The Hurricane

The Olympics breeds heroes. The right kind of heroes. The ones whose greatness is defined by more than medals and whose sheen sometimes shows signs of tarnish.

As we look back on the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino, we find this particular hero.

We find the symbol of the competitive spirit. It emerges through muck of television's so-called "Chevy Olympic Moments" that -- for the sake of corporate brand identity --hijack and exploit the lives of men and women who give us a glimpse of their souls through the prism of the pursuit of accomplishment.

We find the fire nearly suffocated beneath the sanctimonious media information filterers who deify and demonize, depending on what pre-cooked expectations are met or not realized.

Apolo Anton Ohno. Shaun "The Flying Tomato" White. Joey Cheek. Ted Ligety.

These are but a few of the more-celebrated winners we'll remember.

As we should.

Whether we'll remember Jeret "Speedy" Peterson, though, is not so certain.

The 24-year-old Idaho native finished seventh in the standings of the freestyle skiing aerials. The aerial competition features daredevils soaring off a ramp -- sometimes five stories above the ground -- and twisting and contorting through the air like crazed-but-somehow-graceful birds in flight.



Yet, he went for it. "The Hurricane."

For the time being, it's the toughest and scariest move with the highest degree of difficulty in the sport -- a three-flip, five-twist maneuver 50 feet in the air that defies the very real possibility of snapping a neck.





When he qualified for the finals earlier in the week, he told an NBC reporter that Italy wouldn't know what storm had hit them by the time he was done. His enthusiasm was playful, idealistic, infectious.

When it came time, he went for it. He performed the The Hurricane to near-perfection, until he landed, just so, with his rear-end and right hand slightly dragging the snow. He raised his left arm to try to fool the judges, but it didn't work.



The degree of difficulty was scored high, but the landing judges negated the gains in the aerial display.

As they probably had to. If you measure success by hardware.

If he had tried a trick with a lower degree of difficulty, he very likely would have won a medal (after watching Sasha Cohen fall, the Japanese figure skater who won gold took the safer route and held back on the more-difficult moves she had planned).

That isn't what Speedy Peterson came for. He came for a hurricane, not a thunderstorm:

"That's what the Olympics are about. They're about going for it and being the best. Or trying your best and failing. They're not about holding back. I came here to do The Hurricane. I would have done it if I was 50 points behind or 50 points ahead. I never thought about not doing it. I'm disappointed, but I am trying to advance my sport, take it to a higher level. I came here to do the Hurricane in the Olympics, and I did. No regrets."

Peterson, as he tells it, was molested as a child. He lived a childhood of rebellion, self-blame and anger. He tells children similarly abused not to blame themselves. That's why he made his abuse public three years ago.

Last summer, he watched his close friend put a gun to his temple and pull the trigger. When he was 5, a drunk driver killed his sister.

His friend gave up his life. His sister lost hers. Peterson remembers their lives to help him relish in his own.

As his move would testify, he lives on the margins of potential oblivion.

He skydives and rides motorcycles at 150 mph.

Last summer, he took $5,000 he earned at Home Depot and turned it into more than $200,000 after a trip to Las Vegas.

Yesterday, a day before the closing ceremony, U.S. Olympics officals sent him home after a drunken, late-night brawl in which he punched a friend in the face and forced police to separate the two.

He is a tarnished hero.

A medal might have hidden that a bit, perhaps provided a distracting light to blind everyone to the darkness men like him fight like mad not to succumb to.

But the medal, too, would have tarnished eventually.

And all he'd be left with was the memory of what he did when he was here.

He did what he came to do.

Oh, Well

Well, everyone, time to offer up another sacrifice to the gods of American sanctimony.

We have a special place in the public consciousness for people like Lindsey Jacobellis. And if you find yourself there, God have mercy on your wretched soul.

Because we sure won't.

We Americans live through our heroes, who symbolize -- or who are expected to symbolize -- the image of our pre-eminence. We feed on their spirit. And if we have our way, we ultimately will consume it.

That is, unless we are turned away. And we really don't like that. Especially by one of our own.

Lindsey Jacobellis showboating away a sure gold medal in the women's snowboardcross race was the lasting image over this past weekend of Winter Olympics competition.

