The Lions' Roar

Too often it seems as if sports are defined by the worst of those who participate. Whether it is because of gambling addicts as referees, animal torturers as quaterbacks, or steroid monsters as 'legends,' it has been difficult to remember why fans treat their favorite athletes as heroes. Or better yet, why sports unite individuals in a way nothing else can.

Ever since I was a wee-thing, I have followed sports. One of my earliest memories is watching a Bear game with my dad at my great-grandfather's home when we were on leave, and him jamming a pennant into my hands after the Monsters of the Midway scored a touchdown. As I grew up, these type of moments are what kept my dad and I together, when many other things did not.

But on a much larger scale than father-son, there is also like nothing like walking into a football stadium or racetrack with 90,000 other people who are all there for the same thing. I have no problems going to events by myself. I know that it's always possible to turn to the person setting next to me and strike up a conversation that could last the whole game.

And why are people so willing to do so? Maybe it is because a game can make a person forget about how shitty their lives are. For a few hours, they can cheer, boo, celebrate and console with their best friends and total strangers. Their first worry is not how the bills are getting paid or when they are going to leave their FEMA trailer. Instead, it is simply whose going to score the touchdown to beat Ole Miss or USC.

***

In international soccer, the world is divided into varying regions. And during the summers in which a World Cup is not held, these regions have their own tournaments. This summer the Asia regional held theirs, and among the teams that participated was the Iraqi National Team.

Not much was expected from them, as Iraq does not have a rich history in international competition. The Middle East is often dominated by Saudi Arabia and Iran. But the team's make-up was an inspiration for a country bogged down in civil war. Shi'ites, Sunnis, Kurds and Christians were all represented. Just going there was a victory in itself.

But then something special started to happen. They won their group and advanced to the knock-out rounds. And earlier this week, they defeated a vaunted South Korean team on penalty kicks to move on to the finals.

Their opponent in the finals was Saudi Arabia. The Saudis, a three-time winner of the competition, are also a perennial World Cup qualifier. The Kingdom pumps a sizeable amount of money into the team and their investment more often than not pays off. So, many figured that today's result was over before the game even started.

Too bad those folk forgot that sometimes miracles actually do happen. The greatest moments in sports are when underdogs win. And today, the ultimate underdog did. In the 71st minute, Iraq's captain headed a ball into the back of the net and the team won 1-0.

The victory doesn't solve much on a political level. At least three members of the team have had relatives killed in the past two months. And the team wore black armbands in memory of the fifty people killed during the celebration of their win over the Koreans. But perhaps it does something even more important.

It shows the Iraqis that not everything they get their hopes up over turns to dust. These atheletes are not politicians, but they seemingly accomplished more in a few weeks than the new government has accomplished in 4+ years. They are good men who were able to put behind them whatever ethnic differences separate their countrymen in order to achieve a common goal. When was the last time you heard that phrase relating to a story coming out of Baghdad?

Duplicity

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Joyce Collins, 1929-2007

My grandmother was born on July 25, 1929 to Harry and Grace Boynton in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa. Those who know their history might recognize this was only a few months before the great stock market crash of the same year and the beginning of the Great Depression. As a result, when her brother, Jack, was born a couple of years later, the family had to make some rather difficult choices.

Joyce was sent to live with her Aunt Irene ("Gog") and Uncle ("Poppy") Harold. It is believed that Gog had up to twenty miscarriages during the course of her life and, in fact, had lost two sets of twins. Naturally, she was left without the ability to have children. Gog and Poppy took Joyce in and raised her as their own. Many, myself included, believe my grandmother got the better end of this deal than Jack who stayed with their natural parents. Gog and Poppy were extremely caring and nurturing individuals. And gave her the best life possible during this arduous time in American history.

***

In the early 1950's, Joyce met Dean Collins. They were married for approximately twenty-five years and had two children: Mike, my father, and Tracy, my aunt. Dean left her for what would become his second wife, and while my father was a grown man, Tracy was still a young girl. So, my grandmother became of one of the millions of single mothers during the middle of her life.

Up until July 15th of this year, Tracy had spent every day of her life, minus the occasional vacation and six week marriage, with Joyce. Knowing that life was tough enough for a self-described, "chubby teenage girl," Joyce spent every penny she made on Tracy. Accordingly, Tracy always had the best clothes, make-up, and music of any girl in her school. It was something she gladly did, because as grandma herself admitted, her daughter was the only reason she didn't kill herself after Dean left.

