On a beautiful June day in 1998 I attended an event I had been anticipating for quite some time: the NBA finals. I had been watching the Jazz all my life, and was excited that my team was finally on top. Each year my father gave me a pair of tickets for Christmas and my birthday, and this year he had given me game K of the playoffs. He told me that if the Jazz didn’t get that far into the playoffs to give them back and he’d give me a pair for a game during the following season. As it turned out game K was game 6 of the finals. My Jazz team was repeating as Western Conference finalists, and I was sure that they would get revenge against Michael Jordan and the Bulls team that beat them in six games the previous year.
As it turned out the Jazz didn’t win. Game 6 turned out to be Michael Jordan’s last with the Bulls, a game known for “the shot” where Jordan pushed off of Bryon Russell and hit the game-winner with just over 5 seconds left. Though I was sadly disappointed that my team lost, I remember being filled with hope as we drove home, because as all sports fans know, there is always next year, and as usual, I anticipated the following season with excitement and hope.
My hopes were dashed when the NBA announced a lockout of players over the failure to come to an agreement over the collective bargaining agreement. At first it was just the preseason and the first couple of weeks that were lost. Then half of the season. Pretty soon it was announced that there would be a protracted season, and the NBA expected that fans would be excited that the teams would have to play 50 games in just a few months. The teams would play three games in three nights, and by the third night the games were so sloppy and ugly that they were unbearable from a spectator’s standpoint.
The lockout was stupid and unnecessary. We had to hear billionaires (the owners) arguing with multi-millionaires (the players) about how the individual sides weren’t getting a fair share of the money. I was disgusted. Then before the end of the lockout we had to hear stories of woe from such poor wretched souls like Patrick Ewing, who complained that he couldn’t afford to feed his family.
It was during the lockout of the ’98-’99 season that my faith in pro sports was shaken. But even before that the seeds of discontent had been planted. When Major League Baseball had their strike in 1994, I remember thinking that if that ever happened to pro basketball I would never come back. It happened to pro basketball, and like a dupe I came back.
I love sports. At least team sports. You can take sports like golf, tennis and boxing and throw them all in the garbage can and I’ll be fine with it. You can also get rid of other things that some consider sports such as bowling, car races and poker (it’s on ESPN isn’t it) and get rid of them too. But baseball, basketball and football I love. I don’t really care who is playing, as long as the game is entertaining.
But let’s take a minute and take stock of the state of pro sports. When Charles Barkley was at the height of his career was criticized for saying “I am not a role model.” Yet I find it ironic that years later I have more respect for a guy who clearly didn’t want any. We thought the ‘Round Mound of Rebound’ was controversial? Sorry, Chuckster. You’re pretty tame.
I’ll start with football. Today we hear headlines about players getting involved in attempted murders the night before the biggest game of their career: the Superbowl. We hear feel-good stories about how Ray Lewis had his double homicide charges dropped. We hear about Minnesota Vikings players hosting a sex party on a rented yacht. We hear about players like Terrell Owens, a guy who is such an upstanding member of the community that he publicly threw his coach, his quarterback, and the Philadelphia Eagles ownership under the bus because of the team’s failure. He never has taken any responsibility for anything upon himself. We was a disruption in San Francisco, cried about being traded to Baltimore and forced his way to Philadelphia, where he is now one of the most hated people, and now supposedly is going to start fresh in Dallas. How comic is that? The Dallas Cowboys? Don’t get me started on them!
Then there are the boys of summer. Last year Texas Rangers reliever Frank Francisco got in trouble after an on-field altercation led him to throw a chair at a fan, breaking her nose. We also saw Kenny Rodgers get busted for assaulting a cameraman, while the cameras were on! And though the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry is one of the greatest in sports, Pedro Martinez throwing pitches at guys’ heads and then pointing at his own head to show that he did it on purpose is unacceptable. Grabbing 500 year-old Don Zimmer and throwing him to the ground in a bench-clearing brawl is worse. I won’t even talk about Manny Ramirez and his cry baby ways. Raphael Palmeiro lied about steroids and got busted. Barry Bonds lied, but still won’t admit it. And now we have ESPN airing a show about what a stand-up guy Bonds is. Right.
Then we have the sport that I hold most deal. A sport that was my only love as a child: the old peach basket. The attitude of today’s players is best summed up by Allen Iverson’s rant about how he is too good for practice. “Practice? We’re talking about practice, man.” Spoiled. That’s what I see in today’s players. I have to admit it I experienced a great deal of joy to see the vaunted U.S. team walk away with less than gold last time out. The Dream Team of 1992 was far superior to those who think they are dream team material of today. Now we have stories about whether or not Kobe is a rapist. Who cares? He cheated on his wife and when he got caught he tried to pass the buck by saying that Shaq does it too, but Shaq pays the girls off. We have incidents like the brawl in the Palace of Auburn Hills where Ron Artest ran into the crowd to pound on a guy who threw a beer at him. (He Ron, you got the wrong guy!)
It’s a me-first attitude in the NBA and I am tired of it. I see Kobe score 82 points in a game and I am uninspired. I will always cheer against the superstars like Kobe Bryant, Allen Iverson, and Tracy McGrady. I was happy to see a team player win the MVP again this year (Steve Nash). While I don’t like the Pistons, the reason that they won their title was because of teamwork. The same goes for the Spurs, and while I can’t stand Mark Cuban, Jerry Stackhouse and Jason Terry, I have to admit that the Mavericks are in the finals because of their unselfish play. The superstars either don’t get it, or they are lying when they say that a championship is the most important thing.
When I think of all of the problems with pro sports I wonder: who is to blame? Is it the owners for throwing so much money at players and not holding them responsible? Is it the players for demanding so much money and acting like prima donnas? Is it the fans for supporting their behavior? The answer is that it is all of the above. And I am part of the problem. For me sports are an addiction, and every time I turn on the TV I feed my addiction. When I know there is a game on, I will stop and watch. If I can’t watch I will read about it in the paper and check the box score. When a player gets into trouble I am eager to get the details so that I can pass my judgment.
I was happy to see the Denver Nuggets sit Kenyon Martin for his inappropriate behavior in the locker room during the playoffs this year. But I recognize it as a small victory. I don’t ever expect things to change. When I was growing up I looked to pro athletes as an example. Today I look at pro athletes as an example of what not to do. When trying to teach my kids how to behave I will use sports figures, but not in the way that the sports figures would like to think I am.

