Coffee Table Declarations
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
I'm not quite sure what to do with my evenings now that the Olympics are over. What will I do without Bob Costas navigating me through the sporting events deamed worthy of prime time? What will I do without the slow motion replays and heartwarming background stories of various athletes?
When I was very young - perhaps five or six, I took a gymnastics class. I don't remember anything about the class except for one climactic moment during the end. We were having some sort of recital for friends and family to show off the newly gained gymnastic ability that their hard earned money had paid for. The time came for me to get onto the balance beam and walk across it. I don't know how I got up there - maybe there were steps of some sort. I just know that the balance beam seemed very high off the ground and I was very small. I have an image in my mind of standing and trembling on the beginning of the balance beam, unable to move one way or the other. I looked at the audience of faces, waiting breathlessly for my gymnastic debut. I looked at the ground, miles below. I looked at the beam stretching out to eternity in front of me. And I stood frozen in fear.
After what seemed like a long time but probably wasn't, I recognized someone emerging toward the crowd and bounding to my rescue. It was my dad. He didn't care if he wasn't supposed to be participating in the show, he didn't care what anyone thought. He stood next to me and took my hand. Slowly we walked together, him across the floor and me across the beam. I am sure that the audience thought it was sweet and my father had the best of intentions. But I pinpoint this incident as the reason I never made it to the Olympics. How often to you see the gymnasts being helped across the beam by their fathers?
When I was very young - perhaps five or six, I took a gymnastics class. I don't remember anything about the class except for one climactic moment during the end. We were having some sort of recital for friends and family to show off the newly gained gymnastic ability that their hard earned money had paid for. The time came for me to get onto the balance beam and walk across it. I don't know how I got up there - maybe there were steps of some sort. I just know that the balance beam seemed very high off the ground and I was very small. I have an image in my mind of standing and trembling on the beginning of the balance beam, unable to move one way or the other. I looked at the audience of faces, waiting breathlessly for my gymnastic debut. I looked at the ground, miles below. I looked at the beam stretching out to eternity in front of me. And I stood frozen in fear.
After what seemed like a long time but probably wasn't, I recognized someone emerging toward the crowd and bounding to my rescue. It was my dad. He didn't care if he wasn't supposed to be participating in the show, he didn't care what anyone thought. He stood next to me and took my hand. Slowly we walked together, him across the floor and me across the beam. I am sure that the audience thought it was sweet and my father had the best of intentions. But I pinpoint this incident as the reason I never made it to the Olympics. How often to you see the gymnasts being helped across the beam by their fathers?