***

Joyce spent much of her life as a book-keeper. But as computers pushed out hand-written ledgers and adding machines, my grandmother decided it was time for career change. She became a in-home care-giver for the infirmed and elderly. By all accounts, this was a profession she should have picked up at early age because all of her clients loved her. Even as her life and health deteriorated, she kept working, giving selflessly when she should have been sipping pina colodas on a beach somewhere.

Part of the reason she never retired was because in 1999 she gained a client very close to her heart: Tracy. My aunt was diagnosed as having MS and my grandmother was the obvious choice to be her caregiver.

But Joyce also worked because she had no other choice. Like millions of Americans, my grandmother was consumed by debt, paying off credit cards with credit cards, taking out as many loans as possible, etc. She had to work to save herself and Tracy.

And never once did she complain or ask for help. In fact, I always got a birthday card with a check. She had survived Dean and she seemed bound and determined to get through this.

***

On July 15, 2007, Tracy called Joyce to check where she was. My grandmother replied that she was out running some errands for Tracy, but would be back in less than twenty minutes. Shortly thereafter, they said they loved each other and hung up.

The coroner believes that my grandmother had an aneurysm, causing her to slump over in her seat and hit a tree head-on with the car. Beginning last year, she started having mini-strokes. The doctors were unwilling to operate because of her age. So, it was thought her time might be limited, but no one expected this. She deserved better.

***

It was widely believed that she never loved again after Dean. But at her funeral, one of the mourners approached me, and identified herself as the daughter of a man I simply knew as Bud. He was ex-CIA, for real. The only thing anyone knew was that he was one of four men sent to the Phillippines in the 1960's, and he was the only one who returned alive. But Bud met my grandmother, long after this was past, and they developed a deep and meaningul friendship. Bud had numerous marriages, and whenever they broke-up, he turned to her.

Bud got cancer and passed away in July of last year. Everyone knew this. What no one knew was that he had asked Joyce to marry him two months prior to that. Her response: "You wouldn't marry me for all of these years, It's too late now." That was her.

***

For various reasons, I really didn't know my grandmother until college. But I loved her. And I hurt in a way now I never would have expected. Life will go on. It'll just be a little less complete.

"I don't think there's any point in being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart eventually."

--- Pat Moynihan, upon learning of JFK's death.

Thank You David Chase

The last time we physically saw Tony Soprano he was breathing. But the debate among the fans seems to be whether by the time the credits rolled that was still the case. All that I know is that my favorite show is done (for the time being) and I loved every minute of it.

For those of you who didn't see the finale, the last few shots are of several suspicious looking fellows entering a restaurant while Tony, Carmela, and AJ are enjoying a basket of onion rings. One of them gets up to go to the bathroom, another reads the paper, and the last two are at a jukebox. Meadow is outside trying to parallel park and getting rather flustered with how poorly it is going. She is just coming into the restaurant when the screen goes completely to black for a few seconds and then the credits roll.

Now, I really don't want to sit here and bore non-fans with minutiae because there are more universal themes I want to touch on. But based upon certain foreshadowings, occurrences in the last scene, plotlines, and just the overall tone of the show, what the blackness represents is most certainly arguable. And to me that demonstrates why this show was beautiful, intelligent, and a masterpiece.

I would like to think by the end David Chase realized what he had created. It was a family made up by everyone who stayed up all hours of the night watching the box sets, who had friends over Sunday to eat and view, who talked about what was going to happen and what it all meant. But
perhaps most importantly it was made up by all of us who invested ourselves into these characters as if they were our actual loved ones.

And if Chase came to that understanding, maybe he also knew that we were all entitled to write our own ending. Maybe that guy walks out of the bathroom and pops Tony in the temple. Or maybe, like so much of the show, it is smoke-and-mirrors, made to get us thinking about the possibilities which never materialize, and Tony keeps going on and on, like the Journey song playing in the background says. Other than Chase, who really knows? And isn't that really beautiful in its own right?

There are moments in life when imagining what may come beats the resolution. And in fact, can't what actually happens seem somehow less meaningful because any mystery there was is now taken away? I hope maybe this was going through Chase's mind as he penned the final scenes. And that he knew better than to give a definitive ending to a show which was never really about that.

To me the show was art. And like great pieces, some action was visible and obvious. But the real awe-inspiring aspects lay hidden within, waiting to be found. Like a painting, it gave the viewer possibilities, but was unconcerned with always providing answers. For it knew that people had a right to their own dreams and hopes. It knew that it was a starting point to immerse oneself in. And that while truth was reflected in it, it provided a way for people to think about something else besides their shitty lives.

