I must admit that I watched this with slack-jawed awe.
This extremely risky sport is called proximity flying, with the goal being to fly as close to the faces and ridges of mountains as possible. One has to have 200 regular skydiving jumps in 18 months before being allowed to jump out of a plane in a wing suit. Taking into the account that the average cost for one skydive is $20, we’re talking at least $4000 out of pocket before one can even consider slipping on a wing suit. Wow.
I don’t think I’ve ever done anything repetitively enough in 18 months, much less jump out of a plane, to chalk up a 200 count.
I’m all for expressions of faith, but the “pointing to the heavens” every time a professional athlete catches a football, makes a touchdown, hits a home run, pulls a hat trick, scores a goal, does a hairpin net shot, knocks an opponent out with a wicked hospital pass, dunks the rock, chops the lob, spins a draw to the jacks, knocks a strike as the anchor, rescues an eagle from casual water, rips an entry from a pike position, or even skewers an opponent upon opening gambit, he or she points up to the heavens to thank the lord above for making such a move possible.
Far be it for me to demand that such symbolic gestures cease, but I wonder if professional athletes give as much thanks for their dropped balls as they do for the ones that they catch. Isn’t dropping a ball just as big of a miracle as a caught one? For once I’d like to see Greg Jennings, DeSean Jackson or Hines Ward drop a game-changing third down pass lobbed straight at their numbers, then point at the sky and give thanks.
As I sit here writing this post I’m surrounded by Karin’s parents who are visiting us from Wisconsin, which means I’m surrounded by Green Bay Packers fans for next eight days. This, by rule of superior numbers, makes me a default Packers fan for Super Bowl Sunday.
Here’s hoping that everyone out there has a great weekend. And if you’re driving anywhere in this horrible weather we’ve been experiencing, please be safe.
I’ve been hit hard by a cold/flu, and it’s been two weeks since I’ve last lifted weights or gone on a run. I can sense the last of my cough tapering off and feel that it’s time to start throwing a bit of iron around and hitting the trails.
It’s funny how quickly your body reacts to not working out; the flesh doesn’t look tone anymore, the tan disappears making you look gaunt and haggard, and the desire to sink into the couch is unnervingly powerful. When I don’t work out I tend to get depressed, and when I’m sick and can’t work out I feel about as cheerful as a clown at a funeral.
Perhaps I’m suffering from an addiction? It could be that my exercising is a serious cry for help. Perhaps some part of me is hoping that some kind soul would see how helpless I am in the grim, intransigent grip of an endorphin rush. It could be that my addiction is so deeply entrenched that I’m unable to even recognize the terrible truth that I have no control over this foul monkey called “exercise”.
I’m thinking I might need an intervention; somebody to pull me aside, sit me down on a couch, hand me a TV Guide and a bowl of Cheetos and tell me that, “I’m not getting out of this chair until this Hogan’s Heroes marathon is over.”
I went running after work yesterday. As I approached a Hometown Buffet I noticed two guys pushing each other in the parking lot, then punches were thrown, and soon both of them where on the ground and scrambling around the parked cars.
It was a bit surreal, actually. I wondered if they were arguing about who was going to pay for dinner? Regardless, I kept right on running. Half a mile later two cop cars sped passed me with sirens blaring, and I knew exactly where they were headed.
I think instead of fighting they should have settled their differences on the Pop-A-Shot court:
“That’s embarrassing,” said the referee, just before having his ball cap batted down by Kobe. Heh…
Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, take a look at the new soccer ball button on YouTube:
