Archive
07/15/08 - (2)
Gold Medalists
Once upon an almost entire lifetime ago, When I was a member of Yale's varsity-eight crew, Pulling the number-two, port-side bow oar,
With a vengeance reminiscent of a Roman-galley slave, And I dreamed, against all odds, Of representing the United States, in the 1956 Olympics
(Which, miraculously, I did, leaving victorious, from Melbourne, Our team number one in all the world), I never could have dreamed of any other scenario,
Certainly nothing approximating the ominous plight Facing this year's U.S. eight-oared entry, As it attempts to strategize about competing, in Beijing,
Against its most formidable adversary: Carbon-particulate-laden air, Trained to defeat all comers — the fittest of the fit.
All I know is that if I were able to row at Shunyi Park, I wouldn't even board the plane. Under no circumstances would I subject myself
To burning eyes and raw throat, During forty-eight-strokes-per-minute racing starts, Wheezing, as I'd settle into elongated thirty-twos,
Coughing, all the way through power forty-twos, Gasping, to the finish, grasping for impossible fifty-fours, Three boat lengths behind the gold medalist: air.
07/15/08 - (2)
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