Lonely up there, kissing the sky

by J E Cammon

How far flung are the stars? Science articulates that the heavenly aspirations are not equidistant, but are all in unique phases of spacial relation: going, coming, rising, falling, relatively of course. And if you want something less metaphorical, more meaty, I submit Garret Hartley of the New Orleans Saints. If you don't know who the Saints are, then perhaps you're in the wrong place, but if you don't know the name of the once sure-footed young man then that makes more sense. In sports, where people are likely to truncate the name of events to "the drive" and "the kick" it's easy to leave out a person's name. Last season, Hartley's name was hard to forget, literally putting the team on his foot and propelling them to the super bowl. The difference this year is that lately people have actively been trying.

For more on the events which lead to the phenomenon which I describe, you can read here, but this past weekend the young specialist missed two critical field goals in the defending world champs' overtime loss to the division rival Falcons. One regular season game gone, and people are calling for his head. Who ever knew that heroes had such fragile existences? Well, not me certainly. But I think I know someone who might know a bit about it.

On Tuesday, camp opened for the Miami Heat. In a much more subdued setting, the "threat" (which has a very ironic spelling) sat down in front of microphones again and talked about things that really had nothing to do with the sport of basketball as it occurred between the lines. And even though it is undeniably Dwayne Wade's team, Lebron James was exactly where he didn't want to be: at the center of things. I bandied words back and forth with my colleagues about "the decision" and how it was handled, so I won't revisit that. But I saw on his face, and heard in his words a strange disillusionment concerning his departure from Ohio and alienation from so many fans, and not just ones in Cleveland. He was hurt, and could do little more than someone unequipped in that situation: he became stiff and struggled through an aggressive response. "I'm a man," he said, "and I live with my decisions," which roughly translates to "I'm sorry, but it's far too late to say it now." And he's right.

Now, the only thing that's left for the both of them to do, Hartley and James, is to struggle beneath the yolk to become worthy of their positions in the night sky. Hartley will have to more or less never miss again for the rest of the year, and every game-winning opportunity he's given (if Peyton gives him the opportunity, that is) must be placed between the uprights. Or he will fall. And LeBron will have to capture the sort of magic required for championships (yes, plural) in the time that he, Wade, and Bosh have together. Or he will never rise again. Doesn't seem like an existence that anyone would sign up for willingly does it?

J E Cammon is a writer working and living in the Atlanta area. Some of his writings can be found on his personal website. He isn't the fan of any particular team. He's a fan of sport, and the sportsmen and women who practice the pursuit of perfection.