With a surely insurmountable lead, the 20-year-old soared through the air on her second-to-last jump with the finish line in plain sight. Caught up in the moment she'd waited four years for, she went for it -- the "backside method grab," flaring the board 60 degrees behind her to add an exclamation point to her resounding victory.






Snowboardcross is a provacative new addition to Olympic snowboard competition (which as a whole is full of carefree characters who could just as easily be playing Playstation as competing on the world's largest sporting stage).

Snowboardcross is something like NASCAR on snowboards. Four competitors share a small space, winding and jumping through a downhill course, bumping and out-scheming each other for position. Two competitors had already eaten it (one was carried off on a stretcher), and Jacobellis looked back before her second-to-last jump. She could feel the imminence of victory.

There's no denying ... the method air looked pretty sweet.

Until.









It's a move that she would land 99 times out of 100.

But she didn't land it, so she had to settle for silver -- and endure the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune.

The winner of the men's snowboardcross (whose girlfriend happens to be the Swiss snowboarder that luckily finished first before Jacobellis) shared with the viewing public that he had already performed the same moves in some of his early qualifying heats.

If she landed it, few would have even noticed she did it. For those who would notice, Jacobellis would have only added to the refreshingly brash and playful mythos of the snowboarding tribe.

This untamed group has said it's not about the medals. It's about personal accomplishment. And having fun. And whether the VISA endorsement Jacobellis signed on to gives you pause to actually believe in such an idealistic notion, for the most part it seems to be true (putting aside the Bode Miller rebel-without-a-cause sideshow).

Somehow, though, we have a difficult time accepting that.

There's something curious going on here. A dissonance. Somewhere we've lost ourselves.

We Americans are bold. We are winners. We are a society that has historically made itself comfortable with risk. It's part of what (for all our faults) makes this the greatest country on the planet.

Or at least we feel justified to think so.

It's no secret America is viewed worldwide as a nation of arrogance. In many ways, we are, sometimes destructively so. Yet, arrogance can be an inprecise descriptio. Arrogance or confidence?

There's nothing wrong with confidence, if you are willing to accept the consequence of what reveling in the spoils of risk might entail.

So what happens when the spirit of what represents us conflicts with our neurotic insecurity for quantifiable proof of our superiority?

It brings out the worst in us. We eat our own.

Lindsey Jacobellis, meet Bob Costas and the guantlet of the public court of deification.

Before she sat down by NBC's contrived fireside for an interview with Costas -- who throughout the Olympics has struggled to be relevant with a young audience, questioning snowboarders on the potential "babes" a gold medal might land them -- she had to watch what the rest of the country watched: an overwrought vignette opining on how this could be one of the biggest sports gaffes in American history.

(Nevermind that snowboardcrosss was sanctioned as an Olympic sport for the first time in this Olympics and that snowboarders have been routinely ridiculed for their unwillingness to appease the pharisees who bear the burden of proclaiming what is and isn't a sport).

The indignant tone of the narrator's voice echoed every reactionary, beer-gutted recliner-dweller who just can't understand why it can't be like it was in the good 'ole days, when athletes didn't have tattoos and didn't indulge in touchdown celebrations.

In the maelstrom immediately following the race, she tried to convince us that she was just steadying herself. When the tape told a different story, she was contrite. She was simply trying to avoid the mea culpa that the media -- and the masses addicted to vicarious validation -- so often bleed from their prey. And maybe VISA had something to do with it, too.

Give her credit for showing up. And for being polite. And for clearing the nasty air of indignation.

By simply asking her, "What were you thinking?," Costas got her to say she just got too caught up in the moment. She told him what she essentially told the rest of the worldwide media.

“I was having fun. Snowboarding is fun. I was ahead. I wanted to share my enthusiasm with the crowd. I messed up. Oh well, it happens.”

And with that, Jacobellis and her silver medal leave home for Vermont for a respite and probable knee surgery.

And here we stand, our pitchforks and torches in hand, with nothing to sacrifice.

Oh well, we've still got Ricky Williams.

"Let Me Tell Ya, Old Boy, I'd Let Her Curl My ..."

curl·ing (kûr'lĭng)
n. A game originating in Scotland in which two four-person teams slide heavy oblate stones toward the center of a circle at either end of a length of ice.



