The last time I offered a helpful critique of a sport that thinks it
should have broad appeal but doesn't, I got into trouble. The sport was
ice dancing, and after my discussion of it, I got an invitation to an
ice-dancing event from a woman who wrote, "Sir, I DARE you to come!"
With DARE triple- underlined in a squiggly way that gave the note a
saucy but friendly feel. But that was mere trickery. I know, because I
snooped around and learned that this same woman had sent my boss a
letter demanding that I be editorially caponed. So it was a trap. If I'd
shown up, I'd have been verbally pummeled by ice-dancing parents --
merciless people who think nothing of dressing wee, trusting children in
froufrou costumes, Etruscan headdresses and smoke-bomb-loaded
bandoleers. And then shoving them, sink-or-skate, onto a frigid rink.
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Thus, I had "be careful" on my mind when I sampled another iffy
sport, "competitive aerobics," at a regional final of the Crystal Light
National Aerobic Championship held in Arlington's Ballston Common mall.
And yet, conscience dictates that criticisms be made. But, aerobics
people, let's agree. I ask that you not get angry and try to lure me
into the speed-punching arms of a platoon of Jacki Sorensen moonies. In
exchange, I'll keep this discussion free of judgmental phrases like, oh,
say: "Hell-disgorged fitness imps." In fact, I'll stay out of it
altogether. See, every now and then, to give you relief from my arguably
crank opinions, I pick a suitable "other" and try to look at the subject
through his or her eyes. For this event, I selected a guy I worked for
one summer in Kansas -- a guy who had a gut packed like a 50-pound sack
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of cotton meal, a cap that proclaimed him to be a proxy member of the
Denver Bronco "Orange Crush" defense and a habit of saying things like
(this example is true), "Schoolboy, was you fixin' to be wantin' to be
to go to went to got your dinner?" Meaning: "Young man, are you ready
for lunch?"
Why did I pick a man of Orange Crush's somewhat lowbrow caliber?
Well, the promoters of this event have a lot to say about the sport's
vast potential among "typical sports fans." That's O.C. And if you don't
think he's typical, I invite you to move to Middle America, live there
10 years, watch how fans react to sports and come back. Then we'll talk.
Everybody else, let's go to the championship. It was a Saturday late
last month, and as I/Orange Crush descended an escalator leading to the
aerobics stage, I let him take over. There was a lot to evaluate. At
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that moment, the emcee was announcing the winner from that morning's
women's final, using inappropriate beauty-pageant dramatics. That is,
the "five finalists" were lined up, holding hands and breath, waiting
for him to stop waggling the darn envelope at the audience and get on
with it. When the decision finally came, there was much crying, eeking
and leaping. Orange Crush frowned at this. After that he walked toward
Manchu Wok -- a fast-food cubbyhole near the stage -- and almost tripped
over a competitor in the upcoming men's final who was stretching on the
floor and simultaneously fretting over his hairdo. Orange Crush started
cracking his knuckles. Then the men's event began, and a dozen muscular,
madly grinning guys came out and did short aerobic dance routines to the
tune of disco-synthesized rock mixes. The routines were full of
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fanny-wiggling jumping jacks done while saying "Oop oop" and cutesy
finger-waggling, with facial expressions that said: "I've been naughty
-- and I know you have, too!" Reactions? Well, I personally, once I got
my jaw ratcheted back into place, enjoyed it. Orange Crush, however,
left early, muttering something about "roundin' up a tractorcade posse."
As you can see, aerobics people, you have a dangerous problem. Before
you expose your act to real sports fans (as opposed to easily pleased
mall patrons), you need reforms. I spent a whole day evaluating your
product, with no ax to grind. I suggest immediate implementation of the
following:
Get a new Founding Father. The impresario of the Crystal Light event
is a New York promoter named Howard Schwartz who wears "Miami Vice"
duds, is pale and hoots when asked how long he's been doing aerobics.
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(He doesn't -- he just promotes.) This won't work. What if "Papa Bear"
George Halas, a founder of the National Football League, had been some
adenoidal wimp who had a body like a shucked turtle? People wouldn't
have bought it. Schwartz can stay, but behind the scenes. Aerobics needs
a "showpiece" founder of the heckler-throttling variety. It also might
be smart to spend a few dollars (no more than $9 million will be
required) to hire an unlikely athlete to come forward and admit aerobics
is his "secret passion." The obvious choice, of course, being: Wade
Boggs.
Make Cinderella stories possible. People like real sports because
there's always the chance that an unknown keed will bust out of the pack
and perform heroically. In non-real sports like ice dancing,
synchronized swimming and, I'm afraid, aerobics as it exists now, it's
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as if the "winner types" and "loser types" are preordained. One
loser-type guy in the men's preliminaries had on a dull gray tank-top
body suit and inappropriate black socks and had large sponges of
underarm hair. And yet, he had lots of heart: Before performing he
delivered a stirring speech about not giving up in the face of constant
failure. Even so, the style judges looked at him with evident distaste,
and he didn't make the cut. All the ones who did wore stylistically
correct outfits. (As one finalist said to me, "I know I look tortured in
turquoise, so I avoid it.") I contend that the audience would have
responded wildly to a win, place or show by the Spongeman.
Retool the terminology. When I asked an aerobics person, "Are there
names for all these moves, like in diving?," he mumbled evasively. Later
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research showed why. Aerobics moves have names like: Welcome the World,
Grab the Sunlight, Draw Some Rainbows, Martial Arts Cha-Cha, Sporty
Stretch, Flamingo Fling and Jog Wild. Guys in bars will not talk about a
sport that requires use of these terms. Appropriate sports-move lingo,
in contrast, sounds like this: gang tackle, throw heat, slam dunk. So
change it. It's easy. For example, there was one guy in a star-spangled
body suit who smiled, jumped up and spun around with his arms in a
helicopter-blade position. This is a "Whirlybird." Much better would be
a skull-and-crossbones chest insignia, a snarl and a no-nonsense name
such as: Death From Above.
Wear helmets. I'm not sure why. I just think it would help.
Who's there? Oh, Orange Crush just walked in, and he says it
definitely won't help. Sorry, aerobics friends. Uh, have you considered
taking the other course, the one diametrically opposed to
respectability? It could work. I close my eyes and see an
easy-to-remember acronym: G.G.G.A.M.P.A.N.K.B. (pronounced Gampankub).
Stands for: Gorgeous Guys and Gals of Aerobic Mud-Pit Almost-Nekkid Kick
Boxing.
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