GOING FOR THE GOLD

“Whatever happened to Ann Meyer?” my lovely wife, Grace, asked.

 

“I don’t know,” I shot back, then realized that I probably should have paused a tad, for effect, before responding.

 

“He’s hiding something,” my Aunt Toogie barked. “He just pulled on his nose and he always does that when he’s trying to hide something.”

 

Grace giggled. “I thought you meant because he answered so quickly.” 

 

When I didn’t reply this time, Grace added, “Ann Meyer was the cheerleader captain in high school and Dalton had a crush on her.”

 

After breakfast, Grace and Toogie were discussing the Tokyo Olympics and I had made the mistake of telling them that, as a young lad, I dreamed of competing in the Olympics. I even went on to relate how a group of high school friends and I came up with a plan to get into the Olympics. We knew we were not fast or strong enough for most track and field events, but we learned walking was an Olympic sport. There was a 20 kilometer walk and, heck, we knew how to walk. 

 

We calculated that 20 kilometers was around 12 miles so we decided to practice by walking 12 miles to see how we did. We met at one kid’s house and walked through town to our high school and back, a distance we guessed to be about 6 miles (and for which we could double our time to get a 12-mile metric). We did stop to talk to some of the school cheerleaders practicing outside at Ann Meyer’s house and factored that time out of our measure. We covered the 6 miles in an hour and 32 minutes (excluding the break with the cheerleaders) which meant, with some further training, we could probably cover 20 kilometers in under 3 hours. 

 

Our bubble burst, however, when we then read that the Olympic contestants would cover that distance in an hour and a half; twice our rate. We tried to replicate that pace for short distances on the sidewalk in front of Tommy Lammert’s house. Not only could we not get close to 8 miles an hour, we got leg cramps trying. We finally gave up our Olympic dreams and went back to Ann Meyer’s house to see if the cheerleaders were still practicing.

 

Toogie opened her iPad and started typing. Soon, she was muttering, “No, nope, not that one, no way ...”

 

When I asked what she was doing, Toogie replied, “I’m looking at Olympic events to see if there is anything you can still get in.” Then she launched into a litany of Olympic events with personalized commentary, “Track and field, hardly. Gymnastics, you’d break something other than a record. Weightlifting, hah! Wrestling, ouch!” 

 

“Hey wait, there, Dalton,” she added, “They still do have walking. I know you can’t move like you did in high school, but maybe that Ann what’s-her-name could set the pace for you.”

 

“Meyer,” Grace corrected.

 

When I didn’t reply, Toogie took a new tack. “Let’s see if there are any old sports they used to have in the Olympics,” she suggested, pecking away on her iPad. 

 

“Ah, here’s some,” she announced. “They had croquet in 1900.”

 

“You would have looked dapper dressed all in white, dear,” Grace offered.

 

“But they probably didn’t allow contestants to drink beer while they played, the way Dalton does now in the backyard,” Toogie barked. “Hey, how about solo synchronized swimming? They had it in 1992.”

 

“Sounds like an oxymoron,” Grace mused.

 

“He’d probably screw up whatever he had to synchronize with,” Toogie scoffed. “Remember how he tried to do the Macarena at Jane’s 

wedding?”

 

This set off a round of guffaws by Grace and Toogie. 

 

“He was having a good time; a tad too good!” Grace laughed.

 

“It looked to me like he was trying to stomp on cockroaches,” Toogie chortled.

 

After a few moments of laughter and table slapping, Grace offered the suggestion that they try to come up with a list of new Olympic events I might be able to handle given my current age. That led to suggestions such as fishing golf balls out of a pond and no-see-um slapping. 

 

“How about the 50-yard dash to get the trash bin to the curb in time for pickup?” Grace posed.

 

“I think he’s more suited to synchronized toilet bowl scrubbing,” Toogie chortled. 

 

“I hope you two are enjoying your little game,” I grunted, as I rose and headed toward the door. When Grace asked where I was going I explained that the waste removal truck had just been by, and I was going to bring the trash bin back to the garage.

 

“Wait! Let me get my stop watch,” Toogie chuckled. “This could be one for the ages. A new Olympic record.”

 

From the garage, I could still hear them snickering.

 

Later that evening, as we got ready for bed, Grace said, “I hope Toogie and I didn’t get under your skin with our Olympic teasing.”

 

“It’s OK,” I replied.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

”But you did have a crush on Ann Meyer, right?”

 

“No, not me ... I mean ... not really ... like that ...” I stammered.

 

Grace patted my arm and cooed, “As you just said, dear, it’s OK.” Then she added, “But may I ask then, what did you see in her?”

 

This time I did not answer quickly. I tuned out the roar in my head. I took slow, deep breaths and focused on the goal. This was my moment. I was in the zone.  

 

“I guess I thought she might one day grow up to be the kind of perfect person you are,” I intoned slowly and boldly.

 

“Dalton Williams,” Grace giggled, as she turned out the light, “if there was an Olympic contest for flowery flattery you’d be a gold medal winner.”