There's something unavoidably appealing about the Winter Olympics, perhaps because of the exotic nature of the sports (at least for those of us who live in the deep South and generally without snow).

Snowboarders who claim they don't care about winning medals and skiers talking about how difficult it is to ski when you're wasted. Weeping figure skaters, tire irons to the knees or not. Even the drudgery of speed skating.

Perhaps none is more curious than curling. Curious in the sense of how curiously entertaining it is to watch.

Let's face it, the brushing-the-ice-with-the-broom thing is what does it. Being a janitor could be considered training, and it might be the only sport that allows you to have a beer gut and still win an Olympic medal.

Curling has, indeed, swept the world -- and apparently caught the eyes of guys.

For there is a universal truth, as constant as the moon to the tides: If there are attractive women involved in a fad of the hour -- especially a marriage of women with sports -- guys will want to see them naked.

The more odd and elusive the idea, the better.

Mind you, not the ones who are too "softball" -- as one sports guy said on the radio this morning (in case you're wondering, that's code for women who are ... um ... a bit masculine).

Rather, the "hey-some-of-those-curling-chicks-are-hot" type.

And the "curling hotties" seem willing to feed the fetish.

Enter: The Curling Calendar.



The 2006 Ana Arce Team Sponsorship Calendar -- which features 12 female athletes representing curling teams from various countries -- was originally released in the fall in Canada.

But with the massive exposure of curling in the Olympics, the calendar is getting a new marketing push.

Women who compete with brooms and wear tight clothes? Only every four years? What a provocative combination!

What's that you say? Obscure? Perplexing?

That's exactly why guys are so enthralled.

Exploitive? Objectifying? Absolutely.

A woman sleeps with a presidential candidate during his campaign? Guys demand a full-frontal investigation.

Be a real bitch on a reality show? Take it off, sweetheart!

This is the way it is and the way it shall be. Like it or not. Take it or leave it.

Looks like these women are taking it.

They say Playboy is going to provide a big boost in marketing in its March issue, but they better make sure they get the word out before the heat of that torch dissipates into the cold snows of the Italian Alps a week from Sunday.

Today's curler is yesterday's Monica Lewinski.

"I Would Destroy You, Valentine, But I Love You Too Much"

I can really take or leave Valentine's Day.

I suppose I'm able to say that so non-chalantly because my wife has agreed with me that Valentine's Day is a day to screw guys over with flowers for triple the cost and greeting cards that leave it up to someone else to tell a loved one how you feel.

What makes me take it, for the most part, is the kids.

Valentines from kindergartners are exquisitely innocent.

We all remember them. Before the cold sting of isolation when you're a teenager or an adult and everybody but you is receiving some sort of affirmation of love, there's elementary school, when everybody gets a valentine.

Boys proclaim their love for boys. Girls for girls. And you get the feeling they've got it all figured out somehow.

Digging into the bag of valentines my son brought home today reveals to me that we have a tradition worth keeping.

First, from the boys -- beseeching their affection with overwrought machismo. Not only is it funny to think that the valentines boys pick out are sent to girls, but they give them to other boys, too.











Of course, the girls are equally caricatural. In some way, the fact these go to other girls is not nearly as striking as the idea of boys like my boy -- the little man who struggles to wear anything but jerseys and basketball shorts to school -- being referred to as "a fashionable friend."








And there's always the sweet anamoly. Perhaps the most-endearing aspect of Valentine's Day.

The boy who picks out the girly valentine because he likes watching the cartoon.

(As someone who admits to being Wonder Woman for Halloween when I was 5, I can relate).

It's particularly interesting that this one comes from the one friend my son has in school who is considered a kindred spirit, getting in trouble for being too rough on the playground.




I always knew I liked the teacher. Not afraid to throw an insult a 5 year old's way.





And while I'm always partial to "Star Wars" (leave it to C3Po to provide the most-androgynous, non-committal valentine) ...




... this one has to be my favorite.




Smash! I Love You!

Just Don't Say Anything

Running is a fascinating form of competition.

Runners run against themselves. Yet at the same time they're running against you.

They can be neurotically motivated. Running three miles a second or two faster is a monumental achievement.

