Facebook Killed The Reunion Star...

What do luxury car rental companies; escort services and suit rental places all share these days? Within each lies an incensed, seething, mutual resentment for "The Book".  Facebook. The online monolith that makes it a daily habit of snatching up millions upon millions of devoted souls to feed its ever sprawling, ever-expanding bandwidth empire.  And why has it targeted these unique business niches?

Facebook has sucked the fun & surprise out of the high school reunion quicker than a Dyson. That’s right, kaput. At least the best parts of these awkward jaunts back in time.

Ten years ago, Chuck, the uncomfortable band geek who never was really seen in sunlight, could pull up to Montego High’s 10 year reunion in a 2000 Corvette – the C5  -- as Chuck would never be a guy to drive the base model, come on! Super glued to his elbow would be Svida, a bomb shell blonde who looked like she had been manufactured in the clean rooms at Intel, and both of them would be dressed to the nine’s in their choice of Versaci, Hugo Boss, Gucci, Prada, and more. Chuck probably in pinstripe, sporting a two button, as three’s aren’t set to return for a couple more years in the fashion world. 

And the classmates, the same social rulers of his youth, the one’s who gnawed on his every flaw, sent the guy home in tears for kicks, built themselves up by blowing the doors off other self esteem’s, would flock, enamored, asphyxiated by this apparent ‘Swan’ story.  They’d have questions but you know our man Chuck would have the answers. He’d worked on this bit for months. An astronaut? Navy Seal? Foreign film star? You name it; Chuck could of pulled it off. The dude rehearsed harder than kid who landed the lead in Slumdog. This was to be our mans long awaited masterpiece. His redemption. 

 This of course before a man by the name of Mark Zuckerberg and his social networking cronies at Facebook went and extinguished the party quicker than a hook and ladder on a trash can fire.

Fictional confession; Chuck still lives in his mothers basement and runs internet scams off e-bay but that’s neither here nor there.

You see, by the time you or me shows up to our reunion -- I prefer social status realignment -- every other plug in the room with a Ethernet connection is going to know our background, employment, marital status, interests, hobbies, favorite quotes, sexual orientation, what we drive, if we are more of a swinger or someone who takes what they can get, our travels, our religious beliefs and twenty two thousand random mind dumps we affectionately classify as “Status Updates”. Sweet.

Just try to pull a fabricated bio over your Internet trolling mate’s heads, I dare you.

Thanks to Facebook you can’t hide from anything anymore. Worse yet, people you absolutely wanted nothing to do with in high school, perhaps despised, can still track you more ferociously than a FedEx parcel. Surprises are extinct, no jack in the box here kids. The fact is that your life, in all its glory is clipped to the laundry line, flowing in the wind more free than Mel Gibson’s groin area in Brave Heart, for all to gander. Ah…technology!

Yet who knows, maybe all this preceding information might help the reunion vibe.  Maybe instead of everyone posturing, doing their best Meryl Streep or Michael Douglas, projecting an aura of success and happiness no matter their current circumstance, maybe we can all show up and simply enjoy one another’s company? Leave the rank and file, self worth competition on the sidelines, talk about the good ol’ days, when we loved few, liked some and despised many. Maybe facebook has made it all a little more “Real”.  Which in itself is another attribute to how disgusting the social networking phenomenon is really becoming. Yeesh.

Facebook is the future; there is no getting around it. Every day it taps into our behaviors, our collective souls, and mining information and reflecting it back in shiny new features we foam at the mouth to ‘add’ to our walls. Yet, for all the good press and praise, and functionality this techno-organic being brings to our 2010 lives, surely it has to have some flaws, and the death of the reunion is one of them!

The cool Chuck stories of old are gone. The curtain has been vaporized and our virtual lives get more hits online than 'Charlie bit my finger!'.  From here you have two options folks. Firstly, you can merge onto to the moral freeway and clean up your act, live healthy, fulfilling, joyous lives that you are proud of. If you aint that kind of guy get wise, upload a Lamborghini to your wall pics, change your relationship status to “Engaged to (insert exotic Russian woman’s name). “ For this of course you must ask the next super model you see on the street for a harmless pic, hugging preferably, and lastly set your employment info to CEO of Chuck Co., international marketing agency.  You see the Chucks still have a chance; it’s merely the game that’s changed! 

Going For Broke...er....Broken?

