Due to popular demand (okay, one guy asked), I'm compiling all the pieces in the Volunteer Commissioner Series into one helpful post.
In the VCS, I graciously offer my services to fix broken sports. Or rather, to enhance sports who have not asked for my help. Some of my suggestions have already been enacted (You're welcome Baseball!) and some I've changed my mind about (the USA-Portugal match in the 2014 World Cup showed me the entertainment value of a draw).
Anyway, enjoy:
Fixing Softball (Women's softball)
The Loser's Out Manifesto (Pick-up basketball)
The Beautiful Game's Flaw (soccer)
The Slowest Game (lacrosse).
The Winter Classic (Major League Baseball)
Swimming is Boring (Swimming...which is unfixable.)
I was going to help out Major League Baseball again - incredibly long low-scoring games are not good for the sport - but MLB is already testing out some of the suggestions I was going to make.
And eventually I'll get around to fixing Women's Lacrosse, which has the single stupidest - and easily fixable rule I've ever seen in any sport.
Showing posts with label swimming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label swimming. Show all posts
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Friday, August 15, 2008
Swimming is Boring
I’m trying to get into this Michael Phelps thing. I really am. But I just can’t shake the fact that swimming is kind of, well, boring.
Here’s what I see when I watch a swim meet: a bunch of guys who look exactly alike (long, lean, hairless and white), all doing exactly the same thing, all at roughly the same speed. Then one of the guys, who NBC helpfully informs me is Phelps (because really, how else would I know?) touches the wall a little ahead of all the other guys. Rinse and repeat.
It has so few of the elements that makes watching sports fun. There has never been, in the entire history of swimming, a great play. There is very rarely (the freestyle relay an exception) a dramatic comeback. A swimmer never has to adjust to anything unexpected, the way most athletes have to adjust to an opponents’ play, or a golfer has to adjust to wind or a shot he’s never seen before. You can't fall in a pool, so swimming doesn't have heartbreaking moments like the Olympic skier or gymnast, whose dreams come crashing down because of a momentary lack of concentration.
It has none of the eye-popping 'how do they do that?' wonder of gymnastics or diving. It's just, you know, the breaststroke. I can do that. Not that fast, to be sure, or that graceful. And nobody wants to see me in a Speedo. But it's not as unimaginable as 3 somersaults, 2 corkscrews and a tuck off a 20 meter platform without making a splash.
Even the speed doesn’t dazzle, like the 100 yard dash. If my 8 year old daughter was running alongside the pool she can probably take all those guys, what with the water slowing them down and all.
And I’m pretty sure that swimming isn’t one of those sports that, if I only understood the complexities and subtleties and strategies and tactics better, I’d truly appreciate. For example, I don’t like NASCAR. All I see is a bunch of cars festooned with ads driving in circles. But I know that NASCAR fans are seeing much more. They understand the strategies, tactics, and differing styles that are being employed throughout the race, and are therefore enjoying it far more than I could.
But I don’t think that’s really true of swimming. You push off, swim fast, turn, push again, get to the other side. Did I miss anything? I guess you have to pace yourself a bit, but it’s only one to two hundred meters – you can pretty much let it all hang out, can’t you?
Don’t get me wrong. I respect the greatness of Phelps’ accomplishment. It has everything you associate with true athleticism: speed, strength, grace, skill, commitment, desire.
And I admire the fact that Phelps is the sole architect of his greatness. Many American football fans think Joe Montana is the greatest quarterback ever. But if he hadn’t been given the greatest offensive coach ever, the greatest wide receiver ever, one of the greatest receiving backs ever, and oh by the way, a consistently great defense, he might have had Bert Jones’ career. Phelps doesn’t rely on teammates, systems, equipment, or coaches. It is the human body against one of Nature’s elements.
So, I will be rooting hard for Michael Phelps to win his 7th Gold tonight, and his 8th tomorrow night. And I’ll probably even watch it.
But I’ll thank all of the Gods on Mount Olympus that it will only take a few minutes of my time. Then I’ll put on the Mets game.
Here’s what I see when I watch a swim meet: a bunch of guys who look exactly alike (long, lean, hairless and white), all doing exactly the same thing, all at roughly the same speed. Then one of the guys, who NBC helpfully informs me is Phelps (because really, how else would I know?) touches the wall a little ahead of all the other guys. Rinse and repeat.
It has so few of the elements that makes watching sports fun. There has never been, in the entire history of swimming, a great play. There is very rarely (the freestyle relay an exception) a dramatic comeback. A swimmer never has to adjust to anything unexpected, the way most athletes have to adjust to an opponents’ play, or a golfer has to adjust to wind or a shot he’s never seen before. You can't fall in a pool, so swimming doesn't have heartbreaking moments like the Olympic skier or gymnast, whose dreams come crashing down because of a momentary lack of concentration.
