It's been a hard year for me and sports.
Not only because I've been away from a regular east coast sports schedule (and am no longer working a food service job where literally the greatest feeling in the entire world is biking home after closing, in the dark, shadow catapulting over you as you sail under the street lights, night air cool on your skin, coming quietly through the back door, opening an ice cold beer, sitting on the floor because you smell of ice cream, bleach and sweat and are wet from the bus, turning on sportscenter and letting the statistics wash over you) but because relatively recently I've been dealt two major blows:
Ray Allen left the Boston Celtics to play for the soul-less, gut-luss, remorse-less Miami Heat that stomped on my heart during the post season.
Lance Armstrong...I can't even write it.
My relationship with sports tends to be emotional/visceral/obsessive. In case you didn't get that yet.
Professional cycling is the best example, but I'll start with Ray Ray because it's a little easier to deal with:
As I said here, Ray Allen was my way into basketball. Growing up in Massachusetts, my allegiance lay with the Celtics, but it wasn't until I met a praise singer that I decided to sit up and pay attention. My senior year of college I took basketball seriously. I would go have a beer at the bar around the corner from my dorm and watch anyone play. The bartender started recognizing me and would put a game on when I walked in. I canceled plans when there was a Celtics game. I watched "He Got Game" three times in a row. I read everything I could find about #20. I was able to pick his Mom out of the crowd. My knowledge of the nuances of the game remains tenuous, but I watched the hell out of the 2009-2010 Celtics. I became a fanatic. Those Finals were devastating. 2010-2011 was even worse. Living at home, I was in control of the tv. I bought a Ray Allen jersey and wore it every time I went running. When he was on track to break Reggie Miller's three point record, I watched every game and when he finally did it, my whole family was wearing three-corner newspaper hats, eating a three-bean dip I had made and waving flags that said THREEEEEE on them. The lead up to those Finals was out of control. I cared about the title, but more than that, I just wanted them to keep playing. They had become my companions and I wasn't ready to say goodbye. When I moved to Kenya, I hung a Ray Allen banner up on my wall. I checked Celtics blogs religiously. I worried about his ankle. I worried about the bone spurs. I woke up at 3am to watch games. I wrung my hands at trade rumors. I cried when they lost. And then "He Got Game" became real, Shuttlesworth weighed his options and went with the worst possible option. To go, willingly, to the Evil Empire, was more than I could bear. As the beginning of the season approaches, the spectre looms. How will it feel to see him in that uniform? Why can't I let it go? I've read about the uneasy chemistry, the desire for more playing time, the discomfort of being offered for trades...I've even tried to stomach the idea that he might just want to win...but it still stings. I can't bring myself to stop wearing that jersey.
My history with professional cycling is even more intense. It was only a few years after learning that my Dad was a cancer survivor (I was two or three when he was diagnosed and so have no memory of it) that I first read about Lance Armstrong. I paid attention to the Tour de France the next year, 2000, when I was turning 14. I started spending a lot of time at my local bicycle shop, sitting on a wooden stool in the corner, out of everyone's way, listening to Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, watching in awe as these slight men hauled themselves up mountain after mountain, blood sometimes seeping from open leg wounds that were stitched up while moving. I was hooked. In the years following, I would eagerly buy all the Tour de France preview magazines, recording the race schedule in my journal, tearing out pictures of Lance Armstrong, his tragic hero nemesis Jan Ullrich, golden boy Ivan Basso, scrappy Thomas "TiBlanc" Voeckler and plastering them on the walls of my room. Lance Armstrong was my entry point; my love for the sport, the knowledge of team names, coaches and vocabulary grew from there. I read all the books on cycling and Armstrong I could find. I eagerly awaited the Alps and Pyrennes stages, getting to the bike shop early to watch the long days. I made t-shirts, cupcakes with yellow icing and let the Tour consume my Julys. In 2004, while on a family vacation in Italy, my Dad and I drove to France to see the Alp d'Huez time trial. Our trip was a marathon, we were in France for only 30 hours, but it was incredible: staying in a shitty hotel outside of Grenoble, winding up alpine roads in a bus, taking two separate gondolas to the top of Alp d'Huez and walking down the switchbacks, finding a spot where I could run along with the men I'd been watching for years. I took only one photo as Lance Armstrong finally flew by. He is tiny, barely distinguishable in the frame. I remember wanting to run with him as long as I could, to bask in whatever it was that drew me to him.
My obsession maintained its fever pitch until Armstrong won his seventh tour. I went to college and had jobs during the summer that were less accommodating of seven hour mountain stage viewings. I still kept tabs on the race, reading updates in the newspaper, watching the evening recap on tv (Outdoor Living Network, which covered the Tour during my early years gave way to Versus, which still televises the Tour. I always used to scorn the evening recaps, not only because it cut out the HOURS of footage where nothing really happens, but it was narrated by Bob Roll and some other American who PALE in comparison to the British/Zimbabwean wit and insight of Liggett and Sherwen, even in their twilight years). Even last year, when I was living and working in Kenya, I kept the livestream from the official Tour de France website open on my computer while at work. Years had passed but I still remembered most of the names.
So you can imagine how I've been feeling the past few weeks as the Armstrong legend has come crashing down. I honestly can't believe it. And by that I mean, I can believe it, but it isn't registering. For so long, he has been a fixture in my life, staring down at me from the walls of my room, a way to understand my Dad's sickness, a way to imagine dedication, perseverance, suffering and insanity. He was the doorway to a world I've loved inhabiting. I had a cyclist pendant on a necklace my grandmother gave me that I used to wear everyday and when Lance won his sixth Tour, the one I had seen, my Mom bought me a "6" to put on next to it. I always jumped to his defense, always believed that his incredible performance was real. And I'm not some idealistic and naive fool. I know how doping works, the intricate systems, the secrets, the lies, the enormous pressure the riders and their staff are under. But somehow I just can't reconcile that Lance did that. After he railed against it for so long. After making me believe so fervently.
And now his titles have been stripped, his name removed from the record books, like he was never there.
But he was. And so was I, running right along side.