One trait I have never endorsed as a strength would be my ability of monitoring & consequent preventative action. The section for recommended maintenance somehow was ripped from my text book a long time ago. From the check engine light, to that peculiar smokey smell in the kitchen, from the fraying skate lace to (and most importantly) that tweak in my back/knee/foot/(insert every other body part imaginable). Maybe I'm an optimist, a dreamer, the guy who thinks everything will work itself out, the ice fishermen who thinks a couple cracks are all part of the plan, a guy who puts his head in front of ninety mile an hour pucks, shielded only by a centimeter thick piece of steel, bent already to his nose, and "thinks" "Ah, it's cool". Or maybe I'm blissfully naive. He who believes will achieve, right?

I hate prevention, I despise slow, and for this, lately I am feeling the effects. My body is madder than Christian Bale at the odd greenhorn lighting technician. My current injury report looks like the print out for the Pamplona emergency room. 

This current "Streak" began in April when I effectively asked two tiny muscles in my lower back to hold onto an anvil being dropped of a proverbial cliff in the gym. They bent, but they didn't break. Some mild pain, slight discomfort, a warning to take it easy? Please! Yet for me, this simply translated into a clean bill of health and no cause for concern. I could still make all the motions of my athletic routines so why change? Three days later cut to me on the ice, crumpled like a empty bag of kettle chips, dragging myself off like Tom Hanks on the beach in Saving Private Ryan. The punishment, 3 weeks of intensive electro-therapy, and daily visits to my chiropractor or "Pain Practitioner" who put me through more body contorting, lip chomping, eye popping pain than Henry VIII's dungeon staff. 

Next came what I like to refer to as "Lowe versus beast." My team obliged to a gentle men's challenge from the local under 18's team for a "Friendly" scrimmage to prep them for an upcoming tournament. With the invitation to skate as a forward too delectable to pass up, I patch worked a gear set-up and took a left wing slot. Little did I know the under 18's had a secret weapon likened to Priceline.com's "The Big Deal" chomping at the bit to prove his effectiveness at demolition work, using opponents bodies as his wrecking balls. This Kodiak Grizzly on blades caught me looking the other way late in the game and sent me hurling through the air further than a Red Bull Flugtagger and my right upper rib cage doing its best play-dough impersonation against the merciless boards. For a month now I've cursed this kids name daily through every imaginable basic activity, especially coughing. I tell ya, you never think about what you need your rib cartilage for until its the fleshy equivalent of potato mash. Over a month later and I still walk around convinced if someone were to punch me in the side I would tear up faster than Terrell Owen's defending "His Quarterback". 

My feet have never been right. Maybe it's the fact that they live most their life suctioned into a skate boot tighter than Serena Williams tennis shorts. But lately I've been getting a nagging dull, nothing but annoying pain on both feet's outer edges. Being the online medical professional that I am, I've diagnosed this problem as Cuboid Syndrome. Granted, my accuracy rate is probably more akin to Shaq's free throw percentage, but whose to say I'm wrong? A doctor? Common web knowledge suggests rest, icing, and a chiropractic adjustment known as a Cuboid Whip but in this instance I didn't even have time to flip to the "C's" in the Canberra yellow pages. 

And why? 

Because yesterday in net, doing my thing, which lately seems to resemble a block of Gouda in a mice colony, I felt a slight pop in my right knee on a harmless squat to stand recovery. Up to this point I had survived a few shoves, a couple post-whistle hacks, and a death threat from the AIHL's Kimbo Slice equivalent. But leave it to the harmless skate push to screw the pooch. I finished the game, yet in waking up today I am hobbling worse than Kurt Gibson in 88', after he's downed six rum and cokes. I don't know the diagnosis yet, but the outlook looks about as bright as the US economy at this point. Fantastic. 

The one constant in each of these health calamities has been the recommended prescription of rest. Unfortunately it's a luxury I don't have, or don't want at this point. Maybe that's my issue, and it is probably why I seem to be making it a habit of digging myself a deeper hole than Sammy Sosa at a congressional hearing health-wise as of late. But I can't stop, activity is my drug, and if I can't do something at least mildly athletic each day let's just say I make Courtney Love look straight edge. I'm a fitness junky, maybe it's my vice, but nothing stirs more aggravation and frustration from my core than being restricted by my own means. If my mind is the American Militia, my body is quietly becoming a full fledged Benedict Arnold, or Lebron James? (had to) 

The worst part, the thing that stings most lies in the truth of the signals, the ones that say I need rest, I need to take care of myself, to call the dealer and schedule a service check and of course my blatant lack of will to heed this advice. I've always believed in my ability to beat it, to stay the course, even speed up at times, thinking I can work through it, sweep it under the rug.  This seems to of been about as effective as Clinton trying to hide his cigar Olympics. 