Someone suggested that I add some pictures to my blog. I guess my comments aren't very interesting, so the visuals are needed as a suppliment. Well, here's my first picture. This is three of my four kids standing next to a C-5 Galaxy at Hill Air Force Base. We spent today at the airshow that featured the Thunderbirds. We had a great time, but most of the pictures I have are of the static displays on the ground. I found that I am too slow on the trigger to get many pictures of the jets in the air, and when I do it is mostly by luck. You can hardly see my kids next to this behemoth.

Here we see Whitney Patrick and Samantha enjoying a sno cone hunkered down in the shade of an F-16. The air show featured all of the air power and might that the U.S. Air Force has to offer, and the thing that was most important to my kids was getting a sno cone. I wish my life was that uncomplicated...

Shortly after this picture was taken we lost Patrick. We were walking to see some other aircraft, and suddenly he was gone. I reported to the missing child booth and reported him while my brother kept looking. When the officer asked for a description I was embarrased when I had to say, "3 feet tall, 4 years old, wearing a ball cap that says, 'vote for pedro'..." A few minutes later my brother found Patrick, cool as a cucumber, still eating his sno cone. I doubt that P ever knew that he had been considered missing.

The first aircraft we saw at the show was the C-5, which I referred to as a 'monster'. Thereafter, whenever Patrick saw a big airplane he referred to it as a monster. Monkey see monkey do, I guess. Here is P Man standing in front of one of the monsters, a B-52 bomber.

I work for University of Utah Hospital, and as such, I see the AirMed helicopters take off and land every day. The bus stop just outside the hospital is right underneath the helipad. Just over a year ago I had the chance to ride along with the AirMed team. Having such close contact with AirMed I take them for granted. But when we got to the air show and Whitney saw that they were ther with one of their helicopters, (a Bell 420) she was insistent that we get a picture. She even arranged everyone to pose in front of the bird just how she wanted them.

You might have noticed a smudge on the left side of each of my pictures. I apologize for that. I did manage to get some pictures of the Thunderbirds. They put on quite a show.

But the most impressive part of the air show was the multi-generational fly by. At one point they had in the air a P-51 Mustang (Representing World War II) an F-4 Phantom (Vietnam) an F-16 Falcon (Cold War) and a brand new F-22 Raptor (The future) I can only imagine that the prop-driven P-51 had to have the pedal to the metal to keep in step with those jets. All in all it was a great day and everyone had a good time.

