(Editor's Note: Former Southern Illinoisan and Pinckneyville Democrat columnist Jeff Smyth is now writing for The Post. Read his column each Thursday on this site).
BY: JEFF SMYTH
As the misses and I were watching the Winter Olympics the other evening she was admiring the willowy frames of the cross country skiers as I picked crumbs off the ledge that has mysteriously cropped up just below my atrophied pecs. The dreamy spell she was under was broken when she diverted her gaze from the flat panel to my direction.
I knew right away what she was thinking, “Why is there a crack in the glass slipper in my Cinderella story?”
True, Father Time and gravity are unbeatable forces but I had to defend the little self respect to which I was clinging.
“What? I can be an Olympian,” I asserted only to send her into a blood-vessel- bursting laughing spell.
With my dignity now at stake I had to act quickly to convince her there was a shred of truth in my meager bravado. I grabbed the remote and switched to another station that featured men’s Olympic curling at full throttle.
She looked in horror at the screen. The trim and sturdy-as-Ponderosa-pine- athletes had been replaced by balding, paunchy men who in their day jobs wouldn’t find it unusual to sport name patches on their shirts, or at least pocket protectors.
Feeling I had gained an advantage it was time to make my case.
“The Olympics aren’t about a man-child who says that all of the 18 years he’s been on this earth he’s aspired to win a gold medal,” I said. “It’s about guys like them who have used what obviously is a beer drinking game to gain entry into a world where lithe figure skaters and hot snow bunnies linger in clubs and chalets.
“Do you think Lindsey Vonn would be seen in the same Canadian province as these guys any other time of year? They aren’t in it for gold, silver or bronze. Just being there makes them champions,” I added.
There is not much to curling. A hunk of rounded granite that, at $1,300 a pop costs more than the ’96 pickup truck I drive, is slid from one end of a sheet of ice toward a series of concentric circles on the other end. The team with the stone closest to the center wins a point. The one with the most points after 10 rounds wins the game.
To help manipulate the direction and speed of the stone others on a curling team buff or scruff the ice with brooms and mops. Touting around items that one would normally find in a hall closet makes me wonder if curlers have trouble getting through airport security or into the Olympic Village.
Security: “Whatcha got in the bag?”
Curler: “That’s my mop and broom.”
Security: “The maintenance gate is around the corner.”
Curler: “No, I’m an Olympic athlete.”
Security: “Right bub, and Lindsey Vonn just asked me out for drinks. Take a hike.”
It’s said curling was invented sometime in the 1500s in Scotland. No doubt many bottles of single malt were involved. I can’t get out of my mind the image of a bunch of guys in kilts standing around on an icy pond saying, “O’, me stones are soooo cold.”
The sport is known for its decorum and etiquette – at least it was until these Olympics. At Vancouver, curling has developed a cult-like following and crowds have become so raucous that they are distracting the curlers. As a side note, it’s reported that only hockey fans drink more beer.
While the guys can easily be mistaken for engineers or accountants, it’s a different story on the female curling teams. There we find Barbie doll-minted beauties in bobbing ponytails and freshly-applied eyeliner. Where other Olympic athletes hope that gold medals lead to Nike or Gatorade contracts, I easily see Revlon or Aquanet sign women curlers to endorsement deals.
If curling can be an Olympic sport than why not bags, washers or Jarts? These competitions can be held during the summer games and give those of us who don’t live on glaciers a chance to parade in the opening ceremonies elbow to elbow with Michael Phelps. Maybe the captain of the bags team would be selected to light the Olympic flame.
I can visualize it now. He’d get about halfway up to the cauldron and have to stop for a smoke break. Once he got to the top he’d flick the butt of his Lucky Strike into the gas and, poof, let the games begin.
Back on the home front, and satisfied that I had convinced my lovely that it was plausible for me to become an Olympic athlete, I kicked back on the sofa. The spouse left the room but soon returned with a cold can of Bud in her hand. She offered it to me.
“Why are you being so kind,” I asked.
“This isn’t out of kindness,” she responded. “I’m now your trainer.”