If my body is listening, I'm blasting White Snakes "Give me more time", just until September, please! I've made little secret that this hockey season is my Alamo. I'm Custard and the injury Apache are screaming at me from 360 degrees. I know I've probably neglected the necessary maintenance and service checks every couple thousand saves and I don't doubt that I'll have to pay for the mileage at some point down the road, take it out of my re-sale value. But can't we just push the last pit stop back a bit. Maybe I should of listened to my bodies crew chief and re-fueled fifty laps ago, but the line is so close, wrong or not I am going for it baby, fumes don't fail me now. 

Ring Wanted, inquire within.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Lebron James today took one great step for him, and the 362,000 Miami residents he just became neighbors with, and one unforgivable leap from the countless more he leaves weeping and seething in Cleveland. Champagne & Red jerseys illuminated the Cleveland sky Thursday evening as many distraught Cav fans looked to burn away the betrayal. The jerseys that survive undoubtedly will be shuttled from the "Go-to" selections of Ohio wardrobes straight into the "Painting, oil changing, home repair" attire drawer. Dan Gilbert, the owner of the Cavaliers, who saw his franchise grow in estimated value over 100 million dollars since Lebron suited up, didn't just take a couple parting shots at the King, he skewered, shish-kebabbed and powder slapped Lebron & his effort in a no holds barred letter to his fans, scrambling to reverse their chicken little outlook of their teams future sans James. "Betrayal, coward, juvenile" and most scathing "Quitter", all slithered their way into Gilbert's tongue lashing of the Akron native. The incensed owner closed his far from timid mind dump with the declaration that guaranteed, no questions about it, his Cavaliers would bring home a title before the newly spawned three headed hydra of South Beach. You have to appreciate the guys heart. 

Initial reactions see far more people questioning, and berating Jame's decision than backing him on his new home. Six teams courted the guy, and the simple facts of life are that only one team what be left smiling when this was all said and done. More surprising though to me is the fact that the sports networks, analysts and reporters all seem to be joining in this initial frown citing such quotes as "Jordan didn't have to run to Detroit to win a championship" to imply that Lebron was surrendering of sorts, saying he needed help, that it takes more than him to bring home a ring, which of course is priority numero uno to furthering the dudes dynasty. 

And THIS is where I have a issue. Look, the Miami heat just added three NBA Superstars to their lineup. They are automatically a title contender, regardless of the fact that they might have to inflate the remaining two positions on the court to make the financials of this weeks signings fit. Pat Riley aggressively courted and wooed Bosh & James and they obviously picked up what he was laying down. Captain Ahab didn't just bag Moby, he nabbed the whole pod. These three stars just did the very thing that so many for so long have harped on, griped about and stressed in basketball pertaining to star players, they called for help. 

Kobe Bryant did become a better teammate between 08, and last & this years championship. His assists grew, his attitude morphed and a nice addition of a seven foot gangly Spaniard surely didn't hurt either. He needed help. In 08 in bean town it only took the compilation of three ring deprived, starving stars in Allen, Pierce & Garnett to bring home a ring. They needed one another. But now that Lebron, along with Wade & Bosh are ultimately stepping out, waving their theoretical arms above their heads, declaring to all that maybe they can't do it alone, maybe each, with all his godly talents and potential needs a sidekick, or two and that they took the steps to make it happen. Of course this suddenly comes across as atrocious, unfair and incomprehensibly shocking to so many avid NBA followers. These guys knew they would be risking their individual empires, diluting their star power, all for a better chance at hoisting some hardware. I'm sure countless advisors, consultants, and entouragee's warned and pleaded that they should take more green, more lights, more market appeal from the larger cities (Chicago & New York most notably). Yet all three knew what each needed, they put their ego's down for a moment, maybe analyzed the game and saw an eerily emerging trend on the hard court, that it really does take a TEAM these days to obtain the O'Brien. 

I know I know, 3 guys do not a team make. But, this is arguably the strongest core to build from in the league now today. And let's not doubt the architect in Miami, the dude wearing seven rings, Pat. He just juiced three enormous ego's into one arena, how hard can it be to fill out a couple more starters and bench players? 

