I don't like sports fans, (especially the obese ones) mostly because they're living vicariously.I box. Boxing isn't a sport -- it's my nervous and sexual tensions mixed with a strange psychology experiment and flung into a ring. Even while panting through my third mile every morning, I feel no bond with my athletic brethren (only envy for their intimidating calf muscles).
Right about when the Olympics began, my infinite stubbornness caused me to run my right leg into the ground and I was sentenced to prescription Motrin and the Chelsea Pool.
As I was wobbling home on swimmers' legs last week, a sudden respect for Usain Bolt, the running sensation I had been forced to read about all day, washed over me.
His face in a Times photo I saw earlier oozed an enormous amount of body and willpower combined in just the right way.
For a second I saw the athletes of the word standing in the sun, exalted in their victory over mind and muscle. Then a sharp pain in my bum knee snapped me out of it (and I got scared that my next move would be to grab a Coors Light and start yelling at the nearest flat screen TV.)
Bolt doesn't need anyone else to join his glory party. I don't want a party either -- just the ability to right-hook a bag again.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment