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Caps Win the Cup!

Caps Win the Cup!

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It took me a split second this morning to remember, and then the joy washed over me again: The Washington Capitals have won the Stanley Cup! They have coolly and methodically mowed down their competition. They have run the distance, they have prevailed.

Does D.C. need this or what? It’s been decades since we’ve had a sports championship of any type. And just in general, things are tough in the “swamp.” We’re the seat of government in an era when government is contentious. Our traffic is horrendous, and we’ve had four weeks of rain.

But last night, all of that was forgotten. Ovi hoisted the Stanley Cup, smiled his gap-toothed grin, and made some sort of utterance that was part howl, part growl.

Last night wasn’t about words, though. It was about sounds and images. Firecrackers popping. A sea of red in Capital One Arena and throughout Chinatown (which I cruised beneath on Metro less than two hours before they won).

Today the whole region woke up a little happier than it did yesterday. Yes, it’s just a bunch of guys who skate around and chuck each other with sticks. But it’s our guys. And they won!

Joy in D.C.!

Joy in D.C.!

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I’m not a big ice hockey fan — I don’t know a check from a puck — but I know jubilation when I see it. And jubilation is the story here in Washington, D.C., as the Capitals advance to the Stanley Cup finals for the first time in 20 years.

I found out from a text from Claire, my hockey-loving daughter, who used about half a dozen exclamation points at the end of her message.

It’s that kind of joy. As Washington Post sports columnist Dan Steinberg wrote,  D.C. reacted “about how you’d expect a city might react, if that city had been waiting for 7,000 or so days for a team to get to this particular spot, and if that city had seen this particular team come up short in this particular round against this particular opponent every particular spring.  There was relief. There was delirium. There was exaltation.”

It’s one of those wins that feels like more than what it really is, that feels like payback for living in a “swamp” where troubling political news combines with troubling Metro news (including the closure of four stations for 98 days next year) combines with killer traffic for a uniquely D.C. type of misery.

But today is different. It’s May. The azaleas are bursting with jewel-tone blossoms. Pollen is on the run. The Caps may not make it all the way. But right now it’s more than enough that they made it here.

(Photo: Washington Capitals)

Golden Hearts

Golden Hearts

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Last night I watched pairs skating and thought about love, the glancing touch, moving together, moving alone.  Head-spinning and heart-stopping. Can there be a more perfect evocation of romantic love than these dancers on ice?

Cut to a commercial, followed by another scene, another Olympic venue. The once-vanquished hero returns to scenes of former glory. He had spent some dark days, was challenged by young competitors, worked hard and risked much.

Can he do it again? He bounces on his board and takes off on his last run. And he is flying, cork-screwing, skittering in the air, defying death (it seems to me) with every swoop and curve. And yes, he has what it takes, he wins the gold.

Afterward, he smiles, pumps his fists, makes his way into the crowd where he finds … his mother. And he falls into her arms, sobbing.

Another kind of love.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Magical Thinking

Magical Thinking

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Watching a lot of Olympics these days and thinking about the power of spectator sports. How after a while, you can imagine your limbs as straight and as strong, your nerves as steady. There’s some kind of magical transference that ends the minute I get up and stretch. But for a few minutes, it’s sublime.

Or maybe that’s just me.

There is much talk of how slopes and rinks can stand in for battlefields. How when nations compete at sports they are less likely to compete at war. This may well be true.

But aren’t sports also good for intergenerational harmony? I look at the perfect spins and arabesques of the figure skaters, remember a time when I could hold my leg up to my ear — not while standing on a steel blade, mind you. But still, a time when I was more limber than I am now.

The years fade away when I’m watching the Olympics. Not just the years, but the lack of training and the fear of heights. For just a moment I’m soaring off a ski jump, twisting in air, feeling the unlimited power and strength of youth.

(Photo: Afritorial.com)

Split Seconds

Split Seconds

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Into the torpor of a muggy Washington summer, where it doesn’t much matter whether you saunter down the street in 20 minutes or 10, comes news from a place where every second counts.

“Americans miss out on a men’s eight medal by 0.3 of a second,” screams one headline, describing the time that separated the U.S. men’s rowing team from a bronze medal.  Or, a more positive example, swimmer Nathan Adrian surprised everyone by pushing past the Australian, French and Brazilian favorites to win gold in the men’s 100-meter freestyle — by .01 second.

We watch sports for the drama and the fun, to marvel at what the human body is capable of. But do we also watch because time is compressed? The slow-moving outcomes of our own sometimes tedious lives are sped up in the pool and on the playing fields. In competition, as in books and movies, we get to see how it all ends.

Olympic Stories

Olympic Stories

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The warm-up visualization our yoga instructor led us through last night took us to London. “Flow east across the ocean. Look down, see the Thames as it curves through the city. How do you know it’s the Thames?” he asked. And then, with laughter in his voice, he quickly answered: “It’s the only dark thing you see.”

“It’s late there,” he continued. “But the pubs are still full. The eyes of the world are on this city.”

Maybe it was the drama in his voice, maybe it was the mid-summer doldrums, but whatever it was, it made me very excited that the Olympics are starting today.

I remember writing about the ice dancing event in Vancouver in in one of my first posts in this blog. Have I really been writing almost daily here for that long?

The Olympics, like any event that happens every two years (or every four) helps us measure time. The music, the uniforms, who wins and who loses, where we lived and who we watched it with — all these wrap themselves into our memories and become part of the experience. Watching the Olympics unites us in a good way. We are riveted by competition, not by tragedy.

It’s eight hours until the opening ceremonies. Let the games — and the stories — begin.

Anthony Page holds the Olympic torch in front of Big Ben. Photo: London 2012 Olympics Official Site.

The Tissue

The Tissue

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Like many people these days I’ve been mesmerized by the Winter Olympics–although I seem to have a knack for missing the most exciting moments. I was there for the first runs of the women’s skeleton, for example, but missed Shaun White’s Double McTwist and Evan Lysacek’s long program Gold. But what stands out in my mind is a moment from last night’s ice dancing program. I don’t even remember which pair it was, but I watched the man blow his nose and then hand the tissue to someone — a coach, a relative? — before he skated off with his partner into Olympic glory.

It made me think about all of us who only stand and wait, who cheer on the sidelines, which is, let’s face it, most of us. And it also made me think about how, despite their gravity-defying feats, these Olympians are just ordinary people after all. I’ll remember the tissue long after I’ve forgotten the triple toe loops. It was a moment of humanity. Those always stick with me.