I'll miss it deeply.

A Battle for America's Soul

Many have tried, but none have succeeded. Since 2001, one man has ruled with an iron fist, slaying anyone who might try to rise up and challenge his authority. Who is this modern day King Arthur? He is Takeru "Tsunami" Kobayashi, and, as his nickname suggests, he leaves bodies strewn in his wake when he falls upon the land of Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Held every Fourth of July on Coney Island, the Contest is the Super Bowl of the International Federation of Competitive Eating's season. It is a crowning achievement to win this prestigious event and a source of national pride when the champion heralds from within your borders. And for many years, Americans could walk around with swollen chests knowing that a hero rested within it's borders. And heroes they all were. Men (and I say that word in the manliest of ways) such as Frank "Large" Dellarosa and Mike "The Scholar" Devito, who could average a healthy 20 dogs in 12 minutes.

But then in 1997, we avid followers were given a glimpse of what lay on the Eastern horizon. For it was in that year, the Japanese struck American soil for the second time in the twentieth century, when Hirofumi Nakajima sauntered in and put down 24 and 1/2. An American nightmare was upon us. And we had no idea how frightening it would become.

***

July 4, 2001. An uneasy air hung above the crowd at Coney Island that day. Since Nakajima won in 1997, only once had the winner of the contest come from the land of the sleeping tiger. And in fact the previous year saw a clean sweep of the top three spots by Japanese competitors.
But there was a sense of anxious hope among the Yanks, for Japan had sent a beanpole of a rookie to do business that year. Clearly, it was our time to return to glory. The clock started, and Americans hung on to the edge of their couches with bated breath, waiting to exhale in jubilant exultation. The moment never came.

***

50. This is the number of hotdogs Takeru Kobayashi consumed that July 4th. The closest competitor was 19 behind. America was crushed. Children, and Jesus, wept. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. People asked openly, "With such power as that, how long can this man-beast rule the competitive eating world?" The answer appeared to be for as long as Kobayashi wants.

For the following four years, Kobayashi went unchallenged. Left and right, the bodies of lesser men piled up around his slender frame. He seemed gracious enough, and maybe even a little endearing. I even heard people inquire into whether it was possible for Uncle Sam to perform a little trans-Pacific adoption. Clearly, some Americans had driven themselves to delirium with such traitorous thoughts.

But it was easy to understand why this might be the case. Kobayashi set a pace every year that was quite simply un-human. And many had to wonder why God would chose to let loose a second eating monster on the earth.

So, it was with a "here-we-go-again" attitude that many Americans approached the 2006 Contest. And then something amazing happened.

***

June 2, 2007. A young man from the Land of Fruits and Nuts awoke in his Arizona hotel room. He understood the significance of where he was: the beginning of the long road to redemption. For this was the day of the Southwest Regional of the annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. He couldn't help but think back to the events of last year, but he also knew the memories could not overwhelm him or defeat would be certain.

***

July 4, 2006. Another Contest had came and went, and the result was the same as it had been the previous five years: Kobayashi triumphed over all. In fact, he had set a world record by eating 53 and 1/2 hot dogs. Except this time there was a difference. At the end, the Tsunami was little more than a tropical depression, as he nearly collapsed in exhaustion. Rather than winning winning by ten or fifteen, he barely escaped. For Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, hailing from San Jose, California, had gorged himself on 52. The clouds parted from before the sun and hope returned.

***

As Chestnut entered the site of the Southwest Regional, a hush fell over the crowd. It was the type of silence that comes over a people when they realize that they are witnessing someone who can be truly great. It's the type of reverence reserved for a man one-part Rocky Balboa and the other Godzilla-killer. Stopwatches were set and the call was given.

The result was never in question, for Chestnut proved that he was no one time fluke. When the count was over, the results were announced to the waiting crowd. 59. A new world record. The place erupted. While not at the competition, Kobayashi had been defeated in spirit. His mark was no more.

"I always thought there was a limit - a limit to the human stomach and a limit to human willpower - but I guess not," remarked one witness. Truer words were never spoken.

***

As the months become weeks, the weeks, days, a crowd of unheard proportions will gather at Coney Island to witness. The hopes of nations rest on the shoulders of two men. But for the first time in a while, a smell will be in the air: the aroma of American victory. It is almost as if God, himself, is sending signals, for Chestnut will be twenty-three, the same age as Kobayashi in 2001.

July 4, 2007. 6:00 Eastern Standard Time. ESPN 2. Destiny awaits. Where will you be? Let the games begin.

U-S-A. U-S-A. U-S-A...