Joannie Rochette

Anyone who knows me can probably guess what I think of figure skating. However, to relieve the suspense, let me just say I hate it. I don't mean that I hate it just a little bit, I mean with big fat capital letters.

I don't even think it's a sport (although I will concede that it is athletic). In fact, I would say its more of a pageant on ice. And don't even get me started on pairs figure skating or ice dancing. Both of which are more like Dancing With The Stars on skates minus the third rate, over the hill, has-been celebrities that add a veneer of quasi-charm (or is it smarm?).

As a competition, it's a complete and utter flipping mystery. Even people who are die-hard fans can't explain the scoring system. And as for my own lying eyes, I could watch hundreds of routines, and unless someone falls on their ass, I would be at a total loss as to why one performance is better than another.

Having said all of that, no one is more surprised than me that I sat on my couch watching ladies figure skating last night with my eyes glued to the screen. Did I have some sort of conversion? Did I suddenly realize the error of my ways? No, on both counts.

The reason I sat with rapt attention is because of the story of Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette, whom I had never heard of in my life until last evening. You see, Rochette's mother had made the trip to Vancouver to watch her daughter skate for their home country, and two days before her girl was to take the ice, she died of an apparent heart attack. After what had to be some terribly deep soul searching, Rochette decided to skate, to compete for her country, and I'm quite sure her suddenly departed mother.

I was paying the TV little mind when they began relaying her story on NBC. I was reading a magazine while waiting for a more interesting event, like curling--don't get me started on that either. I don't know how something can be considered a sport when a push broom is involved. In fact, if curling is an Olympic sport then why not bocci ball or jarts? But I digress. As the announcers were telling of Rochette's miserable misfortune, I actually began to look up and take note. What I saw was a stunningly beautiful young woman who was about to take the ice and was clearly holding on by the most slender of threads.

Then she did indeed take the ice. And with what must have been a Herculean effort, she somehow composed herself. Next, some ridiculous music started and she began to skate. As I said before, unless someone takes a header, I have no clue whether an ice skating performance is good or bad. I do know this: That bereaved girl completed jump after jump, contorted her body into extraordinary positions while balancing on one skate, and she never came close to falling. But as soon as the music stopped, she cracked. While the cheers of her country, her grieving father, and anyone else in the stadium who had even half a heart rained down on her, she broke down into sobs. It seemed it was all she could do to even make it off the ice. Once she did, she was as shaky as a newborn fawn and practically had to be helped to the area where the competitors wait for the judge's scores.

Rochette was (and is) in no way considered a favorite to medal, let alone win the gold. But when her results came up on the scoreboard, she was in bronze medal position with the highest score of her life.

Tomorrow night, she skates in the second half of the figure skating competition known as the long program. Which I'm guessing is more of the same--- except, you know, longer. And here's the upset, I will be watching. I want to see this young woman facing down what must be the absolute depths of despair. I don't care if she wins a medal or not (although it would be nice). I just want her to stay up on her skates and finish. But even if she falls flat on her face, I will be cheering for her.

This is what I love about the Olympics. These athletes train their hearts out for three years and 49 weeks to compete in a contest that may only last a few moments. Their whole lives poured into a blink of an eye. And then sometimes, that moment is threatened by an injury (usually), or in this case, much worse.

During the 1992 summer Olympics in Barcelona, there was a competitor hailing from England by the name of Derek Redmond. Redmond was a contender in the 400 meter sprint. As the race began, Redmond was in a good position to medal. Then the unthinkable happened, he completely tore his hamstring. As he pulled up lame, he began to cry from a pain that was more in his heart than in his leg. Then, he began to hop on one leg. And he kept hopping. Not off the course, but around the turn and into the straight away toward the finish line. His father stormed onto the track and with his one-legged son leaning on his shoulder, they completed the race together.

That young man may not have medaled, but he epitomized the Olympic spirit as well as anyone ever has. Only two years ago, in one of those fine Olympic promotional advertisements--featuring the mellifluous voice of Morgan Freeman--was Redmond's moment immortalized.

So, tomorrow night a woman that I had never heard of, competing in a sport that I can't stand is going to garner my undivided attention. And when she finishes, I imagine it won't be long before the folks at NBC call up Morgan Freeman and ask him to start warming up his wonderful pipes. Hell, they probably already have.

Sumo-Pop
February 24, 2010