Agony of Defeat

After nearly fifty years of living with myself, you’d think I ought to know a few things about the person I am. And you’d be partially right.

I have, for instance, developed a fairly clear picture of how lazy and self-centered I am. My general disposition is pretty much to do the bare minimum necessary to get my own way and often—perhaps a saving grace—I’m even lazy enough not to care whether things go the way I want or not.

I’m also aware that I’m biased towards escape. I like sitting on the aisle and prefer to have an excuse to leave the party if I need to.

And I’m not someone who has a particularly high tolerance for pain—not mine, to be sure, but nor do I care much for seeing others (except maybe Dr. Phil) suffer, either.

One thing I haven’t learned, though, in spite of ample evidence to the contrary, is that I’m not really an athlete.

Yesterday, for instance, even though I was reminded of the contrary every time I assayed steeper or more moguled runs, I still cling to the belief that I’m an excellent skier, only a weeklong ski trip away from competing in the X Games.

On the bike trail to work, in spite of being passed by pre-teen girls on single-speed cruiser bikes, I can’t shake the notion that with a little training I could win the Polka Dot jersey in the Tour.

One of the unhappiest moments in my childhood was at the 4th grade district-wide track and field games day. After I failed in my third attempt to clear the initial three-foot height in the high jump, I shuffled tearfully over to the group of geeks and nerds who also couldn’t make it. My friend, Ricky Minutello tried to comfort me. “Don’t cry, Dave,” he said, “None of us made it either. We’re all here with you.”

That’s when I really started to bawl.