Sports failures can enjoy Olympics, too

Published 3:24 pm Tuesday, August 12, 2008

The Olympics are here with all those lean, strong athletes leaping, kicking, tossing, passing, racing and flying through the air.

I celebrate their achievements and stand awed by the fireworks on the ground and above the birdcage.

Personal sadness arrives, for try as I have tried during my long life; I have never risen higher than advanced beginner in any sport. It’s no time to start now what with wobbly knees, strained ankle and nightmares of aching feet, but dreams are dreams. My dream? Intermediate.

Golfing, for example, ran in the family. Aunts, uncles, and cousins would take to the links, tees jingling in their pockets, ready for a round or two. I was destined to join them in the fun.

(Fun in 90-degree weather! 90-degree humidity! You must be kidding.)

Family pride is family pride. I purchased golf shoes plus a few golfing outfits. And, as family golf genes are family golf genes, I had a fine swing but very poor eyes.

Once off the tee, my balls vanished, disappeared into the maw of green grass and blue sky. The family party had to abandon their good lies and hopeful pars and search the fairway or, more likely the rough, to find my ball.

Abandoning their game they griped: “Can’t you watch your ball?” Their hostility put a stop to my, or rather, their aspirations.

Swimming was my sport for a time.

(Ah! Swimming in hot muggy southern weather! How delicious!)

I was on a swimming team until the coach told me I would be better suited as a lifeguard.

Taking this latest rebuff in my stride, I enrolled in a water safety course and ruined my social life.

No lake party was the same with me as a participant. I should have gotten a whistle for I was everywhere with a flashlight, overseeing the safety of swimming in the dark, of overcrowding a boat, of making sure everyone had a lifejacket.

“Cut it out,” echoed through the velvet night meant for romance not water safety.

Another sport gone haywire.

Tennis was fun for several seasons, but I sprained my ankle rushing for a ball, and gave the sport up on the spot. (If you have ever had a sprained ankle, you know why I would never risk another one.)

Riding horses the one summer I mounted a broad back at camp was not my thing either. Horses were so big, stables were so smelly and I knew the horse could sense my fear. How they galloped away with me clinging to their mane!

Moving to the Northwest, I embraced skiing. Slopes were cool, no balls to lose, nothing smelly, and I stayed dry.

I swooped over the Queen’s Run at Crystal Mountain as if I were a queen. My skis appeared glued together as I paralleled with the best of them, even achieving the honor of my son’s comment, “That was nice skiing, mom.”

Was I at last an Intermediate?

Pride goes before a fall. Fall I did, end of skiing. Bad knees joined bad eyes and sprained ankles.

(I quickly add I was not a good sport about long hikes, either, whining and pouting after the 10-mile marker. My companions can attest to this.)

With that sad history searching for a sport that would accommodate all my fears and injuries, I now sit before the TV screen, happy to enjoy the Olympics.

Sally Robison is a Winslow artist and the author of “The Permanent Guest’s

Guide to Bainbridge Island.”