So I spent five hours on Saturday at a high school swim meet. It’s one I cover every year, sort of our “area championship” meet here in Daytona Beach, and it’s one I enjoy more than most sporting events.
Why? It’s not because I love swimming SO much more than other sports. It’s because swim parents, by far, are the nicest, friendliest parents of any high school sport.
I say this after having covered just about every scholastic sport there is, from field hockey to cross country, from lacrosse to bowling.
And it struck me today, as I covered swimming 12 hours after covering a high school football game, just how amazingly different I as a sportswriter get treated by the two groups, and how different they are from each other:
–Football parents yell at you if their kid isn’t in the paper all the time. Swim parents say thanks for the one time their kid made it three years ago.
–Football parents yell mean things at their own coach from the stands. Swim parents ask the coach if they want some juice or a snack during the meet.
— Football parents want to pulverize the other team. Swim parents want everyone to do well, just that their kid swims a tiny bit faster in that 100 butterfly.
— Football parents are always bragging about how big, strong and fast their kid is. Swim parents talk with pride about how hairless their kid is (seriously, they’re like naked mole rats).
Anyway, you get the idea. Plus, since our area in Daytona Beach produced Olympic champion Ryan Lochte, the quality of swimmers has gone way up, and I get to see possible future national champions in the pool.
So, yeah, it was a good day.
***Hell of a win for the Yankees last night, and a brutal, brutal loss for the Angels. The boys from Anaheim had a ton of chances to win (wasn’t Vladimir Guerrero supposed to drive runners in, not leave them stranded all night like the cast of “Lost?”), but now I can’t see them coming back from an 0-2 deficit.
Meanwhile, while Julie and I watched extra innings, we imagined this conversation going on in hundreds of seats at Yankee Stadium, while the rain fell and the frost formed:
Woman: “Seriously, let’s go home. I’m freezing and wet and it’s 1 a.m.”
Man: “Are you kidding? It’s the playoffs and this game is awesome!”
Woman: I haven’t felt my toes since the 7th inning. If you love me, we’re leaving.”
Man: Come on, this is a classic! Your toes will be fine.”
**OK, if you’re a child of the 1980s like I am, you remember Richard Marx. The mullet, the love ballads like “Endless Summer Nights” and “Right Here Waiting,” all that good stuff.
Well an old college friend of mine, Bill Werde, is the editor of Billboard magazine, and he got to interview the legendary Mr. Marx (I loved him so much, had all his tapes, and even used “Endless Summer Nights” as an anthem for a girl I liked once) recently.
The first 45 seconds or so of the interview are pretty normal, but then … well, things get interesting. I laughed really hard.
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