It’s amazing the kind of different emotions 24 hours can
elicit – particularly in sports.
April 14, 2013 was a day that represented everything sports,
and life for that matter, should be all about.
April 15, 2013 was a day that represented something completely
opposite. Something that should be unthinkable, but here we are thinking about
it. Something so ghastly, so horrific it seems like it should only exist in a
nightmare or a really bad action movie.
The final round of the Masters Tournament on Sunday
afternoon was a sports fan’s euphoria.
You had about 10 different golfers with a decent chance of
victory, great stories (like the three Australians: Adam Scott, Jason Day and
Marc Leishman, trying to win the nation’s first Masters and Tiger Woods still
attempting to win his first major in five years), great characters (Angel
Cabrera, who’s the everyman golfer, and past champion, affectionately called “El
Pato” or “The Duck” for his waddling gait) and a leaderboard that wouldn’t
stand pat for more than 10 minutes at a time with golfer after golfer making a
run to the top, only to fall back down to the rest of the oncoming pack.
Like so many Augusta Sundays before this year’s Masters was
the definition of nerve-wracking. Even though I’d see many a close Final Round
Sunday before this one seemed to be the tops, the best, the most nail-biting …
particularly when it came down to the 18th and final hole and the ensuing
two-hole, sudden-death playoff for the coveted Green Jacket, one of sport’s
most enchanting and visible honors. Adam Scott, one of the game’s best without a
major championship, and Angel Cabrera, a former Masters and U.S. Open champ who
seems to step up his game when the trophy’s mean the most, went mano-a-mano and
hit some of the best and most beautiful golf shots that you’ll ever see – and all
of this with incredible pressure on their backs. The final holes and
sudden-death playoff at the Masters this year was among the most intense
sporting moments I’d ever witnessed – the kind of good intense where you’re
heart beats rapidly, like when you experience your first kiss. In the end,
Scott made two incredible putts that fell in and Cabrera made a few equally incredible
shots that just missed. I, admittedly, was rooting (and very hard, in fact) for
Cabrera so a slight disappointment crept over me, but it vanished almost
immediately as it set it, because this tournament, these last few holes were
just too damn good to feel upset about.
And, then after all the shots had been hit for the weekend
and just before the patrons shuffled to their cars to head home came the moment
that truly summed it all up – the moment that represents everything sports and
life should be all about. Cabrera doffed his hat, walked over to a celebrating
Scott and the Argentine, who doesn’t speak much English, if any, embraced the
newly crowned Aussie champion in a hug. It was a moment where two warriors of
the ultimate gentleman’s game showed what true class and sportsmanship is all
about. Grace both on and off the golf course – fitting for Augusta, fitting for
the sport, fitting for the world.
The final round of this year’s Masters was truly magical –
something I won’t soon forget – something that I’ll go out on a limb and say
won’t be topped by any other sporting event this entire year, as far as sheer
excitement goes.
Magic sometimes vanishes as quickly as it appears.
Monday morning started off glorious for those competing in
the 117th Boston Marathon, one of the world’s oldest and most
prestigious marathons. From explanations given by participants both in the
marathon and within the marathon community – this event is one of true communal
spirit and celebration, ideals that should pervade throughout the sports world.
It was going to be a good day – then came 2:50 p.m. Boston
time. Two bomb blasts, 15 seconds and reportedly about 550 feet apart, ripped
through the celebration right where spectators gathered near the finish line
cheering on family and friends. Billowing smoke filled the sunny skies and an
appalling amount of blood covered the ground – something that undoubtedly and
unfortunately will remain embedded in my memory for as long, if not longer,
than those enchanting golf shots from the day before. The nightmarish image on
television couldn’t even possibly measure up to the scenes experienced by those
at Copley Square, where the bombings took place. The lives that are changed forever now –
whether dead, maimed, only slightly injured or just witnesses of the horror.
We all knew it could happen. After 9/11, I know it sounds cliché
to bring up every time something incredibly tragic happens, but it’s our
generation’s tragedy measuring stick, we knew that sporting events – whether large
or small – could be targeted for terrorist attacks, either foreign or domestic.
Surely it was bound to happen. But, in the almost dozen years since 9/11 there
hadn’t been any tragic incidents at sporting events involving terrorism in this
country. Maybe that’s why the bombing of the Boston Marathon seemed so surprising,
so out-of-the-blue, so heinous. Maybe we had told ourselves it wouldn’t happen
here – it wouldn’t happen someplace where people gathered for celebration, for
enjoyment, for relaxation from their everyday lives. Maybe they would only
target high rises and government building and monuments.
That was too naïve.
The evil want to inflict maximum pain and joyous occasions
turning to chaotic terror accomplishes that. Whoever did this to the Boston
Marathon, to this country, to the world – may they be brought to justice –
essentially made a sport out of terror. They took something that many hold as
sacred and destroyed it, but only for a little while. Sports fans, Americans,
most of the world’s people are resilient. We won’t forget, but we’ll experience
that joy again.
Whoever did this turned a sporting event into a catastrophic
news event. They brought sadness and pain to where joy and comfort belong.
The best thing sports could be took place on Sunday
afternoon. The worst thing sports could see took place on Monday afternoon.
Thank God when it comes to sports there’s an awful lot more Sundays than
Mondays.
