Witness Greatness: the one and only Ashton Eaton is in our midst.

World’s Greatest Athlete. Greatest athlete of all-time. It sounds like a simple enough concept. But the more you think about it the more convoluted the idea can become. How do you properly compare athletes from different eras? Can you compare across sports? It’s so subjective a topic it may seem fruitless to try. And yet we do. With our culture’s ever-increasing fascination with sport, how can you not?! ESPN has an army of full-time analysts. NBA game attendance hit an all-time record. American High School participation for both boys and girls hit records this year. Fantasy football is just bonkers (over 33 million people play a year, dissecting athlete ability and potential in detailed minutiae). Athlete salaries are higher than ever. Sport leagues and expansion teams are popping up everywhere. So, yes, let’s debate the “best” and embolden the asterisk…

If you try to look at pure natural ability you may land on Bo Jackson or Jim Thorpe. If you value the mental aspect and clutch play you’re likely to conclude “His Airness” Michael Jordan. But should you favor the best from the world’s most popular sport, ie Pele (or recent Champions League goal record holder, Cristiano Ronaldo)? What about those whose play “changed the face of the game” like a Wayne Gretsky or a Tiger Woods? How can you not emphasize long-term dominance over the competition (Aleksandr Karelin or Serena Williams)? And then do you need to factor in their team, their coaches, training methods, diet, make injury considerations? What about the greatest in sports that aren’t widely-followed like water polo?

Even within one sport it seems you can’t be really be definitive. With LeBron’s mix of power, size, speed and finesse, will he be considered better than Michael? If Dez Bryant stays healthy, will we be comparing him to Jerry Rice or Randy Moss?

Factoring in stats, records, titles and even, the oft-mentioned “eye test” this task is truly daunting.

I’m going to admit something to you now. I actually already know who it is.

I believe we do, in fact, have one best, if not perfect, method. We can never expect all athletes to be able to toe the same line, sure. But there is one gauge for comparison of athletic ability that is:

1) consistent

2) established

3) global

4) measurable

5) multi-faceted

It is… Track & Field’s decathlon.

Connecting 10 events that include multiple iterations of running, jumping, and throwing (back-to-back over two days to incorporate stamina) can’t be topped as a singular measurement of overall athleticism and athletic versatility. The 100 meter dash measures speed and reaction time. The 110 hurdles adds flexibility, timing and acceleration. The 400 showcases sustained speed. The 1500 requires endurance. Then there is vertical jumping, horizontal jumping, and vaulting. Then strength comes to play with overhand throwing (javelin), rotational throwing (discus) and pushing a 16-pound ball (shot put). And each of these events have been known and contested at the international level world-wide for well over 100 years.

As far back as 1912, the decathlon gold medalist has been called the “World’s Greatest Athlete”. But not everyone is willing to say it.

The biggest argument detractors have for calling a decathlon champion “the world’s greatest athlete” is that they are not “great” in any one event. Decathlon success, by design, highlights versatility. Even though they are miles ahead of regular athletes in the cumulative of all 10, compared to their peers, they are a jack of all trades, master of none. I don’t agree with the argument but at least I understand it.

Now enter on the scene, Ashton Eaton.

The decathlon at a World Championship has been won by sprinters who can throw (Dan O’Brien), by throwers who can jump (Brian Clay), and by jumpers who can throw (Roman Šebrle).

But never before this decade have we seen a decathlete so elite in so many different events. Track fans are used to some overlapping event success in the sprints and long jump. The key aspect of success in each is acceleration and speed. Carl Lewis demonstrated this best in the 80s, adding LJ medals to his sprint medal count with regularity.

But with Eaton we are seeing this event versatility on a whole new level.

Consider that, before Eaton, rarely has a decathlete been able to compete with elite individuals in ANY single track & field event.

Eaton can compete with the best in FOUR. He has marks better than the 2016 Rio Olympic qualifying standard in each of these events:


Long Jump



In contrast, World champion, Olympic champion and previous world record holder, Roman Šebrle, can boast zero. None of Šebrle’s event PRs would take him to an Olympics outside of decathlon.

To add more fuel to the fire, Eaton has won track meets in the pole vault and his 100m time would rank him at or near the top of any country in the world outside the USA and Jamaica.

Early in his career Eaton was winning heptathlons and decathlons with good individual event marks but, in his relentless pursuit of improvement and excellence, he has transcended simple athletic versatility and moved into a wholesale, widespread athletic greatness un-catalogued until now.

Eaton holds World Decathlon Bests (world records for events done within a decathlon) for three of the 10 events. No other athlete has more than one. Only thrice has a decathlon performance broken the 9,000 point barrier. He has two of them.


