To the Warning Track

Ok, so it’s become abundantly clear that Condon is a slacker in every way. The blog is back to a 7 days back update rate, while other websites are swimming along with their new-material-every-day format. (Blast you, Cnn.com) It’s not that I’m stubborn and refuse to bring the calendar and the blogdating machine to a consensus; I’m just resilient in the fact that I promise the funny and I’ve pulled myself out of bigger jams before. 7 days? Heh, that’s nothing! In fact, I am going to pledge that tomorrow you will see not 1, not 2, not 3, but 4 updates that all promise the bring the funny. So tune in at 9am, noon, 3pm, and sometime in the evening tomorrow if you want to see comedy, regimented, regulated, and ridiculously tiring on los manos de Condon.

So like I said, the odds have been worse than this. And as I look back on those times, it gives me comfort to know that I will kick YAB into afterburner mode on Thursday (hereafter known as YABDay.) For YABDay will go down in history as the day Condon stops making journalistic empty promises and pulls some silly energy from his bag, rocketing himself back into contention.

When I write this all down (and I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t re-read it, afraid of finding out what I have gotten myself into), I find the easiest way to talk about the art of the comeback is in sports terms.

It’s just a shame I don’t have the personal sports experience. Despite the many years and many sports teams and many results of victory and defeat, I can’t say I’ve had too many opportunities to write a glory story. Save one magical playoff run in Babe Ruth league, my baseball seasons often ended with a missed playoff chance or a throttling at the hand of the commissioner’s team. (Although, I contend my Coach Pitch team was doomed from the start when we received the sponsor “Medford Bakery” with a stupid gingerbread mascot. Nothing Champion about that.) Soccer gave me lots of opportunities to head the ball or slide tackle, but very few that resulted in raising a trophy or plaque. I shoot a basketball with about as much grace as a armless chimpanzee playing a piano. No titles there. I guess enjoyed moderate success in intramural sports in college as a part of the Monrovia Amazon sports franchise, but despite 20-something seasons, only one celebratory t-shirt to show for it. Looks like I’ve exhausted the avenues for a glory story, so I better go a different direction.

YAB Mission Statement: Bring the funny.

By now you can guess that my opinion of sports and athletics goes far beyond what the final score turns out to be. Not only can achievement be pulled from these events, so can humor. It is now my attempt to show you the lighter side of sports, why athletic competition can have some underlying comedic gold buried beneath.

Turns out I’m trying to do the complete opposite of Fever Pitch.

Due to prior summarizations, I guess the only major participatory sport I have yet to touch upon is Track. (ok, and Field.) Yes, I ran track in high school. (How did you think I got so brawny, anyway? By spilling juice on the kitchen floor?) Yes, I voluntarily chose to run as a form of leisure and sport. Now let’s get something straight. I’m not once of those people you drive by on your way to work who look like they’re not breathing hard and look so skinny you’re compelled to wing a Nutri-Grain bar at them through your car window. We in the business call them distance runners, and that’s not the kind of running I signed up for. (Let’s pretend that senior year X-Country team appearance was a complete anomaly, shall we? Good.) I ran for fun, camaraderie, and all the nylon apparel I could want. But there’s a problem with Condon running: I get bored very easily. If I was going to stick with this whole Track thing, you better do something to keep my attention.Like put stupid obstacles in my way.

Those obstacles are what those in the business call hurdles. Hurdles are the comic relief of the track meet. No matter how fast a hurdler wants to or can run, he’s got ten metal contraptions just begging that he forgets they’re there. It requires taking three normal running steps and then one ridiculously long step. Can you imaging if people walked like this on the street? Hilarious.

But the true comedy does not lie in the hurdles themselves. It lies in the participants. Along with fellow blogger Rob Harford and other HS friends, I put myself through this event of silliness for four great years. Here’s what I have to show for it.

1. A hurdle relay is more liking a swimming relay than any other running relay. Each team gets two rows of hurdles, facing in opposite directions. First guy (we’ll call him Rob) runs all 110m worth, and when he goes through a “fly zone” at the end, he yells in a manly voice, “GO!” and his teammate, (we’ll call him Condon) runs back the other way in the adjacent lane. Seems pretty business-like, right? Well, just wait until Condon gets to the fly zone at the other end, and rather than echoing Rob’s manly GO!, he hits an octave with his go! that rivals screeching of tires. That’s good crack...

2. Take the same relay scenario. Condon and James are warming up at one end of the indoor track, while Rob and Matt do the same at the other end. For a hurdler, flexibility is king. So we don’t try and run fast in order to warm up. We stretch. The simplest of pre-race stretches is the simple “try and kick yourself in the face” stretch. 9 times out of 10 this is very effective. 1 time out of ten you kick a little too hard, forcing your grounded foot to become airborne, and land flat on your back. Don’t worry, it’s not like you’re at a track meet with thousands of people who may have witnessed it.

Or maybe you are. Damn.

What was I talking about again?