My major objection to spectator sports is its passivity. While the players play, the spectators are limited to watching, commenting, and...eating. Now, finally, I'm interested in being as active as the players. When it comes to athletics, I want to bike, swim, kick, throw, catch, and just generally put myself on the line.
But this brings up a question: Is reading to living as spectating is to playing? For example, last week I read John Le Carre's first novel, CALL FOR THE DEAD. In it, master spy George Smiley engages in a wide variety of actions: observing, planning, arguing, drinking, and even physical fighting. All the while, I lay on my back reading about George. I found myself wishing that I were a spy, but I wasn't doing anything remotely close to spying.
If the analogy holds--if reading is as passive as watching sports--perhaps I should give up reading and start living.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The Dipsea
The Dipsea foot race--occuring for nearly a century in Marin County California-- is the second-oldest running event in the U.S., right behind The Boston Marathon. Mike D., a friend of mine has has won five black shirts, emblamatic of finishing in the top 35--out of more than 1000 runners.
When I told Mike about this blog, at first he seemed displeased, as if I were against sports. "No," I told him, "I love sports. Humanity would be less human without sports. I'm against SPECTATOR sports that make viewers feel as if they have accomplished something when their teams win ("We're number 1!"), while making viewers feel sad when their teams lose.
In a race like The Dipsea, the runners involved put everything on the line. They spend months in training. They risk injury. They ask their bodies to perform feats that are truly amazing. I admire people who engage in sports, whether they win or lose.
Last Sunday, on the day of the Dipsea, I took a short hike in my neighborhood. I chose a path that includes a short but strenuous uphill climb--nothing nearlyy as challenging as the climbs in the Dipsea. I found myself breathing hard, wondering if I could make it to the top, realizing that I am not in good shape. I felt the sweat under my arms. I had to talk to myself, urging me to keep at it. When I reached the top of the hill, I found myself in awe of the thousand plus runners who, at that moment, were doing the Dipsea.
Playing sports is good. Investing hours watching other people playing sports is--in my opinion--a sad waste of the precious hours given to us.
When I told Mike about this blog, at first he seemed displeased, as if I were against sports. "No," I told him, "I love sports. Humanity would be less human without sports. I'm against SPECTATOR sports that make viewers feel as if they have accomplished something when their teams win ("We're number 1!"), while making viewers feel sad when their teams lose.
In a race like The Dipsea, the runners involved put everything on the line. They spend months in training. They risk injury. They ask their bodies to perform feats that are truly amazing. I admire people who engage in sports, whether they win or lose.
Last Sunday, on the day of the Dipsea, I took a short hike in my neighborhood. I chose a path that includes a short but strenuous uphill climb--nothing nearlyy as challenging as the climbs in the Dipsea. I found myself breathing hard, wondering if I could make it to the top, realizing that I am not in good shape. I felt the sweat under my arms. I had to talk to myself, urging me to keep at it. When I reached the top of the hill, I found myself in awe of the thousand plus runners who, at that moment, were doing the Dipsea.
Playing sports is good. Investing hours watching other people playing sports is--in my opinion--a sad waste of the precious hours given to us.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Learning Something New Everyday
I've been promoting my book--WORDS OF A FEATHER--by guest blogging.
Recently, I posted a piece at BrainDump (http://sidebernie.livejournal.com/), which is devoted to the idea that a person should learn something new everyday. I realized that many days go by and I can't say I've learned anything new.
I'm persuaded that watching sports--while relaxing and entertaining--absolutely interferes with learning. I'm not against relaxation and fun. But on balance, I believe that my life will be richer--and more worth living--if I use my time for learning.
Today, for example, I learned that the "to" in "tofu" means "beans" and that the "fu" means "fermented." Is that as good as watching a big league infield turn a double play? Certainly in the moment, there is something thrilling about watching professional athletes perform. But in the long, I'd rather--to echo Thoreau--know beans.
Recently, I posted a piece at BrainDump (http://sidebernie.livejournal.com/), which is devoted to the idea that a person should learn something new everyday. I realized that many days go by and I can't say I've learned anything new.
I'm persuaded that watching sports--while relaxing and entertaining--absolutely interferes with learning. I'm not against relaxation and fun. But on balance, I believe that my life will be richer--and more worth living--if I use my time for learning.
Today, for example, I learned that the "to" in "tofu" means "beans" and that the "fu" means "fermented." Is that as good as watching a big league infield turn a double play? Certainly in the moment, there is something thrilling about watching professional athletes perform. But in the long, I'd rather--to echo Thoreau--know beans.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Indianapolis 500
Last weekend was the running of the Indianapolis 500...I guess.
