Taking Bearings

Watching Olympic high jumpers Qatar’s Mutaz Essa Barshim and Italy’s Gianmarco Tamberi each receive gold medal was the best “feel good” moment of the Olympics in many decades. I wish Jim McKay were alive to see it and to put this “up close and personal”  moment of sportsmanship in words apparently lost to sportswriters since the death of Frank Deford.

Barshim and Tamberi missed all their attempts at 2.39 meters, the competitors and friends – both on and off the track — eschewed a “jump off” and successfully lobbied for two gold medals.

Ties and team sports don’t mix, but for individual sports, when competitors have given their all, a tie can be more just than “jump off” like events that rely on failure rather than an athlete reaching new heights.

For many, including myself, professionalism and media hyper-nationalism has almost killed the Olympics, but moments like this still give me hope.

My left hip occasionally reminds me these days that high jump was one of my three favorite events of the decathlon when I ran it high school. The others were the 100-yard (later meter) dash and shot put. I rarely lost these events to other decathletes.

That the high jump world record stands at just over 8 feet is astounding to me. I once cleared 6’6″ at an indoor meet, but clearing 6’2 was normally a good day.

In terms of vertical leap, I wasn’t really a natural jumper. I could never dunk a basketball and I was far too sprinter stout-like to fly very high.  However, I was very fast and explosive and so by focusing on technique of what was then called the Fosbury Flop I could translate my sprint speed into altitude.  That also helped with pole vault and long jump.

The same with shot put. Plenty of shot putters had more upper body strength than me, but with focus on glider technique (and a bit of physics), I could translate acceleration across the ring into extra feet and inches when throwing the shot, discus, and javelin.

Good memories abound. Except of course for memories of the mile (later 1550 meters) that ended every decathlon.  In the pool I rarely lost at 50 or 100 yard meter race, but anything over that was “distance swimming.” The same held for track. Anything over a 440 was “distance running.”

My fondest high jump memories involve the summer the track coach let me take home the high jump bar, stands, and huge landing mat for the summer.  I loaded the large mat that was almost as log as my car on top of my car.  I allowed the pole to stick through both back windows as I drove home, etc. I remember driving with one hand while trying to hold down the mat with my other hand (a friend on the passenger side did the same)

To my mother’s chagrin, I set up a high jump pit in the front yard beside the driveway so that I could use the driveway for my run up.  The mat killed the grass and  I did a number on her flower beds as I —  and countless friends I invited to jump with me — rolled off the mat and trampled back to our starting marks.

That was a great summer. Swim 4,000 yards in the morning, eat three Egg McMuffins and three orders of hash browns at McDonalds, go to “work” as a lifeguard,  (which consisted of reading physics and eating at least two BK Whoppers  and two large fries for lunch while drinking a half-gallon of milk when not sitting in the lifeguard chair checking out new dating prospects in their bikinis). After work I’d take a 3.5 mile run/jog, then go to swim another 1500 yards during a late afternoon workout. I’d lift some weights then go home to jump until it was too dark to see.

Mom rarely cooked so evening were spent going out with ether my steady girl or one of the aforementioned prospects discovered poolside for pizza and a pitcher of beer secured with my fake ID.

Friday night was “guys night out” where hormones and youthful hubris rather than reason or the law shaped the evening’s events. We often found ourselves cliff diving into a local lake or simply “cruising around.”

Saturday night was drive-in movie night with the steady and another couple. While I can’t recall a single movie, I do remember crackling speakers, chili dogs, smuggled beer, and tanned, long-legged, girls in cut-offs and tied halter tops who would sit on the boot of my car once the top was down.

Sunday was for reading  (being a lifeguard also provided plenty of reading time) and a bit of sailing. As my steady that summer was not decidedly not sailor, it was also an opportunity for alone time or to take one of the aforementioned prospects discovered poolside for a sail in a small 420 out on the Chesapeake Bay.

Those were good days.

The days of youth when our bodies are strong and flexible. Days when the summer Sun hangs endlessly in sky, and we think only of flying higher and, unaware our wings might melt, closer to it.