It has none of the eye-popping 'how do they do that?' wonder of gymnastics or diving. It's just, you know, the breaststroke. I can do that. Not that fast, to be sure, or that graceful. And nobody wants to see me in a Speedo. But it's not as unimaginable as 3 somersaults, 2 corkscrews and a tuck off a 20 meter platform without making a splash.
Even the speed doesn’t dazzle, like the 100 yard dash. If my 8 year old daughter was running alongside the pool she can probably take all those guys, what with the water slowing them down and all.
And I’m pretty sure that swimming isn’t one of those sports that, if I only understood the complexities and subtleties and strategies and tactics better, I’d truly appreciate. For example, I don’t like NASCAR. All I see is a bunch of cars festooned with ads driving in circles. But I know that NASCAR fans are seeing much more. They understand the strategies, tactics, and differing styles that are being employed throughout the race, and are therefore enjoying it far more than I could.
But I don’t think that’s really true of swimming. You push off, swim fast, turn, push again, get to the other side. Did I miss anything? I guess you have to pace yourself a bit, but it’s only one to two hundred meters – you can pretty much let it all hang out, can’t you?
Don’t get me wrong. I respect the greatness of Phelps’ accomplishment. It has everything you associate with true athleticism: speed, strength, grace, skill, commitment, desire.
And I admire the fact that Phelps is the sole architect of his greatness. Many American football fans think Joe Montana is the greatest quarterback ever. But if he hadn’t been given the greatest offensive coach ever, the greatest wide receiver ever, one of the greatest receiving backs ever, and oh by the way, a consistently great defense, he might have had Bert Jones’ career. Phelps doesn’t rely on teammates, systems, equipment, or coaches. It is the human body against one of Nature’s elements.
So, I will be rooting hard for Michael Phelps to win his 7th Gold tonight, and his 8th tomorrow night. And I’ll probably even watch it.
But I’ll thank all of the Gods on Mount Olympus that it will only take a few minutes of my time. Then I’ll put on the Mets game.
Update: I watched a lot of swimming last night. I saw Torres win the Silver, get her medal, and rush back to the pool to win another Silver in the Relay. Then I watched the American men win the 4X100 medley relay, Phelps' 8th gold. It was awesome. The sport itself is still boring - it requires the contextual personal drama of stories like Phelps' and Torres' - but I did thoroughly enjoy it.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
When Everyone's a Dilettante
On Saturday I had about 75 people over for a party, and since it was Kentucky Derby Day, we ran a pool. About half the party got in on it, and at 6:03pm we had 30 people wedged into my den, gearing up for the fastest 2 minutes in sports.
29 of these people don't think much about horse racing the other 364 days, 23 hours, and 58 minutes of the year. The 30th is a casual fan at best. But this didn't stop any of us from being an expert for the day. The room filled with talk of changing odds, a filly in the field, the importance of post position, and the proper way to make a mint julep. The names of past champions were bandied about. There was talk of quarters and quinellas, maidens and mudders.
And I thought to myself, I'm going to blog about this. I'm going to blog about how people suddenly get deeply engaged in something that, deep down inside, they really don't give a pit about.
But alas, before I wrote that, I read this:
"Two days before they begin, if the eight best 100-meter butterfliers in the world were competing in your BATHTUB, as a sportswriter you would be be like, “Hey, listen, I’m going downstairs to watch the third round of the Chrysler Classic, but can you guys clean up in there after you finish? You guys always leave such a huge mess. Water everywhere.”
But then the Olympics begin, and without any warning the 100-meter butterfly is your whole life. I’m serious. Your whole life. You know all about all the swimmers. You know that this guy is a side breather like Melvin Stewart (my old pal) and this guy started swimming obsessively when he was 7 because his father got sick, and this guy is dedicating his swimming victories to the rebel forces in whatever country he happens to be from, and this guy learned to swim fast by practicing in crocodile-infested waters. You know the history. You know who has won the 100 meter butterfly each of the last 12 Olympics, and you know who has a chance to break the World Record, and you know if the American is supposed to win or not.