It was a big deal for me when I was a kid. Back then it wasn't on TV then. We listened to it on the radio.
The broadcast featured a lot of engine sounds plus the narrators' descriptions ("The two lead cars are into Turn 1 racing side by side"). It must have been exciting. We kept the program on the entire race, which must have been about four hours.
I recall the sad day when Bill Vikovich was killed. I believe that he had won the previous two races. I could look it up on Wikipedia, but in this context the details of his racing career are less important than this fact: I loved Bill even though I never met him. I loved him because he was a winner and a risk taker. Then his car crashed. He was dead (whatever that meant to an 10-year-old kid). I was devastated.
And that's the point: I was more connected to someone I never met--someone who didn't know me or even know I existed--than I was about the fate of my neighbors. To me, that's one of the huge downsides of spectatorism: It takes us from our real lives and connects us with fantasies and images.
Who won this year's Indianpolis 500? Were records set? Was anyone hurt or killed? None of it matters to me. But I know this: I spent the four hours of the race (or however long it takes now) on things closer to home.
It was a big deal for me when I was a kid. Back then it wasn't on TV then. We listened to it on the radio.
The broadcast featured a lot of engine sounds plus the narrators' descriptions ("The two lead cars are into Turn 1 racing side by side"). It must have been exciting. We kept the program on the entire race, which must have been about four hours.
I recall the sad day when Bill Vikovich was killed. I believe that he had won the previous two races. I could look it up on Wikipedia, but in this context the details of his racing career are less important than this fact: I loved Bill even though I never met him. I loved him because he was a winner and a risk taker. Then his car crashed. He was dead (whatever that meant to an 10-year-old kid). I was devastated.
And that's the point: I was more connected to someone I never met--someone who didn't know me or even know I existed--than I was about the fate of my neighbors. To me, that's one of the huge downsides of spectatorism: It takes us from our real lives and connects us with fantasies and images.
Who won this year's Indianpolis 500? Were records set? Was anyone hurt or killed? None of it matters to me. But I know this: I spent the four hours of the race (or however long it takes now) on things closer to home.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Sports Fantasy
I once read that--just before falling asleep--many guys imagine themselves making a big play in a sporting competition: hitting a homer, shooting the winning basket, blocking the puck as time runs out.
In truth, I don't know if guys--or women--do this. I'd be too embarrassed to ask. But I will confess that I used to invent such fantasies myself. Much more interesting than counting sheep.
Reflexively, the other night I put myself into one of those situations. I believe I was trying to strike out a hitter and win the game. Then I caught myself. Was I rolling out the mental movie simply to get a quick fix? Was it the same thing as watching a real athletic competition?
As I think I've said in an earlier post, I'm not against participating in sports, but only watching sports to get a vicarious thrill. Did "watching" myself hurl 95 mph fastballs fall into the spectator category?
I could argue it either way. But to error on the side of safety, I stopped the fantasy. I did have other options besides the sports scenario, but I don't feel it's appropriate to discuss them here in this G-rated blog.
In truth, I don't know if guys--or women--do this. I'd be too embarrassed to ask. But I will confess that I used to invent such fantasies myself. Much more interesting than counting sheep.
Reflexively, the other night I put myself into one of those situations. I believe I was trying to strike out a hitter and win the game. Then I caught myself. Was I rolling out the mental movie simply to get a quick fix? Was it the same thing as watching a real athletic competition?
As I think I've said in an earlier post, I'm not against participating in sports, but only watching sports to get a vicarious thrill. Did "watching" myself hurl 95 mph fastballs fall into the spectator category?
I could argue it either way. But to error on the side of safety, I stopped the fantasy. I did have other options besides the sports scenario, but I don't feel it's appropriate to discuss them here in this G-rated blog.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
A Biographical Fix
My eye fell upon a Yahoo! headline: "Gone too fast." I clicked on the link and discovered that the story was about Diego Corrales, a former boxing champion who had been killed in a motorcycle accident. Mr. Corrales was 29.
I wanted to read about his life and death, but I wondered if I was just trying to get a sports hit. After all, boxing is one of the most ancient and universal contests. In another post, I mentioned our family's tradition--back in the 1950s--of watching Saturday Night Fights on a tiny black and white screen. (Howard Cosell might have beeen on the announcing team.)
Back to the story of Mr. Corrales: Uncertain whether to read it or not, I solicited the opinion of my wife. It's not just that she's smarter or more ethical than me. Because she's never had a sports watching addiction, her opinion counts for something. She said: "Reading about a man's life is different from reading an account of a sporting event. You may read the piece."
