Sporty Spice

Any Wannabe's out there?

I love sports. I watch football, a little soccer, a little baseball, a little tennis, and sometimes even golf on tv. My new favorite magazine is Play in the Sunday NYT, although I do draw the line at Sports Illustrated because of the copious ads of half clad women. Sometimes I want to be an elite athlete. It is not about self esteem, well maybe it is . I wonder what it would be like to perform all of these physical feats, that come naturally to some. There is something inherently watchable about sports, and sport movie. Champions or underdogs, there is so much to root for and there is always some personal demons that through physical strength and skill the protagonist is forced to deal with them.

On Saturday morning, cartoons were all reruns. When I turned to HBO there was "Major League 2." Now why would I get sucked into this schlock? Well, I had seen one and three, so it was perfectly logical to watch number 2. Okay, let's say it was bad, but there was a moral to the story, keep real to the person you are and you can win.

Later on that weekend, I was lazing on my favorite couch, I somehow got suckered into watching another baseball movie. This one was called "61." The story of 1961 and the homerun derby between Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. At the end of the movie, I found myself crying. Yes, crying. That sweet cry girls have at sappy movies that make us happy. Some girls enjoy emotional tear jerker standbys like "Terms of Endearment," "Steel Magnolias," and "The Notebook." For me, its snippets from sports movies: like when Ray Hobbs tells Pops that all he ever wanted to do is to play ball, when Rocky gets his eye cut, when Lou Gherig has to take his first sick day, when Moocher takes the bike in a futile effort to stay in the race, even when Danny Glover tells Tony Danza that he has an angel on his side.

This memorial weekend, Evil Twin #2 and her boyfriend visited Boston. More importantly, they came to run the "Boston Run to Remember." ET#2 had originally convinced me to run the half marathon with her. However, she opted for the five-miler in a toe to toe race with her boyfriend. I, on the other hand, having already paid the full entrance fee for the half marathon, and having a strange need to always get my money's worth, decided to run the half marathon alone. Although we had different start times, we arrived toogether at the convetion center early. We chilled at a table when I see one of my mortal enemies pass by, so now my personal sport story is complete. I am an undertrained underdog with a rival. So I feel pumped, I am full of vim, Japanese energy drinks, competitive bile, and a happy attitude.

As the run goes along, fatigue sets in early. The sun is out strong and saps my energy. Running along Memorial Drive at the 5 mile mark, I see the elite male runners running back towards the finsih line. They were beautiful sinewy specimens floating down the black pavement. In contrast, my breathing is labored, my face feels hot because I cannot sweat, and I am whining about the pain in my pinky toe. But I kept moving.

As I doubled back and headed to the finish line I saw my mortal enemy wave hello. I flicked him off. I was hot and tired and creativity in a split second was not happening. He did not see it, so it was wasted. I trucked along desparately searching for shade.

Somewhere along the Longfellow bridge, I fell apart. I did not want to be here any more. I was tired and I hated the fact that people kept passing me. I could not move faster. I wondered about those beautiful sinewy men and women who seemed so graceful as the ran. I thought it when a man who was about 50 pounds overweight in a once burgundy t-shirt huffed and puffed right by me. The finishline seemed so far away.

At the finish line, I was spent, salty and a little dazed. Someone yelled my name. It was someone I work with: a russian guy in charge of the proteomics facility. He gave me a big hug and kissed me on my cheek. Suddenly, all negative feelings went away. I had finished the course, I was happy and proud. Then I saw ET#2 and BF. They got me water and ET#2 took the timing chip off my shoe. We all walked to the bus together.

Maybe the love of sports is seeing others or yourself do more than you think you can. That there are good guys and bad guys. That the protagonist gives 110 percent even when it would be eaisier to give up. That in the end there is a comraderie with your team mates, your friends and your rivals. I can feel my eyes welling up....okay not this time.