But back to the message at hand. The one that Bosh, James & Wade just forwarded out to the basketball world this week. That although great, all accomplished, none, alone could achieve what makes their palates water most, a championship, without a little help from their friends. Just ask Wade about a old amigo of his who goes by "The Diesel". I mean it's incredible, three super stars, playing in perhaps the most individually centered professional team sport in the world, admitting that their skill sets, no matter how celebrated or admired, are quite up to snuff to tick all the boxes of the championship check sheet. 

The nucleus is fused. The goal is distinct. The sacrifices surfacing already on street corners, around water coolers, smoldering 23's in trash can fires. James, Bosh & Wade have formed something great. Their ego's might be more cramped than frat guys in a phone booth, but they've accepted it, signed it, and done what so many have known needed to happen but none wanted to accept, that these guys all needed a wing man, er....men? Overnight they've become a title favorite, and they know it. All that's left is 16 postseason wins, all done with the grandest, brightest, flaming bulls eye ever painted on the backs of an NBA lineup. With rivals in LA, Boston, Orlando & more licking their chops to take on this three headed monster and do what so many are already planning, pleading and predicting, the chance to send this store bought dynasty home. No pressure fellas, enjoy the ride, and ignore the vultures. 

Writing Revelations.

I couldn’t stand writing in college. The topics irked me, made me loathe the long nights, catalyzed my procrastination and left me with an empty feeling of accomplishment. I knew my products would pass when they went under the professor’s pen, that wasn’t the issue. I took pride in my pieces; yet felt out of control, dictated, as if my talents and nocturnal keyboard mashing sessions were trivial, their sole purpose to mint a check mark on an assignment list next to my name.

In the years since San Jose State I neglected to write.  I’d digest article after article on sports sites, I’ve engulfed books at an alarming rate, no sooner finishing one than scrambling to snatch up the next.  And as rewarding as reading renowned content can be, something lacked at the end. I felt for, as much time as I had spent absorbing the thoughts, beliefs, practices and disciplines of another, I wasn’t giving enough time to myself. My mind churned and processed many thoughts during this period. In the gym, on the ice, in an airplane, I created and connected many a concept and idea, yet ignored the satisfaction that comes with putting your word into record. And I largely felt that I was wasting my own ends to my means.

Since starting this blog a mere three months ago in a tiny bedroom on the fourth floor of a townhouse in San Jose, my interest, passion and inspiration for crafting written pieces continues to bloom. It’s become an outlet for me. A drainage pipe for the smorgasbord of mental material I produce, ponder and preside over on a daily basis. You know the feeling you get when you finish a conversation, or debate, or even an argument and as you walk away you feel “Damn. I should have said….” Or “Why did I say that…”, of course you do. Well writing never sentences me to those regrettable thoughts. With writing I feel empowered in my thoughts and unchained in the pressures of conveying them correctly. Every blank template is my canvas, I am in control, and the world and those in it produce an imminent stream of delectable material for me to use and will continue to do so as long as I am able to exist.

As the number of essays I produce grows it’s easy to see that Sports captivates a large portion of my literary affection. Perhaps it is because I’m familiar with the athletic realm. I am who I am in large thanks to athletics and all the trials and tribulations that accompany the passion. But the greatest attraction for myself in sport is the stories of those who play, which coach, who cheer and who exist within confines of the competition coliseums. If the spectrum of emotion is a dartboard, sport is a shotgun blast. It hits everything. Anything you seek, any human-interest story, any trait of human nature, controversy, query or success you can find within athletics and those who partake. I love that. I love writing about that.  Of course I do not intend to limit or restrict my subject supply chain only to sport, as the world we survive in daily, if watched closely, will never fail to provide insatiable article fodder for even the most inept and closed author. But Sport is my muse; it knows my weaknesses and reels me in to its plots and cultures time after time.