The story, by Kevin Iole, includes the following three paragraphs:
"Only two years earlier in the Mandalay Bay Events Center, Corrales was the victor in a brawl with Jose Luis Castillo in a lightweight title unification match that was unsurpassed in boxing history for its savagery.
"But what made the fight so memorable was its sensational and unexpected ending. With his left eye closed, his face a grotesque lump of welts, Corrales dragged himself from the mat after a pair of 10th-round knockdowns to rally and stop Castillo.
"It was his finest moment, one of the finest in boxing history."
I'm going to confess: Those 91 words gave me a jolt. If it had been a shot of heroin and not a dose of reportage, I'd have been sky high.
Does this make my wife wrong? No. How could she understand the feelings of an addict. I have learned my lesson. Sports biography is a forbidden genre. Maybe I'll find a dramatic story about the death of a jazz musician or a teacher or a farmer...
I wanted to read about his life and death, but I wondered if I was just trying to get a sports hit. After all, boxing is one of the most ancient and universal contests. In another post, I mentioned our family's tradition--back in the 1950s--of watching Saturday Night Fights on a tiny black and white screen. (Howard Cosell might have beeen on the announcing team.)
Back to the story of Mr. Corrales: Uncertain whether to read it or not, I solicited the opinion of my wife. It's not just that she's smarter or more ethical than me. Because she's never had a sports watching addiction, her opinion counts for something. She said: "Reading about a man's life is different from reading an account of a sporting event. You may read the piece."
The story, by Kevin Iole, includes the following three paragraphs:
"Only two years earlier in the Mandalay Bay Events Center, Corrales was the victor in a brawl with Jose Luis Castillo in a lightweight title unification match that was unsurpassed in boxing history for its savagery.
"But what made the fight so memorable was its sensational and unexpected ending. With his left eye closed, his face a grotesque lump of welts, Corrales dragged himself from the mat after a pair of 10th-round knockdowns to rally and stop Castillo.
"It was his finest moment, one of the finest in boxing history."
I'm going to confess: Those 91 words gave me a jolt. If it had been a shot of heroin and not a dose of reportage, I'd have been sky high.
Does this make my wife wrong? No. How could she understand the feelings of an addict. I have learned my lesson. Sports biography is a forbidden genre. Maybe I'll find a dramatic story about the death of a jazz musician or a teacher or a farmer...
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Tour de Perth
A few weeks ago a professional bike tour zoomed through Point Reyes Station, the village where I work. People lined the main street to cheer the riders on.
This morning, motivated by a stomach bulge that I discovered while looking at myself in the mirror, I dusted off my bike,
and started pedaling up Perch, a street that runs past our property and up to the Inverness watershed about a mile away. My wife and I walk up the hill, which in places has a 7% grade. We regularly see young cyclists chatting as they effortlessly pass us. Those kids, of course, aren't carrying an excess 20 pounds, my "handicap."
Half-way up the hill, I had serious doubts about the enterprise. The phrase "quit now" flashed on the scoreboard inside my head. But recalling that the riders in the Tour de France tame mountains three times as steep as Perth, I pushed on. My desperate breathing at first distracted me from the pain, then frightened me. The phrase "heart attack" replaced "quit now."
That was an upsetting thought, because if I collapsed, my family couldn't even say "He died doing what he loved." What I love is typing, not sweating." Nevertheless, I was determined to reach the top of the hill. And somehow I did. I'm sure it was a record run: the slowest time ever.
At the top, no crowd applauded.There was no yellow jacket for me to don. But I felt the kind of joy that, I'm certain, is closer to what the pro riders feel than what is felt by the folks at the side of the road cheering them on.
This morning, motivated by a stomach bulge that I discovered while looking at myself in the mirror, I dusted off my bike,
and started pedaling up Perch, a street that runs past our property and up to the Inverness watershed about a mile away. My wife and I walk up the hill, which in places has a 7% grade. We regularly see young cyclists chatting as they effortlessly pass us. Those kids, of course, aren't carrying an excess 20 pounds, my "handicap."
Half-way up the hill, I had serious doubts about the enterprise. The phrase "quit now" flashed on the scoreboard inside my head. But recalling that the riders in the Tour de France tame mountains three times as steep as Perth, I pushed on. My desperate breathing at first distracted me from the pain, then frightened me. The phrase "heart attack" replaced "quit now."
That was an upsetting thought, because if I collapsed, my family couldn't even say "He died doing what he loved." What I love is typing, not sweating." Nevertheless, I was determined to reach the top of the hill. And somehow I did. I'm sure it was a record run: the slowest time ever.
At the top, no crowd applauded.There was no yellow jacket for me to don. But I felt the kind of joy that, I'm certain, is closer to what the pro riders feel than what is felt by the folks at the side of the road cheering them on.
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