2008 Woodie Awards
Memories: the most painful loss of all
Greg Jeffers
Issue date: 9/12/07 Section: Sports
Somewhere between landing in this world and leaving it, many people develop a love for sports. Some of us latch on to it at a young age and it simply grows from there. I attribute the genesis of my sports affection to my early memories of playing catch with my dad in the front yard.
Through memories, sports have an amazing way of transcending the "now." The wonder of sports exists in the memories they create and the emotions they capture.
The great moments live forever, and those of us with the privilege of witnessing dramatic events as they happen are forever imprinted with either the overwhelming joy of victory or the brutal heartache of defeat. And while television acts as a historian for a great number of these moments, many will live on only in the hearts of those who were there. Such is the case with my "sports moment." To be accurate, it's more a collection of moments.
As a young boy, I would often travel with my family to my grandparents' house for holidays and family reunions.
When visiting we'd always be welcomed to some kind of treat, whether it was my grandmother's homemade preserves, or her award-winning pecan pie or some cookies from the jar on the kitchen counter. Affectionately known as "Gimmy," she and my granddad shared a nice home; but more importantly to us kids they had a large enough yard to host any game our young minds could create.
During large family reunions, highly competitive games of wiffle ball would inevitably break out. The large, bushy tree in the yard that would otherwise have been in our way simply became our very capable first baseman. The oleanders were foul territory, and a fly ball reaching granddad's prize tomato garden was an automatic home run. Only the setting sun could bring an end to the fun as precious memories were born.
Last weekend we said goodbye to Gimmy, as a series of strokes claimed a wonderful lady and reunited her with my granddad. She had forgotten me long ago, as the cruel phantom of Alzheimer's disease slowly stole the memories of a woman who was once the sharpest, happiest and kindest woman you'd ever hope to meet.
Gone were the memories of her grandchildren laughing and playing in the yard, and of us quickly sneaking inside to swipe a cookie to fuel us through yet another round of wiffleball.
Missing were the recollections of the day she taught us the sport of croquet or the fine art of throwing horseshoes-memories, to me, which are priceless.
When I look back, there is no doubt in my mind sports have played a major role in my life. Often, they remind me of what is truly important, and the memories we should never, ever take
for granted.
Through memories, sports have an amazing way of transcending the "now." The wonder of sports exists in the memories they create and the emotions they capture.
The great moments live forever, and those of us with the privilege of witnessing dramatic events as they happen are forever imprinted with either the overwhelming joy of victory or the brutal heartache of defeat. And while television acts as a historian for a great number of these moments, many will live on only in the hearts of those who were there. Such is the case with my "sports moment." To be accurate, it's more a collection of moments.
As a young boy, I would often travel with my family to my grandparents' house for holidays and family reunions.
When visiting we'd always be welcomed to some kind of treat, whether it was my grandmother's homemade preserves, or her award-winning pecan pie or some cookies from the jar on the kitchen counter. Affectionately known as "Gimmy," she and my granddad shared a nice home; but more importantly to us kids they had a large enough yard to host any game our young minds could create.
During large family reunions, highly competitive games of wiffle ball would inevitably break out. The large, bushy tree in the yard that would otherwise have been in our way simply became our very capable first baseman. The oleanders were foul territory, and a fly ball reaching granddad's prize tomato garden was an automatic home run. Only the setting sun could bring an end to the fun as precious memories were born.
Last weekend we said goodbye to Gimmy, as a series of strokes claimed a wonderful lady and reunited her with my granddad. She had forgotten me long ago, as the cruel phantom of Alzheimer's disease slowly stole the memories of a woman who was once the sharpest, happiest and kindest woman you'd ever hope to meet.
Gone were the memories of her grandchildren laughing and playing in the yard, and of us quickly sneaking inside to swipe a cookie to fuel us through yet another round of wiffleball.
Missing were the recollections of the day she taught us the sport of croquet or the fine art of throwing horseshoes-memories, to me, which are priceless.
When I look back, there is no doubt in my mind sports have played a major role in my life. Often, they remind me of what is truly important, and the memories we should never, ever take
for granted.
Viewing Comments 1 - 1 of 1
Diane Sill
posted 9/16/07 @ 9:27 PM PST
What a wonderful tribute to the Gimmy we all loved.
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