There’s a little known side of me that involves tears. The kind that flow from eyes. I cry easily. Ya know – like at the end of the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethons. I cried for most of the film, Miracle. I’ve seen it often. I even watched the game live in 1980. And cried. In American Beauty when Ricky Fitts narrates as a paper bag falls prey to the breeze. Whoa. And at the end of Friday Night Lights when a Hail Mary pass is thrown and the ball lingers, and lingers, and then comes down months later, in a stadium where a completely different team practices. Maybe it’s just me, but my ducts well up no matter how many times I see that.
I also tear up when I see a rider conquer a magnificent course and ride in solo to a finish line filled with thousands of fans, the streets lined with bunting and advertising banners and all sorts of celebratory shit. To separate himself from all the others with numbers pinned on, using guile and cunning, and hopefully rim brakes and a mechanical group. From Campagnolo. I love a good drama played out. I’m a drama queen. And I cry almost but not quite on cue. And I always thought, I always knew, that if I ever even got close to winning a big one that I wouldn’t be able to contain myself. To be continued. Maybe.
All This By Hand
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