I did not create this blog with intended goals or objectives. When I feel like writing, I write. I have no deadline, am the responsibility of no one, and have the freedom to directly dictate what I feel, think and forecast directly into my own words, exactly when I want to do it. But, as I have not only written, but continued to read more and more authors, particularly those with similar, essayist writing styles the natural competitor and prideful fire within me have continued to throw logs on the smoldering ash in my furnace, pushing me to improve and expand my literary skill sets.  I want to be better, I make no secret that when I invest myself in something, and I do it with the intended purpose to consistently improve, to what ends are of no importance, as long as my progress remains positive. I love to study those of high esteem in their fields. The champions, the titleholders, the Pulitzers, the Nobel’s, for there is so much captivation and interest flowing from these great people. The hockey player within me would sit at NHL games, transfixed on the goaltenders, from how they strap their pads, tie their skates and snap their masks to their skating styles, save selection and on and on. I enjoy playing goalie, these guys are better than me, what can I do to be like them. This was my typical thought process. And the same holds true in my newfound writing interest. Now when I read, I analyze, I study, and abstract from the texts the certain traits, literary birth marks, and styles that have propelled these authors to the upper echelons of their crafts. I find such methods exciting.

Tonight I read a story on the late, legendary Coach John Wooden, written by world-renowned sports writer Rick Reilly. While only a couple pages in length, this essay portrayed flawlessly to the reader on a sincere, poignant, and touching cross section of the life of the masterful collegiate basketball coach.  But it didn’t focus on basketball. Reilly does an impeccable job of creaming away the glitz and flash of this mans career that if allowed to star, could so easily masque and conceal the true methods and behaviors that made Wooden, Wooden. From his simple mid-western upbringing, through his coaching methodologies to his incredible love for his wife, Reilly, in so few words, absolutely captures and conveys the greatness of this man for all to read.  Basketball made us know John Wooden, but it didn’t make him great, his morals, disciplines and ethics did that all on his own. But my point is this. Reilly, through his writing, captured and infused so much heart, meaning and sincerity in so little. Via the power of written word. This is why writing is great, why it has withstood the sands of time, the technology revolutions, the I-generation, because it is inimitable.

Writing is possibly the purest form of communication in existence. Consequently, for myself, is why it has become so addicting. It takes what you invest, records for you to remember, and if allowed, reveals and parades it for others to enjoy, critique or disagree with. It is a solid form, more so than a conversation, or an image, its meanings and motifs are distinct and recognizable and because of this its readers are able to digest and enjoy the fruits of its harvests with relative ease and simplicity. I have found an outlet in writing, a socket to plug into the countless volts of opinions, thoughts and emotion I produce daily. Moving forward, progressing, I aim to continuously improve, absorb and enhance my literary capabilities. The art of the written word has never been more enjoyable to me. If you have given me the compliment of reading some of my blogs, I thank you and encourage you to stay close, as I vow to invest myself continuously in striving to create more meaningful, effective and interesting pieces on all the worlds delicacies. 

I like my wine like my women and my art like my mind.

Wine intimidates people. The drink of the gods, the staple of France, the blood of Napa, with wine comes a sense of pomp and sophistication few other luxuries can offer. To the novice, the massive breadth and scope of the “Wine World” can make even the most curious patron cower in the corner, scared to be exposed as a beginner. With a dictionary all of it’s own, countless varietals, infinite vineyards and a devout following from primarily the higher class, wine carries many barriers of entry that keep many the would be drinker sticking to other alcohols and beverage options.

At a restaurant I used to work at we would routinely hold wine education courses, typically featuring representatives from various vineyards running seminars and tastings to better educate our staff in the pro’s, and pro’s, of their selective bottles. More often than not, the educators would rattle off facts and notes pertaining to the blends, the processes, the types of grapes and aging processes that usually left us as students bored and disinterested. Of course tasting the wine was another matter. Once we could hold, swirl, smell and sip the fermented grape juice our senses and curiosities rose sharply. We sought out hidden flavors, often trying our hand at pin pointing obscure flavors as tobacco, nutmeg, chocolate, even red bell pepper! And despite our attempts being more than a bit on the comically sarcastic side, the representatives would always find a way to encourage and attempt to diffuse and or explain our tastes. As long as we liked it, we would sell it, and they would have done their job.

I distinctly remember one particular educator who likened each wine to a different kind of woman. “This red is a classy, dark, intellectual wine. Think of a vintage Hollywood starlet.” Or “This white is light, sweet, and innocent, it is a lot of fun. Think of your high school sweetheart, when life was simple and carefree!” Abstract, yes, but these analogies worked, they helped us identify with each wine, develop character and opinions and enhanced our waning curiosities in a topic we could always afford to learn more in. I enjoyed this representative’s speech, and consequently will always remember how he closed the class. “Look” he declared, pressing both knuckles into the long wooden table, “People love to make wine complicated, it makes them feel distinguished, exceptional. The truth is wine is like any luxury in life in that if you like it, nothing else really matters. To some a Lamborghini is a dream car; to another it is a Porsche, or even a truck! If you find a wine you love, do not let anyone tell you otherwise, drink what makes you happy! For that is the purpose and enjoyment of it all.” What he did in that conclusion was empower us; he put us on a level playing field with every wine novice and wine connoisseur on the planet. He let us know we could not only belong, but stand on our own, hold a conversation, defend our selections. I now no longer scan menus searching for a popular name, or sort by price, hoping to randomly obtain some wine credibility. I have slowly found what I enjoy, and the stress and pressure of it all has been evaporated from my shoulders.

