Red-blooded and clad in chiffon

I love comebacks. More than anything else, being down and out and rising back up to prominence, or even respectability, impresses me. My wife is amazed at how losses of family members, horrible tragedies chronicled as they happen, or injustice on a worldwide scale won't elicit tears from me, but sit me in front of Rudy, or Miracle, or most glaringly, when Syracuse won the National Championship in 2003, and I am hard-pressed to squeeze back the drops.

As long as I am making confessions, I am an Olympic-junkie. When else in the course of our lives do we get to cheer for people like Chad Hedrick, the speed skater from Texas, or anyone from Finland doing anything other than producing liquor? Every four years, I am stricken with heartsickness over the plight of the athletes from countries around the world, especially those in obscure sports, like luge or everyone's favorite, curling. The Dan Jansen's, the guy whose name escapes me who won a gold in the skeleton in Salt Lake just like his grandfather did way back in the '30's, and the handful of athletes from the host country who inevitably trump all odds and win an event that they had no business competing in, let us in on some human magic and the spark of competition.

As a country, we tend to shy away from cheering rabidly for men in frilly taffeta shirts replete with sequins and ruffles, unless he is competing against a Frenchmen, a Russian, or a Canadian in the Olympics. Then all bets are off. Men in Carhartt's, women in lycra, and all those in between, for a brief two weeks in February, all know what it means to land a triple Lutz, and we can all plainly see the importance of that toe pick. Why do I know the names of Brian Boitano, Todd Eldridge, and Scott Hamilton? Damn it, because I am an American (insert spitting noise here).