Olympic Spirit

To anyone who is finally emerging from withdrawal symptoms due to the disappearance of Olympic coverage, I offer this short story of Olympic Spirit.

My kids were always amazed that I had never been on a sports team, not uncommon for my generation of pre-Title IX women. Especially those of us with a solid Catholic education knew that phys ed was considered a frivolous subject, excluded from most parochial school curriculums. In my Catholic girls high school, we did finally have gym class with Mrs. Betty B, tall and knock-kneed, her silver whistle dangling from her neck and her annoying voice exhorting us to run or play ball, so we could return to class a sweaty mess. I hated her because she did not recognize my innate potential Sport teams were limited to basketball, and after being cut the first round of freshman tryouts, I harbored ill feelings to Betty B for the rest of my four years. I still went to the basketball games, where one of our fiercest rivals was St. Ann's Home for Wayward Girls. Games were played after school and spectators from the neighboring boys Catholic school were banned from the gym for fear of inappropriate comments.

My sad sports career continued, as I flirted with suburban tennis in my younger days and was happy to have mastered the scoring and where I was supposed to stand on the court when playing doubles. Now I'm tackling golf.

On a recent vacation Gary and I were golfing in North Carolina at 2 pm on a sweltering 97 degree day.  It seemed we had the course to ourselves--All the Carolinians were probably relaxing at the beach or sipping drinks by a pool. But, we finally caught up to a foursome of men who must have been tourists, too. They had all already teed off on the par 3 hole, but marked their balls and waved us to play through.

Gary went first, landing just off the green and I miraculously had a similar shot from the ladies' tee, landing my ball within a few inches of his. Gary chipped his ball too hard and it rolled about 15 feet past the hole. My turn. I could feel four pairs of eyes on me, but managed to put the ball about three feet from the hole. My gallery of men chuckled.

Gary missed his long putt and I stepped up to the green. Sweat was rolling down the middle of my back. Should I line up the shot in every direction? Walk around and pick up the stray leaf ? Squat down and eyeball that shot into submission? No, I just wanted to get it over with. I concentrated on my pendulum swing and tapped the ball. It wobbled over the 3 foot span and disappeared into the hole!

The gents erupted in laughter and applause and I gave them a smile and nod. I wasn't quite ready for a Tiger Woods fist pump, but echoes of legendary Olympic announcer Jim McKay's voice rang in my ears--"the thrill of victory!" So this is why people play sports. Wouldn't Betty B be proud of me-- that gawky girl in a scratchy white gym uniform, complete with skirt and bloomers had grown up to actually do something right in sports!

I could get used to this feeling and I crowed about it all day (poor Gary), even as my game deteriorated and McKay's "agony of defeat" kicked in. But, oh, how sweet it was!