Greatness

This post has been bouncing around in my head for about a week now, but I'm just getting around to writing it.  I suppose part of the problem is that I just haven't really been in the mood to write something that I felt would be decent, rather than just a few paragraph as my last two posts have been.  That changed yesterday, when I was given an assignment by my boss to write a user guide.  I was compelled to do a really good job on it, mainly because I wanted to show him that I actually have some writing skill.  That's something he's mentioned as being a rare commodity here in the office.  Just the kind of thing that inspires me.

In any case, I was feeling incredibly restless on Tuesday.  This happens when I feel I have nothing to do of interest.  It's human nature for a person to want to do things that they feel are great.  As a whole, humans accomplish that through their careers, their hobbies, their friends, or their families.  I'm no different.  This made me think back, and try and decide what I can remember as being the "great thing" I've done in my life.

Naturally, my mind immediately goes back to my years as a horseshoe pitcher.  I guess I could technically classify my entire interesting (albeit relatively short) career as pretty great.  I can remember so many moments that fill me with a sensational feeling of pride.  It was wonderful to be one of the best at something, and I'm grateful that I will always have that to look back on.  And because I know the question may be on the minds of anyone who may read this, no, I do not have any interest in the sport any longer.  It died with my grandfather.

Looking back, if I had to choose one instance, one event, from that time in my life as the tentpole of what all I accomplished, it would have to be at the World Tournament in Kitchener, Canada during the summer of 1997.

I'm trying to figure out why that is.  I can name quite a few other events that are probably more impressive than that.  The perfect game is one.  The very next year's World Tournament is another.  My marathon games with Frank Bohun also comes to mind.  Hell, even my contributions off the court from the age of 15 is more important in my eyes.  But, I think the sheer intensity and circumstances of what happened in Kitchener makes it stand out above all the others to me.  I remember it so vividly.

Regular play had just completed, and I knew there was going to be a playoff. Marcus Mosness and I both had one loss.  Quite honestly (and I'm not just referring to that one day, either), I don't know how I did what I did.  If I try to imagine myself in that kind of situation today, I don't see me having the nerves to handle it.  It's something that I developed at the World Tournament in 1996.  I was quite capable of averaging over 65% then, but I was struggling with 60%.  It was nerves.  Something interesting happened, though.  Since I played so poorly that I didn't make the championships, I was able to pitch in this National competition that they used to have.  Basically, it was a mixed tournament played at the same time as the World Tournament, and you had to win a "national" tournament during the course of the previous year.  I was eligible after winning a tournament in West Virginia.

So I was in this thing, and I was playing against some of the greatest senior men, open women, and junior players in the country.  I was fantastic.  I didn't win, but I gave everyone a great game and gave the audience something amazing to see.  I played Sue Snyder, one of the greatest ladies I've ever seen throw a horseshoe, and our game was so intense and so close that after it was over she just turned to me and gave me a huge hug.  It was the first major time I was noticed by people I didn't personally know.  People came up to me commenting on my discipline on the court.  It was such a strange experience.

The reason I did so well in that tournament is because I didn't think about the pressure.  There wasn't any for me -- I already finished the World Tournament and wasn't worrying about doing well any longer.  I just let all that go, relaxed, and that was the result.  I learned from that, and nerves never got to me again.

But I'm getting off-track now. Back to that day in Kitchener.

I was never fully aware of the audience during regular play at that tournament.  I was always out there not only with all my other opponents (all 15 of them), but also many other players doing their own respective games.  Everything was different in the playoff.  It was announced over the PA system throughout the entire complex when and where it was happening, and who was playing.  No one else was playing -- it was only Marcus and me on the courts.  Every single spectator was looking at us.  It was surreal.  I may never be world famous, but I got a taste of what it must be like that day.

The audience disappeared for me once the game began.  And oh dear God the game of horseshoe pitching was so easy to me that day, and it was the shortest 40 shoes of my life.  I remember that with the scoreboards they had, they turned a dial when you hit the 30 shoe mark.  When the scorekeeper turned that dial to 30 shoes pitched, I looked at the score.  For a moment I honestly couldn't believe what I was doing.

In the end, I threw 36 of the 40 shoes around the stake.  That's a 90% game, if you're not so good at math.  It's an amazing game if you're not sure what that means.

I can't accurately describe how I felt when I stepped off the court, because I actually think I was a little bit shocked at what I'd just done.  I do remember my face being incredibly hot, and I was sort of unsure where I wanted to go.  But my family found me first.  I'd never seen my grandfather walking so proudly or so quickly in all his left, and I think that image is the most vivid for me when I think back to it.  My brother also surprised me by giving me an incredibly large hug.  And so many hand shakes, by so many people, many of whom I didn't even know.  Heads shook in disbelief, and I could hear people talking to one another as I walked through the crowd to collapse onto a bench.  I still remember Cliff Powell turning to Ron Weiss and saying, "Incredible...he just had the eye of the tiger during that game."

(The urge to walk to the stands yelling "Adrian!" probably would have existed had I not been too dazed to even think clearly.)

That is my own story of greatness, the thing I can look back on to say, "I -did- something."