Today I made my way around the National Gallery of Australia, home to hundreds of world class pieces from artists as distinguished and noted as Picasso, Monet, Warhol & Pollock. As I strolled the open aisle ways, pausing to read descriptions, admire classics, investigate others, I had the same type of  “Wine” moment. Art has always been a curious subject for me. For those who follow it, and study the subject, I can’t tell you how many times I have stood facing a piece, that for the life of me I could not “grasp” or even pretend to enjoy. Many of these created by world-renowned masters of their mediums. For the longest time I would feel embarrassed, like I simply did not know enough about the work to truly enjoy it, that I wasn’t qualified to be a critic. I would nod and agree and guess just like I had done on wine lists for so many years.  Often I would creep behind a tour group to hear the host give his or her opinions on what made these often “questionable” pieces of art, such “masterpieces”, and rarely was I satisfied. I just didn’t get it, I guess?

Today however I sat and admired a wall size masterpiece from Jackson Pollock titled  “Blue Poles”. His trademark paint scattering style completely saturating a canvas twenty feet wide and 12 feet high.  Bright splashes of orange, leapt from the wall against a background of blues and grays, whites and blacks also masqueraded in the background giving further effect. I loved this painting.  I told myself “If I like it, what else is there to debate? No one can tell me otherwise.” This quiet confession emboldened me. It gave me a new sense of art critic confidence. Many before me may have distinguished these artists as “Masters” but no one could tell me what, or whose artistic expressions I enjoyed, except myself.

With each gallery I found new favorites. Most were from artists largely unknown as well as a few classics from the stalwarts. Comparatively there were also quite a few selections I disliked, again, many from legendary artists.  But this was my show, my art critique and it made the whole experience that much more enjoyable. For reasons I cannot quite explain, it is almost empowering to be able to stand and make a judgment or critique on something that so many others try to sway your opinion on.

Like wine, perhaps that is why art is so grand, and will forever stand the tests of time and change. Both allow you to find your own flavors, favorites and style. The options are endless and surely there must be one “masterpiece” for every person, of every type and discriminations. The key lays within ones self. To be able to block the hype of the masses, to search and discover ones own unique tastes and visions is what makes these two genres so forever rewarding. I thoroughly enjoy some wines, and I dislike many others. I love select art, and I am confused and even disappointed in more than a few pieces. If beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, so does good wine and incredible art. The only hurdle we must mount is the ability to be able to break through the commonplace perceptions, dispel the praise and critiques of others, develop our own style in selection, and when we do this free of persuasion, our end results will be nothing short of masterful. 

Atmosphere is everything.

It's always there. It surrounds you, envelops you in it's grasp, coats everything you see, smell, touch and do. It's loud, and silent. It's frantic, and serene. It morphs, contorts and squeezes itself into everything you need and want it to be, all the while going unnoticed. Atmosphere dictates so much in this world and in our lives, yet we attribute so little to it. It is what we make of it and it's impact is greater than many would admit. 

Yesterday I rode a stationary bike in the downstairs level of the gym here in Canberra. There were an assortment of other riders scattered about on the various cardio machines, all enclosed and focused in their own world. It was quiet for the most part, the mechanical humming of the artificial tires and spinning of the row machines dominated the acoustics of the room. On the wall were three televisions, each tuned to a different network show, the volume low, barely audible. So I mustered up some intensity, cranked the resistance, and tried for the life of me to push myself to create a effective, beneficial workout from these doldrums of an arena. I pushed and peddled, incorporated sprints, climbs, and tracks yet every minute seemed harder to maintain, my attention waned, my focused mindset strayed and ultimately after fifteen minutes I ended the experiment, consoling myself with the reasoning that I would attend a Spin class the following evening to make up for this lackluster performance. 

