My Own Daredevil Act: Watching The Olympics

One of my favorite advertising campaigns on television right now is the exploits of Ted Ferguson, Bud Light Daredevil. You've seen him. He's the guy, dressed in street clothes, who straps on a helmet and goggles and pads and attempts to do "daring" things like listening to his girlfriend, staying at work two minutes past 5:00 (on a Friday, no less), and other activities that supposedly try his soul. It's funny stuff, mainly because for a lot of us, those things can indeed be an effort.

I'm being my own Ted Ferguson at home right now. I'm going to try to watch the Olympics. And not just hockey or ski jumping or the luge, which I always found easy on the eyes. No, this time I'm going to give it all a shot, at one time or another: figure skating, speed skating, curling, snowboarding, maybe even the biathlon -- or at least a portion of it. So maybe for me it'll be the mono-athlon.


Like Ted Ferguson, the carrot on my stick

Regardless, I'm going to strap on the helmet (figuratively), watch the clock (literally), and see how much Olympics coverage I can gut out before my hand reaches for the greatest invention since Bazooka bubble gum -- the remote control. Yes, I have a feeling that after perhaps 33 seconds of lycra-encased speed skaters turning left on an oval, my fingers will be straining themselves to keep from hitting a button -- any button -- on the trusty clicker. Or maybe after 18 seconds of a pre-taped profile. Or 13 seconds of Bob Costas.

Speaking of announcers, what is it with these downhill skiing analysts? Every one of them I've ever heard -- and I'm going back to the 1970's and Bob Beattie -- scream into the microphone as if they're witnessing the Hindenburg explosion. It happened again last night as I stopped playing my tabletop/dice hockey game long enough to watch American Daron Rahlves' journey in the men's downhill. As the split times were shown on the screen, indicating that Rahlves was falling further and further behind the leader, the analyst (I didn't get his name, other than Todd) was positively beside himself.

"I don't believe this! He changed skis and now look what's happened! He' skiing so well -- what's wrong!! It must be those skis -- they're not moving!! This is awful!"

I waited for the "Oh, the humanity!", but it never came, surprisingly. And if that was Daron Rahlves when his skis weren't moving, then you would have needed cameras that videotaped at the speed of light to capture him when they were moving. He looked like he was moving pretty fast to me. Just not fast enough to finish higher than 10th.

Tim Ryan, the play-by-play man -- or in this event, maybe you call him the slope-by-slope man -- felt compelled to yell, too. So you had this poor guy Rahlves skiing his heart out, going downhill at breakneck speed, and Ryan and "Todd" screaming about it as if: a) screaming was going to make his skis "move", and b) they were two guys at a loud nightclub, yelling into each other's ear to be heard. Only they had microphones -- another marvelous invention.

I actually heard Todd say the snow was "aggressive."

What does that mean? Did it come on too strong? Take someone's parking space? Cut somebody off on the freeway? Or, it being aggressive snow, maybe Todd meant that tiny, nasty flakes were grabbing at Rahlves' skis, slowing him down.

Anyhow, I actually watched about 10 minutes of skiing and speed skating last night, albeit with the volume turned down much of the time so as not to disturb my concentration as my 1970-71 Red Wings were hosting the Minnesota North Stars on my tabletop. (Pairadice Hockey, by the way -- a nifty little game). So I suppose those minutes don't count, since they were sans audio.

But I did get a chance to see -- with sound -- American Apolo Anton Ohno stumble in speed skating. (By the way, have you noticed that the names of Olympians are as if they were given out by rock stars and actors? Apolo. Daron. Bode. But I digress.). So Ohno, in second place and trying to pass the leader, tapped his hand on another competitor's skate and slipped. That's all it takes to lose your balance. Kind of like lightly touching a spinning top. By the time he righted himself, he had fallen to fourth and out of medal contention. And, of course, the NBC turn-by-turn man and his partner had a baby, right there on the air.

"OHNO SLIPS! OHNO SLIPS!!"

Why, oh why, didn't the other guy say, "OH NO!"?

They could have had an act.

Tonight it's figure skating, and the snowboarding half pipe. Didn't they used to sell those in head shops back in the day?

Look out, Ted Ferguson -- I'm gunning for you, my man.