My wife wasn’t home, American contenders had already choked and my kids were too busy practicing killing each other to practice pretend pirouettes.
Yes, it’s still 40 days until baseball’s opening day and American Idol has not yet weeded out this season’s stick-to-your-day-jobbers.
But why not dig into my couch’s mysteriously expansive underworld for the remote and simply press “OFF”?
Read to my children, embark on a new hobby, write the great American novel?
I just can’t, not until the last podium anthem ends Sunday.
And I think I have figured out why.
At least, this is what I’ve come up with between arguments with co-workers about figure skating scoring methods.
First is the “wow” factor of the Olympians’ remarkable speed, power and precision.
I have never skied, but I rise from my couch when Bode Miller and Lindsey Kildow launch into the air during downhill races.
I’ve only ice skated once, but Apolo Anton Ohno squeezing by an opponent at top speed causes a nervous lump in my throat.
Not to mention the scary skeleton event, skillful curlers or the freakishly endurant cross-country skiers.
You don’t have to be able to stand on one foot and chew gum at the same time to appreciate the Olympians’ rare abilities.
I admire the athletes who train a lifetime for a moment of extreme stress that yields glory or agony.
I root for the Americans, but love of country has little to do with my Olympics addiction.
In fact, I’m just as happy Russian Evgeni Plushenko won the men’s figure skating title as if Quarryville native Johnny Weir had finished on top.
Plushenko moved away from his family for a time as a boy so he could train. How can you not root for him?
Countries competing peacefully and trading culture? Important, but that’s not keeping me up at night, either.
I - and perhaps many others - love the Olympics because we see nightly, in raw reality, dreams come true.
The drama drags us in until we can’t help but consider: If the Olympians can achieve their dreams, why can’t we?
Dig in your poles, jump off and see where the mountain takes you.
I dreamed of pitching in the major leagues before my first back operation. Since then, I’ve yearned to write a novel that makes the world rethink itself.
Now, I also focus more and more on my children’s dreams.
So I am sharing the Olympics with my 4-year-old son, Wyatt, and 1-year-old daughter, Olivia.
For the opening night ceremony, I dimmed the lights, lit candles and broke out huge flags I had bought for the occasion.
All of us marched in the circle from living room to dining room to kitchen to hallway dozens of times, all carrying a different country’s flag.
The “wow” factor grabs their attention from time to time during the Olympics, but I wasn’t sure how much they were really picking up.
That is, until we went sledding last Wednesday.
On his third time ever sledding down a hill, Wyatt &tstr; on his own - lay flat on his back on the sled and took a luge-like run.
Next time, Olivia sat in front of him on the sled and he held her tightly.
Her face turned from distrust to fear to elation.
Halfway down the hill, she squealed, “WHEEEEEE!”
The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears Mondays.
Talkback on LancasterOnline
Welcome to the new TalkBack on LancasterOnline. Please use the comment box below to share your opinion on this
article. If you would prefer to use the previous TalkBack forums instead, please use this link.
