Yes, it has been a while since I posted one of these. I miss ’em. Almost as much as I miss strip clubs. Okay, I miss these posts way more than strip clubs. Seeing as how these posts are free, and they don’t contain glitter. Not to mention those Kodak snapshots that defy justification.
This post is just because. The just because that happens to be the life we’re busy living up. The life that happens in sways and sorrows . . all the way up to the “Duh” moment when you actually, croak.
I watched the first half of the Panthers/Seahawks clash last night, rooting up Cam Newton and his Panthers. If only because I love underdogs. Now, I realize my New York Yankees do not fall into the underdog category, but hey, that’s not my fault. I was born in the Bronx, Fort Apache . . . 1966. That right there would be enough to gain me entry into your understanding, but wait! There’s more, indeed. Mom is a Yankees fan. She grew up on Brooklyn logic before marrying a man- her first husband- whose pinstripes left her breathless enough to carry it into forever. Soooo, as you can plainly tell, my allegiance is as much a matter of survival as anything.
Anyways, when I woke up this morning, Lo? Had met behold. And youth had indeed been served, even if the result was totally predictable.
I would have taken a Panthers win as a sign. That anything’s possible. Instead, I was granted a different kind of reminder this morning, as I answered my red wine from the night before with some thick ass java and Bowie.
The reminder is a simple one. Miracles don’t just happen. They’re constructed over time. The Miracle on Ice didn’t happen deep inside the winter of 1980 in that old field house up in Lake Placid. And Joe Namath did a hell of a lot more than just predict an unpredictable outcome. Buster Douglas didn’t walk into Tokyo with Mr Miagi and knock Mike Tyson’s ass into the history books. Villanova had gone hot long before that night in Kentucky when they took down mighty Georgetown. These ‘upsets’, these perceived miracles, were really something else entirely. They were the byproducts of hard work, preparation, struggle, persistence and attitude. Built, not inside of one magical night, but a lifetime of unseen practice leading up to it.
The Panthers didn’t shock the world, because the Seahawks are just too damned good. Seattle also knew full well that anything short of their very best, and they’d be crying in their latte’s this morning. Because they understand the fallacy of all this miracle talk. They know that there’s really no such thing as an ‘upset’ at the highest level of the sport. Bring it or go home, that’s how it works.
I’m still a fool for the idea of surprise endings, and while that may not seem as sexy an idea as miracles and upsets, it’s still plenty fine with me. Because it means that the chances will always be in your favor, so long as you work hard and keep at it.