Since this is my first attempt at blogging I will try to keep it short. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a storyteller, and once I get going I can spin a yarn for quite a while.

Last Saturday I ran in the Salt Lake marathon. This was my second marathon; both of them run on the course in my home town. I learned a lot about myself last year and didn’t think that this year would be much different. I was wrong.

On Saturday June 3rd we woke before 5AM, and before I was even out of bed I knew that something was wrong. I was incredibly nauseated. I had to sit at the foot of the bed for a few minutes until the wave passed. I played it off to race-day jitters and began to dress. I had a lot on my mind that morning. The previous year I had done some training prior to running the marathon. I wasn’t enough training, but it was more than I had this year, and I was worried that I wasn’t prepared. I was concerned that my legs wouldn’t hold up, that I’d wear out too early, or that all of the Mountain Dews I’ve been drinking would cause me to suffer a heart attack.

We didn’t get a lot of sleep the night before the run. Our two year old daughter Samantha had the flu, and had been vomiting and running a fever. If I had more than rocks in my head I would have accepted the fact that her symptoms and my own were the same. But after I dressed, lubed up all of my appropriate joints, applied sunscreen to my dome and barfed my guts out I was ready to go.

My father-in-law drove us to the start line while my mother-in-law sat at our house with the kids who thankfully weren’t awake to see us off. The start line at the Eccles Olympic Legacy Bridge on the University of Utah campus is quite a sight. That morning there were thousands of people waiting for the start of the run before the sun was up. Kate and I got there just as the bike marathon was starting, and watching all of the cyclists cross the starting line was a very euphoric feeling.

After the cyclists, the handicapped racers, and the slow-start runners began we lined up. The official start line is directly under the bridge and by the time Kate and crossed, it felt like we had been waiting en eternity since the starting horn. A wave of nausea hit me again, but I choked it back as I waved at a cameraman above me in a boom truck.

We ran South down Foothill Boulevard, and at first I kept good pace with Kate. She had been training for months, and I knew that at some point she would blow right past me. I had been teasing her that she would be done, at home, showered and down for a nap by the time I finished. By the time we reached the first celebration station for some Gatorade and water I had lost Kate and knew that I would not beat my time of 4:50 from last year. I had a lump just at the top of my throat, and knew that I was going to be gagging soon.

We circled around Sugarhouse Park and headed South, through the Holladay area. It was a beautiful sight. It was still early in the morning, so the sun had not breached the trees. It was still cool, and running under the canopy of trees with throngs of strangers out to cheer us on was an encouragement. I needed all of the encouragement that I could get. Before I would reach the halfway point at 6200 South, I would have to stop nearly every mile to find some bushes where I could dry heave. I also had to stop at every porta-potty for things that are worse than vomiting. I took water and/or Gatorade at each rest area, but I couldn’t keep it down. I even lost the bagel I’d had for breakfast. I knew that I was in trouble and I knew that I would never make it. The previous year my calves did not start to cramp until about the 18th mile. This year I was cramping before mile 10. I had also stopped sweating, and I could feel the salt accumulating on my face and shoulders; a bad sign. With nothing in my stomach I knew that I wouldn’t be able to finish, and if I did it would be bad for me.

I knew that my family would be waiting to see my on around the 15th mile, so I resolved to make it just to where they were. I decided that from there I could catch a ride to the finish line with my Dad so that I could see Kate finish and cheer her on. I had justified in my mind that there was no shame in quitting when I was as sick as I was. My family was waiting for me along the Van Winkle expressway. Van Winkle is one of the most dreaded parts of the marathon. It is wide, long, and by the time runners get there, the day is warming up, and there is no shade. It is also far between intersections, so the groups of well-wishers are sparse.

As I rounded a bend I saw my family waiting for me. Tears welled up in my eyes once I saw them, and I knew before I even reached the spot where they were waiting with cookies and water that I wouldn’t be stopping before the finish line. They were clapping and cheering, and my heart was suddenly lifted. Though I had requested that they bring the cookies I was too sick to eat them, and the majority of the water they brought was poured over my head. I was told that Kate was only about 10-15 minutes ahead of me, and for a fleeting moment thought, “Maybe I can catch her.” But then I snapped to my senses and thought, “Yeah. And maybe I’m a Chinese jet pilot.” I didn’t care about how long it took or who finished ahead of me. I just had to finish.