I respect runners. They run in the cold rain, when they're hungry and when they're full. They wear tight spandex pants and sunglasses at night, yet they aren't pro wrestlers.

I am not a runner.

If I am to run, it must be after something, not to a destination. I'm too willing to say that whatever it is I'm trying to get to can wait.

I generally do my running chasing basketballs, three or four times a week, for two hours at a time. It leaves me exhausted and satisfied to be sore the next day.

This is quite different from running. I'm not sure I like runners. Or at least the overall profile of the majority of runners I've dealt with.

---

At my workplace, we are involved in a corporate coalition among our community that competes with other large corporations in races.

We compete in general race events, and then we break out the number to determine who can best combine participation numbers and fast runners to win a big plaque that goes in the lobby to show everyone how fit and committed we are.

I'm often neurotically recruited to run in these races, because apparently I'm a decent runner. I used to participate in just about any race that provided a free t-shirt (which I would promptly cut the sleeves off into a basketball shirt).

During one particular race, I decided ultimately that I really just hated running. It felt good to finish. And you got a t-shirt. But was it really worth it?

So I quit.


---

But this one I could do.

Downtown. Downhill. One mile. See how fast you can get there, and next thing you know you're done.

Free t-shirt, too.

The week before I was to run in the race, I was sitting in my house on a random weeknight. The basketball gym had been closed because it's basketball season and it's always booked for different leagues.

I was on my fourth rum and coke. It struck me that I'm lazy. Kind of a lazy athlete.

I'm in excellent cardiovascular condition, yet I do nothing. I roll off the couch. Go run back and forth after a ball for two hours. Then lie back down on the couch. Sometimes I take a shower, sometimes I simply fall asleep.

I decided that if I were going to run in a race, I needed to do it right. I needed to see how fast I could run a mile. I wanted to be a runner for just this race.

Motivated and competitive against myself.

So, I got in my truck and measured a mile around the neighborhood.

I put on some shoes and basketball shorts, grabbed my cell phone, went out into the cold and set off as soon as the time clicked to 12:17.

If I could run a mile in seven-something minutes, that would be a success. Because, you know, when it comes to running only downhill and not having finished off four liquor drinks, I could probably do better when the race came around.

I ran a mile and looked down. The phone read "12:24." Whether it was 12:24 and one second or 12:24 and 59 seconds didn't matter.

I felt legimate.

---

On race night, I took note of the serious faces around me. The runners who run before the race starts!

People were talking "strategy." I asked a runner prototype guy what strategy I should have.

"What are you shooting for?" he asked me.

"Seven-something."

"It's a sprint," he said, "so just start out fast and don't worry about wearing down.

"Cool."

The faces were grim. The race began.

As I got a good ways down the road, I came to the part of the race that I come to in every race, where psychology and physiology collide.

Or you could call it "rationalization."

"How can I stop, right now, and not be humiliated for doing it?"

There was no way. If I quit, I was a quitter. If I walked the rest of the way, I was even worse.

So I kept running as fast as I could, praying it would end soon and mercifully.

I was a runner. Isn't this what they do? I'm not so much different, I thought. I'm competitive. I'm pushing myself, almost neurotically.

Just about this moment, when I'm at my most-desperate yet most-determined, a lone runner comes behind me. Just me and him.

And I learn how different we are.

"Good job," he says. Then he passes on.

This is where running and me end our on-again, off-again relationship.

---

I'm not used to passive-aggressive competition. I don't congratulate someone as if I'm in the process of beating them.

Maybe afterwards. "Good game" or something like that.

But, to me, passing someone in a race and saying "good job" strikes me as ... pompous ... in a backhanded, dishonest kind of way.

If I were to drain a 3-pointer in someone's face, would I immediately say, "But nice try, you almost got to it. Don't worry, you'll get better?"

Someone can completely own me -- you know, break my ankles with a crossover, dunk with his plums in my face, smother me in his superiority -- and I'm perfectly calm and accepting of that. I don't talk when I play as a general personality trait, but it's completely within the code to do it.

So ...

I would rather the guy with the short shorts panting and chugging along smack me on the ass and say, "Hey, loser, have fun watching the bottom of my soles as I destroy you by 30 seconds."

Or, just don't say anything, Mr. Runner Guy.