The Spin room is dark, looming fans paste the walls and forefront, speakers tucked into the corners, air conditioning crisp and flowing, and bikes organized uniformly four abreast, six rows deep. The instructor sits on his/her bike at the front, on a raised platform facing the class, armed with a stereo control panel and their chosen selection of inspirational music for the session. Today's instructor was a woman, in her early thirties, and despite her small stature she quickly and clearly took control of the class with a series of sharp orders and demands. Fifty five minutes later, drenched, exhausted, and athletically satisfied, everyone slowly regained their wits and equilibrium's and departed. Yet, despite the challenge, and the workload far exceeding the previous days solo attempt, the Spin class seemed to fly by, the workout kept you enthralled and consistently piqued each ones interests through music, changes of pace and direction. It was the atmosphere that exonerated such superior results, the atmosphere created a forum for increased performance, it willed the effort from the riders, and each and every one of its aforementioned attributes combined to create an effect, absolutely engineered to make Spin enjoyable, challenging, and achievable. This is what I speak of when I tout the effects and impact the atmosphere of a particular event or action can have on the outcomes. 

Some people read with music. I prefer silence. When possible, we all take advantage of creating the most beneficial atmospheres to suit our preferences and current needs. We never really realize it though. From pre-game athletic rituals, to meals, to the air conditioning levels in our apartments or homes, we seek comfort almost unconsciously. Where as cats continuously groom themselves, we do the same with our appearances, surroundings, and controllable inputs on ourselves. We know what it takes to give us our desired outcomes and effects and we will always, when allowable, take concordant action to put ourselves in elevated levels of comfort. For when we are most comfortable, we are most effective. Whether in absorbing text from a novel, drafting a paper, running calculations, lifting weights, and on and on, we perform best when the atmospheres attributes put us in our most comfortable states. 

Comfort in this context is not to say relaxed, or idle. Comfort is more of a inner balance that spawns the foundation that enables us to act in a most effective and benefiting manner. Take the spin story for instance. Alone, in the cardio room, I was not comfortable. I was distracted, I was void of intensity, the overall vibe and feel of the room was not conducive for me in obtaining my desired goals within my cyclical workout. But the next day, surrounded by others with the same mindset, the same goals, accompanied by loud, motivational music, led by a energetic leader and in cool, dark lighting, we achieved our desired result, we got our butts kicked and walked out pleased and satisfied with our efforts. As dramatic as the atmosphere change was between the days, our performance and effort differences were equally as opposite. 

Let's take sporting events. Massive crowds, loud music, lights, pressure, all are hurled into the proverbial melting pot that creates the events atmosphere. For the athletes involved, it is those who can adapt, who can program themselves to accept and embrace this elevated setting that stand the greatest chance of success and consistency. The athlete who can make his or herself comfortable in these settings are the ones who are last left standing. Many can not handle the spotlight, the rigors and stresses being thrust in front of so many with so much riding on the result, many can not find comfort and many fail to succeed. Perhaps this is why such a minute fraction of the global population ever make it to the upper echelons of professional athletics. Perhaps this is equally the cause why so many remove themselves from contention as their careers lurch on? 

Success is a direct result of two variables. One being the atmosphere the desired actions and results take place in, and the second being the ability to adapt, change, and effect the given forum in which you act or perform. When we have the privilege to create and modify our settings to our exact likings, there are no excuses, there are no faults or sources of blame. Give me a book and a quiet room and I will be never the happier, but turn the music on, inject distractions, rattle my cage, and make me uncomfortable and watch my performance, my enjoyment and my emotion change and falter, and my consequent reasoning and or excuse counts surge. 

I believe the people who are best at what they do, and this can be anything, are as equally impressive in their abilities to either put themselves in their desired atmosphere or mentally challenge themselves to accept and embrace the scenarios they have been delegated. From the athlete who painstakingly organizes his game day suits, to the student who crafts play lists in their Itunes to study to, to the executive who surrounds his walls with select arts and to the chef who demands his kitchen be consistently kept at sixty five degrees, the ability to mold and align the factors that compose each ones atmosphere is a trait not to be looked lightly upon. 