I left my family and trudged on down Van Winkle. I didn’t leave them a moment too soon. Shortly after I started off, a runner collapsed right in front of my relatives. My Aunt Jan and sister Kat ran over and poured water on his face to revive him. He was awake and talking to some other bystanders who came over to assist, then suddenly lost consciousness and stopped breathing. Someone started CPR and an ambulance was called. Had I seen that I would not have finished the run. I saw the ambulance pass me and thought to myself, “Uh-oh.” But I didn’t think much more on the subject. We never heard if the man was okay after being carted off by the paramedics, but I like to hope so.

As I completed Van Winkle, running around where it curves into 7th East, I saw a runner slip off to the side of the road and climb up on a jersey barricade. Thinking she might need some help I ran toward her. As she situated herself on the barricade I saw that she had a lit cigarette in her hand. I ran on, hoping that I would at least finish before her.

The course cut over to 5th East, where it runs north all the way to Liberty Park. I found myself walking as much if not more than running at this point. My calves were cramping so much that I couldn’t figure out how to relax them, and the pain was unbearable. Soon my hamstrings began to tighten up. All along 5th people were out with their hoses on, and I was repeatedly sprayed, for which I am grateful. It was getting hot by this time. At one of the water stations they gave us orange slices, and I was thankful that I was able to keep them down. After wrapping around Liberty Park the course runs through downtown Salt Lake and ends on the West side of town at the Gateway. It was great to run past all of the buildings I love so much with a feeling of accomplishment, knowing that I was just around the corner from success.

Turning the last corner into Gateway both on my calves were as tight as knots and painful, but foolish pride would never allow me to walk to the finish line. Throngs of people were cheering me on, and I hobbled the length of the outdoor mall to the finish line. I saw Kate, my kids, and my family waiting for me, which helped me finish. As I crossed the finish line I yelled out, “I’m a hero!” because one of my smart-ass co-workers asked me to. Fortunately no one heard me.

The final damage was this: 5 hours 18 minutes, 28 minutes slower than last year, and 24 minutes behind my beloved wife. I still might lose some toe nails, but after a couple of days’ rest and overcoming whatever bug Samantha and I had, I’ve had no residual pain or ill effects. I am proud that I was able to finish, and of course I will run again next year. I can’t live for ever with that finishing time.

During the run I learned the importance of music. Kate and I both train with music on and both of us suffered ill effects stemming from iPod malfunctions. Kate’s iPod froze before mile 8, and she had to run the rest of the way without it. She said that once she didn’t have her music to occupy her mind she began to focus on her pain, which slowed her down. She gave her iPod to her sister’s in-laws, who came out to cheer us on. My problem stemmed from my new ear pieces, which kept slipping out. When I saw Beth’s in-laws and found out about Kate’s iPod, I traded earpieces, and had tunes for the rest of the run.

I listen to what Kate refers to as ‘angry’ music, the kind that stirs me up and gets me going when I run. AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” and Soundgarden’s “Rusty Cage” are two examples. I found it very serendipitous that certain songs would come on at certain points. Near the end of the run when I was really hurting the Ramones song “I Want to Be Sedated” came on. At one point while my calves were aching I heard the Hole song “Doll Parts”. At one point in the song Courtney Love sings, “…someday you will ache like I ache…” I also heard Everclear’s song “Strawberry”. In this song the chorus says, “Don’t fall down now/ you will never get up…” and ends by chanting, “…don’t fall down now! Don’t fall down now! Don’t fall down now!” And of course the marathon wouldn’t have been complete without the Pixies’ “Where is my Mind?”

I would be remiss if I didn’t take a minute to thank everyone who supported me before, during and after the run. My wife, whose taunting about how she was going to kick my butt motivated me. She is my sweetheart. My kids, my Dad, my Mother, my siblings and their spouses, my Aunt Jan and uncle Ard, and everyone who supported me are all wonderful people. To everyone who supported my fundraising efforts for Hometown heroes thank you. Eradicating cancer is why I started this in the first place.
I am really grateful for this experience, and though it may sound like I focused too much on the negative, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again knowing what I know now. I have been facing a lot of stressors in my life lately. Both at work and school I have been doubting myself, and wondering whether or not I had the ability to live up to the challenges in front of me. By overcoming my shortcomings and completing the marathon I have a new perspective on things, and feel that I really can overcome anything.