THE RAMBLING MAN

Author: Raam Wong

The 2002 Olympic Games is an awesome showcase of individuals' relentless training and unfaltering pursuit of the gold. All across the country the momentous occasion was marked by hefty Americans turning on the tube, popping their Lay-Z-Boys into the fully reclined position and slipping into a comatose state as a result of half a pound of pork rinds and beer resting in their stomachs. The Games commenced with the sentimental Opening Ceremony in which the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's belted "Wind Beneath My Wings" in nine different languages.

For me, the Games prompt reflection on my own sports career which, at worst, may be described as mediocre and, at best, horrific.

Still, there was a time when I considered myself an Olympic hopeful. Through grueling, repetitive workouts I fixed my concentration on the Olympics. I was motivated, ruthless, and unstoppable, which was pretty impressive for a six-year-old. You see, my parents enrolled me in a weekly class called "Little Tikes Olympics." I was never quite sure why I was sent there. Perhaps my parents were conscious of my amazing ability to repeatedly hurdle over my uneasy golden retriever and concluded that I had a special gift for athletics. Either that, or they desired to get their son — the poster boy for Ritalin — out of the house for a while to give the dog time to escape to the pound.

Whatever the case, it was here where I, and other three-foot tall Olympic hopefuls, learned all of the skills critical for Olympians — somersaults, handstands and how to pass a drug test. Throughout my training as a Junior Olympian, I was set on one day winning the gold for my country in that winter sport that so captivates the world every four years: Curling. I had yet to be jaded, however, by Olympic scandals related to things such as corrupt French judges, drug use and commentator Bob Costas.

My time as an Olympic hopeful had to end, however. I soon realized that I could no longer deprive other sports of my athletic ability. I was confident that the agility of my two left feet and the strong throwing capability of my eight-year-old-girl arm would make me a sensation on the baseball bench.

I forget if it was only days, weeks or years before I was allowed on the field, but once I was, I was filled with great confusion and terror. For some reason, no one thought to explain to me how the damn game was played. I spent the majority of my time running away from the baseball thinking we were playing a game similar to dodge ball. It must have been during one of my screaming runs from the ball that inspired my coach to give me my second brush with Olympic greatness when he suggested I try out for the Special Olympics.

Evidently, baseball was not my sport. It seems I had the speed of Strom Thurmond and the hand-eye coordination of Ray Charles. And there was nothing worse than trying to play while bleachers full of family and friends looked on. For instance, it was quite embarrassing when somebody would yell at me saying that I threw like a girl. My embarrassment was only compounded by the fact that the taunt usually came from my grandmother. Still, I had the perfect comeback for my teammates who made fun of my throwing abilities: "I may throw like a girl, but at least I can knit like a man!" That usually shut them up.

Eventually I learned the rules of baseball and was promoted to pitcher. I think my pitching skills were of paramount importance to my T-ball team. Soon enough, I was nominated for an award created just for me: T-ball's MVP (Most Valuable Pitcher), but I lost to an armless pitcher with a glass eye. I was perfectly happy being the pitcher, positioning myself on the mound, striking a ready stance, which usually consisted of sitting on the mound Indian style waiting for the snack break.

Occasionally my coach, impressed with my abilities, sent me to the outfield (when the blind outfielder was sick.) I found that usually I was safe in the outfield, until the rare moment when there was a pop fly sending a ball right for me. It was at this moment that I would remember never having caught anything in my life nor thrown further than 10 feet. I anticipated my teammates and their parents vilifying me in four-letter words sentences.

However, I found that there were two effective ways to avoid the ball as it was flying right towards me: I could either pretend not to see it or fake a heart attack. Either way, the end result was inevitable — the ball would whack me in the face, my teammates would throw down their gloves in disgust, and my parents would put me up for adoption.

After six bloody noses, two concussions, a dozen "heart attacks" and a sky-high health insurance rate, I decided to quit baseball. So it is with bittersweet feelings that I now watch the Olympic Games. Perhaps if I had worked harder, I too could have made my country proud by capturing the Bunny Slope Skiing World Record, or falling out of my bobsled and bleeding on the ice.