As I watch Bode Miller and Lindsey Vonn and Apolo A. Ono and all the other men and women racing to and fro lo this past week (and I really do love watching them), I consider my own efforts, as a writer, a performer, a businessman, a basketball player back in the day, a poker player even, and I see that, while I’m not a loser, I’m just not a WINNER. Where does the drive come from? Why does it repulse me as much as I love watching winners (Michael Jordan, the ultimate winner) win. There’s a certain inevitable arrogance to it, even in the most unassuming of them, a belief that they can, that they deserve to be the very best in the whole wide world at something. Because of their gifts, Because of their efforts. Because of their parents’ ambitions. Because it’s God’s will. (Nothing more disgusting than an athlete thanking god – did god want his or her opponent to lose, as well?) I wonder how much a religious belief in a god, or in oneself as God, comes into play. And certainly, in a very high percentage of the super-achievers, parents who were as obsessive, driven, ambitious for their children as the children were for themselves, are the norm. While part of me wishes I was GREAT at something now, I also don’t envy those youth their folks. Mine were perhaps a tad too realistic and cliche-averse – I don’t remember ever being told I could “be whatever I wanted” when I grew up, but they were also supportive and interested and not insane re my pursuits (okay, maybe Mom was a bit, but not compared to elite athletes’ and other performers’ parents). But there are moments when I wish they had set the bar higher for me. But this is getting hecka self-help-y at this point.
Come to think of it, I was the best at something once. As a college student (and perhaps some of you have read this here before) I (thanks to the wonders of my god-given gifts and a bunch work-study money spent quarter by quarter) became one of the best, if not the best at two video games, Robotron 2084, and Pole Position, in all of New York City, which has to be fairly near being one of the best in the world. And putting my initials (“FDR” – such a young idealist was I) up on the screen after a record-breaking game (I once played a five hour game of Robotron, FYI, and one of my colleague-competitors, oddly enough was Zach Galligan of “Gremlins” fame, although he never approached my greatness) was, sadly, or happily, depending how you look at it, one of the greatest satisfactions I’ve ever had. It felt great to be great. So why don’t I put the effort into greatness in more adult pursuits? And why and how do those who do feel the drive, the entitlement to push for greatness, do it?
I’m sure I can find a ton of answers to questions about my own lack of (real and metaphorical) olympic medals, but excuses, like statistics, are for losers. Which also brings another factor to mind, that from a very young age, as much as being attracted to the Michael Jordans of the world, I have been equally drawn to the punks, the beautiful losers, the Ian Curtises and Jean Genets and (of course, they turn up in art much more than in sports). But we’ll save the love of losers and revulsion with winners (aka AMERICANS) for another post.
(Wow, them’s a lot of parentheses!)
