Alan S. Oser

The professional golfer tries hard to maintain his stoicism in a tournament. Tiger Woods does it as well as any. But when Tiger Woods won the British Open in late July 2006 he broke down in tears in his wife’s arms. He stayed entwined in her arms, discharging the emotions that tension had built, for what seemed like a full minute. The television camera gave him no privacy.

Watching this, I felt the tears coming to my own eyes. Why should this be? I will settle for the explanation that I had the vicarious experience of feeling his relief. Here was a great player of whom so much is expected, and who expects so much of himself, who had been failing consistently in tournaments that preceded the British Open. The pressure he put on himself must have been intense.

The fall of the mighty is tragic. In literature the tragedy results from a flaw in the character of a great man. Tiger Woods’ character seems just fine, and he is not necessarily a great man, but his failures were sad. Because of his achievements he was a hero in a way. I rooted for him in the tournament. I felt his pain, and I experienced, in a mild way, the release from tension that he himself must have felt.

The involvement of the spectator in the outcome of a sports event conducted by athletes displaying remarkable skills is the factor that makes sports so absorbing to its followers. Appreciation leads to devotion, which leads to involvement in the athlete’s fate and tension as he competes. Victory brings release.

I find that I achieve maximum involvement in the fate of athletes whose skills I admire once I get to “know” them personally. Once this was possible only by reading about them. Now it is possible to watch them speaking for themselves on television. Some of them do this very effectively. I came to admire Tiger Woods not only by watching him play golf, but also by listening to him speaking for himself in television interviews. He is quite good at this.

Except on television, I have never witnessed a golf match. I have been to one professional basketball game and a couple of professional football games and ice hockey matches. But that was more than forty years ago.

I’ve done better with baseball. I’ve seen Big League baseball games in various stadiums over the last several years. I’ve seen games in Boston, Baltimore, New York, Pittsburgh, Cleveland and Cincinnati. For a period of years it was a ritual to go to a different city with my son every year to see a big-league game on or about the time of his birthday.

The outcome of those games was of no interest to me, except perhaps in the case of the New York games, where familiarity with the players, via television interviews and news accounts, made me care. Nevertheless, it is possible to appreciate all the games on aesthetic grounds alone. What feats these athletes can perform!

And to what lengths fans’ involvement takes them!

At Fenway Park in Boston, a well-dressed and courteous young man in his 30’s sat next to me behind first base during a game between the Red Sox and the Toronto Blue Jays. I took him for a stockbroker. He held his peace until a Boston runner was called “out” by the umpire at first base in the fourth inning. A throw from the shortstop may have beaten the runner to first base by one-sixteenth of a second.

The young man leaped to his feet and delivered a vicious right hook to the air in front of his right arm. “He’s safe! Yer blind!” he yelled. “He’s safe! Ya need glasses! Whazza matter wid you? Yer a bum!”

With that the young man took his seat and allowed his heated head to cool off. Then he turned to me calmly. “I thought he was safe,” he said. I assured him I agreed.

At an afternoon game in Cleveland, the fans never abandoned their manners. They cheered their players, preserved their calm when events favored the opposition, and left the umpires in peace. After the game, almost everyone joined a long slow march to the railroad station to board a train to the suburbs. Hardly anyone seemed to live within the city of Cleveland. Hardly anyone drove to the stadium.

We get to love certain athletes. To this day the sight of Lou Gehrig, suffering from a fatal disease but telling the world in his final, filmed appearance at Yankee Stadium that he feels like “the luckiest man alive,” produces an emotional reaction in me. Baseball more than any other sport seems capable of doing this.

And not only to me. I polled two friends on this subject over drinks only a few days ago, and they agreed that their vulnerability is like mine. We can all watch football, basketball, tennis and any other sport that comes to mind without emotion. Baseball – and occasionally golf – are different.

Unfortunately, my own playing days are over, as is the competitive spirit that the player needs to make the contest meaningful. The game of choice in my early youth was punch ball, a form of baseball adapted to the residential streets of Queens. Then came tennis and half-court basketball in school days, and tennis alone as an adult. In those days, I wanted not only to play, but also to win.

Two benefits emerge from this experience. One is the sense of pleasure and achievement in winning. The other is an education in how to lose gracefully. The playing experience afforded me considerable opportunity to acquire the latter skill, and although I do not wish to boast, I consider myself a superior loser at a great variety of sports. This skill came in handy at the chess table as well, and later at the card table. I play bridge and I win occasionally. But it turns out that graceful losers make and keep friends more easily than consistent winners. I have therefore turned losing into something of a social art.

“You played that hand beautifully,” I smilingly tell the opponent who has beaten me in a bridge hand. I am complimentary to my partner as well, and reassuring when he has erred, and realizes it. Gracious competitors are popular people.

But sport usually does not bring out the best in people. It makes them excessively desirous of prevailing. Their self-esteem is too much at stake. I was that way myself as a young man. I remember how badly I wanted to beat my new friend Ted at table tennis the first time we played. I almost did, but he prevailed, 21-18. I challenged him to another game, and he agreed to play. “But this time I’m going to use my right hand,” he said.

He won, 21-6. I suppressed my shame and complimented him warmly, thus inaugurating a lifelong friendship based on mutual, but different, interests.

I know men in their 70’s who are still competitive athletes. More power to them. For my part, I am content to allow the competitive ambers to cool and to allow appreciation, and empathy, to take their place. I feel sorry for the great athletes of the world who cannot shake their competitive spirit as their athletic skills, over time, subside.