But, no, it’s more than that because, see, it isn’t just like you can go and cover the 100-meter butterfly, no, no, no, you need a special TICKET to go to the event, something beyond the regular Olympic credential you have, because every sportswriter from every country in the world wants to cover this 100-meter butterfly, and the Olympic Committees are only giving out a limited number of these tickets — what I’m saying is that these tickets to see the 100-meter butterfly, tickets that a few days before would not be worth the cardboard, are now GOLD, man, they now have a sportswriter street value of roughly 3.9 billion dollars, you are willing to bribe Olympics officials to get these tickets, you are willing to call in political favors to get these tickets, you are willing to hire people to open up Wonka Bars to get these tickets, because you HAVE to cover the 100-meter butterly, I mean, you came across giant seas, to get here and you’re staying in a dorm room that is closing in around you like the garbage compactor in “Star Wars,” and your shower sprays scalding water in all directions, and you’re sleeping three hours a night on a bed roughly the size of a ham sandwich with the crusts cut off, and you’re never precisely sure what time it is at home, and you’re never precisely sure what you’re eating, and you’re constantly surrounded and bumped by swarms of desperate sportswriters who haven’t bathed in weeks because their showers also spew scalding water — and you know that the reason you’re doing all this is because THIS 100 METER BUTTERFLY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT FREAKING SPORTING EVENT THAT HAS EVER TAKEN PLACE IN THE WHOLE LONG HISTORY OF THIS PLANET."
That is very similar to what I was thinking about writing...but much better. It's written by Joe Posnanski on what is arguably the best baseball blog* out there. Check it out. Here's the link...
* oh yeah...this whole bit is a parenthetical aside in a post about a catch he saw Felix Pie make at the Cubs-Reds game the other night...
29 of these people don't think much about horse racing the other 364 days, 23 hours, and 58 minutes of the year. The 30th is a casual fan at best. But this didn't stop any of us from being an expert for the day. The room filled with talk of changing odds, a filly in the field, the importance of post position, and the proper way to make a mint julep. The names of past champions were bandied about. There was talk of quarters and quinellas, maidens and mudders.
And I thought to myself, I'm going to blog about this. I'm going to blog about how people suddenly get deeply engaged in something that, deep down inside, they really don't give a pit about.
But alas, before I wrote that, I read this:
"Two days before they begin, if the eight best 100-meter butterfliers in the world were competing in your BATHTUB, as a sportswriter you would be be like, “Hey, listen, I’m going downstairs to watch the third round of the Chrysler Classic, but can you guys clean up in there after you finish? You guys always leave such a huge mess. Water everywhere.”
But then the Olympics begin, and without any warning the 100-meter butterfly is your whole life. I’m serious. Your whole life. You know all about all the swimmers. You know that this guy is a side breather like Melvin Stewart (my old pal) and this guy started swimming obsessively when he was 7 because his father got sick, and this guy is dedicating his swimming victories to the rebel forces in whatever country he happens to be from, and this guy learned to swim fast by practicing in crocodile-infested waters. You know the history. You know who has won the 100 meter butterfly each of the last 12 Olympics, and you know who has a chance to break the World Record, and you know if the American is supposed to win or not.
But, no, it’s more than that because, see, it isn’t just like you can go and cover the 100-meter butterfly, no, no, no, you need a special TICKET to go to the event, something beyond the regular Olympic credential you have, because every sportswriter from every country in the world wants to cover this 100-meter butterfly, and the Olympic Committees are only giving out a limited number of these tickets — what I’m saying is that these tickets to see the 100-meter butterfly, tickets that a few days before would not be worth the cardboard, are now GOLD, man, they now have a sportswriter street value of roughly 3.9 billion dollars, you are willing to bribe Olympics officials to get these tickets, you are willing to call in political favors to get these tickets, you are willing to hire people to open up Wonka Bars to get these tickets, because you HAVE to cover the 100-meter butterly, I mean, you came across giant seas, to get here and you’re staying in a dorm room that is closing in around you like the garbage compactor in “Star Wars,” and your shower sprays scalding water in all directions, and you’re sleeping three hours a night on a bed roughly the size of a ham sandwich with the crusts cut off, and you’re never precisely sure what time it is at home, and you’re never precisely sure what you’re eating, and you’re constantly surrounded and bumped by swarms of desperate sportswriters who haven’t bathed in weeks because their showers also spew scalding water — and you know that the reason you’re doing all this is because THIS 100 METER BUTTERFLY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT FREAKING SPORTING EVENT THAT HAS EVER TAKEN PLACE IN THE WHOLE LONG HISTORY OF THIS PLANET."
That is very similar to what I was thinking about writing...but much better. It's written by Joe Posnanski on what is arguably the best baseball blog* out there. Check it out. Here's the link...
* oh yeah...this whole bit is a parenthetical aside in a post about a catch he saw Felix Pie make at the Cubs-Reds game the other night...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
