|
HOME
WHO IS CHARLIE?
On an episode of TV's "South
Park," role model Cartman once warned everyone to "Watch
out for Charlie in the Trees."
And I like to think that'll set the tone for my Outsports.com
column. I like to think of myself as somewhat dangerous, or cunning,
but above the fray, watching down upon the sports scene like a
slimmed-down version of the Slice Blimp. Or the Fuji Film Blimp. Or
the Shamu the Killer Whale for Seaworld Blimp.
Only I'm not in a blimp. Nor am I a blimp. I'm not even in the
trees, in actuality. I'm just above it all.
You may be wondering: what's up with him? Why is he qualified to
write a sports column for the premier Web site for gay athletes and
athletic supporters? (Cheap pun, I know, but there are some thing's
that I'm just not above.)
Why am I qualified? Well, I will have you know that I am
experienced with all facets of the sports scene due to the fact that
I share my house with a dark, muscular, good-looking retired
athlete.
OK, so the retired athlete is a ex-racing greyhound that I adopted.
Greyhound racing is a sport. And he is cute as a button.
And to protect the reputation of my retired athlete life-partner,
you know, for the sake of all those potential endorsements, I write
about the sports scene under a nom de gay, Charlie - in the Trees.
E-mail
Charlie
Past Columns
Can't
get enough of those shaved armpits.
Why
I hate the Redskins
Give
me Jeter over Cruise
|
Those Spanish Eyes  By
Charlie In The Trees
Special to Outsports.com
LAS VEGAS-I have now seen the perfection of male physical
beauty. His name is Gervasio Deferr. Olympic gymnast from España.
Gold medallist on the vault.
I confess that I haven’t been watching much of these
Olympics, even though my cable system does get the History Channel.
Or are they on ESPN Classic? Explain to me this. Why would NBC pay,
what, 800 billion for the broadcast rights to the Games ... and then
NOT broadcast the Games. What are they doing? Saving them for good?
It reminds me of my mother when I was growing up. We never
used anything because everything was being saved for good.
Everyday, it was like: “Mom, can I sit on the living room
furniture?” “No. Play in the basement. The living room is for
good.”
“Mom, can I wear my new blue shirt?” “No. Wear that one
I got you from Sears. Save the blue one for good.”
“Mom, can I have some cheese?” “No. Have some Cheez Whiz
instead. I’m saving the Velveeta for good.”
And that’s the problem with the NBC broadcast: all Cheez Whiz and
no Velveeta. I want to watch the Olympics. I really do. But the Game
Show Network shows Match Game ‘78 each night at 10:00 p.m.
Granted, Match Game is being broadcast well after the actual game
was played, just like the NBC Olympic broadcast. But the advantage
of Match Game ‘78 is that my morning newspaper doesn’t tell me
how many celebrities were matched by the contestant from Marysville,
California, on the question about Fat Freda being so fat. And my
favorite internet sites won’t have pictures of what Richard Dawson
answered to “BLANK sweat” in tonight’s Big Money round.
And besides, Gene Rayburn never forced us to listen to a
pathos-soaked weeper detailing what had to be overcome by Brett
Somers (marriage to Jack Klugman) or Charles Nelson Reilly
(pathological socklessness) on the way to realizing an ambition of
joining the Match Game panel.
Thank goodness the Monday Night Football game got boring in
the second half. I never would have turned to NBC to watch the
men’s vault final. (And forget what I said last week about Dennis
Miller growing into his role as an MNF commentator. He was awful
this week. He had no insight. He would just blurt out the first
thing that came into his mind each play, usually based on an
observation he heard Al Michaels or Dan Fouts make a couple of
quarters earlier. I long for the preseason days when he was
over-scripted. This is a man with an aggressively casual knowledge -
even casual interest - in football. With his witless exclamations
about Peyton Manning’s mobility or the Jags’ offensive line, he
sounded like - and this is the most damning way I can think of
characterizing this - he sounded like I would if I were doing color
commentary.)
 Gervasio
Deferr (pronounced hair-VAH-see-oh duh-FAIR). The name is magic. The
morning birds chirp your cheers each day. Gervasio. Your name glides
from my tongue like golden honey, or golden rays of sunlight,
shining down on a golden, dewy meadow. Goldly. Gervasio. Your
beautiful face remains seered into my vision like ... like ...
golden ... gold. Or something.
Anyway, last week I said Alexei Nemov made Blaine Wilson look
like Randy Johnson. (Actually, I misspoke. I should’ve said David
Wells.) Well, Deferr makes Nemov look like an arteriosclerotic Keith
Richard immediately before a blood replacement appointment.
Muscle on smooth muscle. Quads
the size of Catalonia. Muscular even by gymnast standards.
He looked
like a young, compact Dean Cain, only with normal human
being sized eyes.
And what eyes. Soulful
brown eyes, brown like the soil around his native Barcelona.
You could look into those mournful eyes and, in a single glance, see
all he had to overcome to win the Gold (although I am surprised that
NBC did take five minutes, set to the music of the Mantovani
Strings, to explain that to us). Did I say he was muscular? Smooth
too.
I turned on the broadcast just in time to see his vaults. He
scored a 9.712 on the two vaults and I thought he was ripped off.
After watching Deferr’s vaults, for once I concurred with Tim
Daggett’s squeals of delight. Somersaulting through the air like
an entire Cirque du Soleil show compressed into a single five second
frame. I became so partisan that when the next vaulter (well, at
least the next vault that NBC showed) started down the runway , I
yelled at the TV “trip bastard trip.” I felt really bad when
Polish gymnast Leszek Blanik, who also was not suffering from a lack
of hot-itude, then fell on his landing. I know I wasn’t
responsible. The guy probably did the vault a week ago last Tuesday.
But I felt so guilty. I was really happy when he nailed his second
vault. I was even happier when his combined score was 9.475, which
put him in medal contention and, just as importantly, behind Deferr
Gervasio deservedly got the gold. And you thought that the hottest
thing to come out of Spain this summer was going to be Penelope
Cruz.
And there were smiles all around at his triumph. That’s the
biggest difference between men and girl’s gymnastics. (I use the
diminutive for the female here based on the age, look and attitude
of the contestants. Soccer? It’s women’s soccer. Track? It’s
women’s track. Gymnastics? Girls’.)
The men are so much more happy. Even more than that. With all
the hugging and kissing, they appear to be ... I’m trying to think
of a synonym for happy ... I think it begins with a “g.”
They’re GLAD! No. Maybe it’s a three letter word. Ends in a
“y.” I got it! JOY! There’s more pure joy in men’s
gymnastics. The exception being, of course, Blaine Wilson, who’s
worn a scowling Jeff George look of sourness throughout the Games.
There’s a certain exuberance in the competition. For
example, both the men and the girls get hugs after a routine. The
men get hugs of congratulations. The girls get hugs of condolence.
They get the same type of hug you would give if you were to say,
“I’m sorry you had to see your puppy run over by that runaway
lawnmower.”
Men’s gymnastics is all about triumph and victory and performing
at your physical peak. Girls’ gymnastics is all about melodrama.
|