As
an athlete, Clare wasn’t too crazy. She
had her rituals and superstitions, both pretty much of the garden variety. There was that time she poked me in the ribs
with her bat after I told her to stop trying to pull everything, but that was
on me. Stick a hand in the lion’s cage,
and you get what you deserve.
Most
athletes are normal, which is amazing, given the circumstances: The bigger the
venue, the greater the pressure. While I
never heckled—outside of umpires, of course—at a softball game, I do it to the
point of embarrassment at major-league baseball games. And loudmouth fans aren’t the only
problem. Players also have demons to
contend with.
Thirty
years ago, cocaine helped keep the doubts away, but no more thanks to regular drug-testing. There’s that old standby, alcohol, and
probably sex. I doubt very many athletes
seek the counsel of trained professionals or even loved one. In sports, to admit to any kind of pain is to
admit weakness, the most mortal of sins.
Michael
Jordan dealt with pressure by gambling, and maybe fooling around. LeBron James appears intent on acting like an
average Joe going through the ups and downs of life as we all do. I marveled listening to him last night give
an interview no more than a minute after his Cavaliers won game three of the
NBA finals against Golden State. James
was so collected, and thoughtful even, he could have been doing a sit-down for
Sixty Minutes, except for the sweat pouring off his body. But come next week, after the final game,
what will he do to blow off steam?
Athletes
are performers, and performers are artists, as we all know. Dennis Rodman mutilated himself in the manner
of Van Gogh. Mickey Mantle went through
most of his life not caring how long he lived; so did Edna St. Vincent Millay. Talent can drive a person crazy.
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