clearly, I cannot play basketball, so I move on to my next attempt at athletic greatness: the band.
For years, my parents kept saying that I would eventually become like a gazelle, growing gracefully into her limbs. In reality, I am a newborn calf awkwardly navigating my surroundings, a stubborn calf who longs to be athletic. After countless falls, even my family gives up on that dream and lovingly dubs me Gracie. I'd like to say my clumsiness does not affect me, but it does, and for years I resent my long, discomfited limbs.
I am jolted from my reverie by the voice of our instructor shouting "Sprint!" Much like in high school, I am still three inches taller than everyone else in the room, but at the moment I am running faster than they are. I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror, it would be impossible not to since we are surrounded by them. This time I see my body and realize, with God's grace, all it has accomplished since college: carrying and giving birth to my beautiful daughter, two half-marathons, spin class three days a week, and at 32, it can still do the splits.
I finally leave class to go get my girl from the nursery. In her excited flurry, she does what her father and I call her happy dance then proceeds to run to the mat to retrieve her shoes and falls flat out on her face. I try not to laugh and see in her cute clumsiness a bit of myself. For a moment, I feel pained for her. What if, like her mom, her inability to walk steadily interferes with her athletic goals? A , all of 17 months, nonchalantly gets up, smiles, and reaches for me, and I stop worrying, because like her mommy, I know that she'll continue to get up and try again.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
And the winner is....
Perhaps you've heard that Barry Bonds is poised to hit home run number 755 any minute now, matching Hank Aaron's record, but did you also know that this particular record is the "most hallowed record in all of sports"? I didn't until I was listening to Fox Gametime Saturday on my way home from running errands. That is when I heard the news, that the home run record had been crowned "most hallowed". Since then, in all of the endless chatter about why Bonds should or shouldn't receive credit for the record, I've heard almost every other expert give it this title, as well. Why is that, and will there be an ESPY?
Perhaps I need more to do, but I've just been pondering why this particular record is the most hallowed. Is there a specific set of criteria that makes one record more hallowed than the next? Is most hallowed also the most important? Does it mean it is the most difficult record to break? Would the home run record be receiving that solemn title if everyone's favorite hero, not baseball's favorite villain, were about to break it?
If it is degree of difficulty, then why is Joe Dimaggio's impressive 56 game hit streak record not a contender for the title? The closest anyone has come to breaking that was Pete Rose's 44 hits in 1978. And come on, Ted Williams's .400 season has never been duplicated. Why is the most hallowed title given to a baseball record? It isn't even the most popular sport and is probably losing popularity as I write this.
Football and NASCAR seem to be the juggernauts of popular sports, so why aren't any of their records up for the challenge. It seems that winning the most races of all time is a pretty big accomplishment, and most rushing yards, sacks in a season, touchdowns scored, all impressive records. Let's not leave out our less popular but equally difficult sports. Will anyone else ever match Lance Armstrong's 7 Tour de France titles? It could be the doping scandal cloud hanging over baseball, I mean cycling, that keeps this record from becoming the most hallowed.
It is just food for thought. We tend to jump on the chance to declare one athlete better than another, one sport more difficult than the next, and now our records compete for most or best. Will the home run record continue to hold this honor the closer Alex Rodriguez gets to breaking whatever Bonds's magic number is when he finally retires? Will it some how lose its hallowed-ness the more often it is broken? Before I'm convinced and award it my most hallowed title, I think I'll just put an asterisk beside this one and see if something more impressive comes along.
Perhaps I need more to do, but I've just been pondering why this particular record is the most hallowed. Is there a specific set of criteria that makes one record more hallowed than the next? Is most hallowed also the most important? Does it mean it is the most difficult record to break? Would the home run record be receiving that solemn title if everyone's favorite hero, not baseball's favorite villain, were about to break it?
If it is degree of difficulty, then why is Joe Dimaggio's impressive 56 game hit streak record not a contender for the title? The closest anyone has come to breaking that was Pete Rose's 44 hits in 1978. And come on, Ted Williams's .400 season has never been duplicated. Why is the most hallowed title given to a baseball record? It isn't even the most popular sport and is probably losing popularity as I write this.
Football and NASCAR seem to be the juggernauts of popular sports, so why aren't any of their records up for the challenge. It seems that winning the most races of all time is a pretty big accomplishment, and most rushing yards, sacks in a season, touchdowns scored, all impressive records. Let's not leave out our less popular but equally difficult sports. Will anyone else ever match Lance Armstrong's 7 Tour de France titles? It could be the doping scandal cloud hanging over baseball, I mean cycling, that keeps this record from becoming the most hallowed.
It is just food for thought. We tend to jump on the chance to declare one athlete better than another, one sport more difficult than the next, and now our records compete for most or best. Will the home run record continue to hold this honor the closer Alex Rodriguez gets to breaking whatever Bonds's magic number is when he finally retires? Will it some how lose its hallowed-ness the more often it is broken? Before I'm convinced and award it my most hallowed title, I think I'll just put an asterisk beside this one and see if something more impressive comes along.
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