We each know precisely, to the letter, what we need to make ourselves comfortable. We know exactly what the ideal world looks like that will enable us to display our finest qualities. In every situation, from sleep, to exercise, to careers, or hobbies, our ability to organize and concoct atmospheres bred for our benefit is a skill in itself, the same as any other admirable quality of a person. Equally as stated previously, when ones preferred atmosphere is not available, it is those who can adapt, who can create the same comfort and duplicate performance achieved in a preferred setting whose actions and performances will reign supreme. Atmosphere follows us, it molds us and fosters our behaviors and actions more than we may ever realize. Citing the tired cliche "Put yourself in position to succeed." I take from that the meaning that position is not one thing, or place, or emotion, but rather the sum of all atmospheric conditions we encounter, some malleable & some beyond our influence, and if one can master his or her atmosphere(s), can find success despite changes and correlations, can create comfort when none is thought to exist, then he or she will ultimately flourish and succeed where so many others will fall. 

Pure, Unadulterated, Sport.

Never before have I heard of an athlete receiving more negative and berating comments regarding their physical appearance than I did last night at the pub while watching Francesca Schiavone become the first Italian to capture a grand slam championship. I'll spare you the details but none were kind, none fair, none deserved. Best of all, none of them mattered. Schiavone was clinical in her dispatching of heavily favored Australian Samantha Stosur not just in tennis, but aesthetics as well, in straight sets. She was tactical in her shot selection and her serve was on, Stosur simply could not match up. And when it was over, there stood Schiavone, grinning from ear to ear, beaming with jubilation and disbelief, eyes welling with tears, skirt covered in French clay, she genuinely looked like the happiest person on the earth and it was beautiful to watch. That ladies and gentlemen is why sport is beautiful.

Sport invites all to toil in its proving grounds, to bathe in it's glory, to sweat in its fields. It welcomes all, discriminates against none. If you want it, and will it, sport is fair with its rewards and equal in it's outcomes, win or lose. Last night was a magnificent example. A woman, arguably lacking the shiny outer coating of so many of her peers, stood on the podium alone, victorious, and loved the moment for all it was. One watching could feel her confidence, her pride, her accomplishment, her face said it all with every bead of sweat, tangled hair and smudge of clay and most importantly her fantastic smile. Schiavone championed above the rest because she deserved it, through and through. 

The attractive athlete often has access to greater media coverage, endorsement deals, glamour gigs, but at the end, if one is truly an athlete, the only goal is victory in sport. For every Kournikova there is a Schiavone, a worker, a fighter, willing to claw, scrap and wrestle for every inch of deserved success. In tennis the average peak age for a female player is between 19-24, Schiavone is 29. For twelve years she has put the axe to the grindstone, laboring with the resolve of a tectonic plate, never halting, always progressing. Last night was her pinnacle, her summit and she knew it and made every one of us know it. She was the underdog, the unknown and the long shot and yet for all the things that usually make us love someone, for her physical looks alone, no one was in her corner, only pointing, laughing, cackling. And when she won, they were quiet, selfish in their praise and acknowledgement. And it did not matter. 

Schiavone is small in stature, squatty and muscular, she lacks any natural advantages in the sport. Where as Michael Philps is scientifically built to swim with his massive feet, small torso and incredible wingspan and Usain Bolt is made to run, with incredible strides and muscle tone, Schiavone possesses nothing physically to give her a clear cut advantage in tennis. But if one watched intently, point for point, you would see it. That 'x' factor, that drive that only the elite athletes possess and all know of. She wanted it more than anyone else in the world and sport was fair, sport was just. 

 

Sport is broad, with countless avenues, all built to appeal to each and every one of us. Nearly every person in the world plays it, and loves it. Sport is a temple, a sacred forum where we can challenge ourselves as far as our minds and willpower allows. It holds no limits, no sanctions or reserves. What you put in, you WILL get out. If you doubt this, reexamine the price you are actually paying for the product you are expecting. You needn't check twice. Blond or brunette, short or tall, thin or wide, there is a place in this temple for anyone, you simply must find it. Sport makes us all beautiful. Those who develop the discipline, respect the journey, and relish the reward are those who will reap the spoils. You needn't win a gold medal, or the French Open, sport is what you make of it, it lets you set the bar, and you measure against it. Sport likes facts, results, goals and it absolutely does not care about whose they are. Schiavone knows this, thousands know this and sport ensures no one will tell them otherwise. It embraces commitment, abolishes idle, it champions obligation and dispels prejudice. Sport put Francesca on that stage last night, it gave her that cup, it evoked that incredible smile and it made damn sure that no one could take any of it from her ever. 

Bravo Schiavone, Bravo!  Congratulazioni lei lo guadagno!