To put his feats in even greater context, Eaton has also proven that he can beat his competition in all conditions: He holds the world record for the men’s heptathlon, held in the calm of an indoor stadium. And his two world record-setting decathlons came in the rain of Eugene, Oregon and the searing heat of Beijing in August.

He has shown he shines in high stakes competitions too, setting his two world records in an Olympic Trials and a World Championships, while many track athletes set their PRs at lower stakes invitational meets.

To top it all off, he’s beginning to log a consistent longevity in the sport as well, winning his first NCAA decathlon title in 2008 and successively adding two more NCAA titles, followed by two World Indoor Championship Heptathlon titles, two World Championship titles, and a gold in his first Olympic Games.

Nike does a nice job highlighting Eaton’s training and mindset for decathlon training with this video that poses the question “Is Ashton Eaton the world’s most versatile athlete”?

Oh he’s that and a lot more, friends.

We are witnessing a new era of Great. Overall athletic greatness is being redefined. Eaton is the all-time greatest of all-time’s greatest athletes. And he is dominating his competition in an era of unprecedented global access to sport (ie more competition than ever).

For comparison’s sake, you can’t overlook that early athletes did not have the training methods, diet, coaching and full-time dedication today’s athletes have. But at least with Eaton we are witnessing the combination of supreme natural ability and unmatched dedication to training. The result is in front of us to enjoy. We should marvel at what is taking place. LeBron should give his Witness T-shirt to this guy.

Ashton Eaton is not only winning with utter dominance but he is winning with class, fairness in the true spirit of competition.

His interviews are legendary for their “aw shucks, I don’t know” humility. But look at how he runs the 400 meters in the Beijing WC:

Beijing ’15 Decathlon 400m

Every competitor is running the final turn on the very inside of their lane, their feet striking and inch or two from the lane line. Eaton, in eye-popping contrast, runs in the dead center of his lane. Pumping his arms and legs with grit but in metronome-like precision he breaks the decathlon 400 world best by a whopping .68 of a second. Not only will I beat you but I will do so in the fairest way possible.

On a personal note, I believe Ashton Eaton, just by doing what he does, makes for a fantastic story of racial equality: The greatest athlete the world has produced is a mix of races. Hitler may have disliked him more than Jesse Owens…

I count myself lucky to be a track fan in this generation, able to watch Greatness on display before my very eyes. Thank you Ashton for showing us what is possible and doing it better than anyone else. As Ashton says, “Endeavor. Always.”

So who is noticing (and truly appreciating) outside the arena of track & field? Please, world, take notice. Greatness is among us.

Wonder in the detail: Nurse sharks

Anyone ever looked up close at a nurse shark? Like, really close. What you find is fascinating and beautiful. And most photos I’ve seen of nurse sharks do not highlight this. My friend, Nat, recently photographed some while snorkeling in Belize. He captured this shot of these warm water monsters:

Belizian Nurse sharks. Photo courtesy Nat Johnson

Here it is up close:

Nurse shark skin detail.

Their tough (yet soft) skin has a texture made up of a semi-squared-off dots in a random pattern but pulling from a tight color palette. It seems perfect for blending in to a sandy ocean floor although I don’t know who a 14-foot shark hides from.

I stare at this and am mesmerized.

It is like a table full of cafe latte, chocolate pudding and coconut jellybeans.

It’s pointillism pre-Georges Seurat. It could hang on a gallery wall.

Nurse shark skin is nature’s version of a cobblestone walkway. The original earthy tile floor. And they had this pattern long before Irish farmers stacked rocks from their fields into meandering walls.

People are drawn to the look: dozens of laminate floor and tile makers have copied this design, maybe without even realizing it. Subconscious biomimicry.

I’m reminded of Indian corn with the way the shapes are pushed together in imperfect rows.


I see it as gorgeous handmade wabi sabi art. A pattern on a loose but noticeable grid. Classic and timeless.

Replicated nurse shark pattern and nurse shark-inspired indian corn.

Many a linoleum flooring designer has (unwittingly) copied the nurse shark.

Windmill, hidden wonder

You might call it quaint. Or even cute. A rounded plump and squat tower made of imperfectly hand-laid bricks. A narrow open window at each story shows up here or there. Gently, methodically spinning round at a pace that could lull you to sleep, the rickety lattice sails dangle strips of faded and torn cloth. Yes, the old-fashioned windmill appears a relic of the old world. Part of a peaceful and serene rural farmer’s lifestyle.

Old Dutch Windmill

It stands so unassuming. The feelings you get from a seeing one may be like seeing a crude pinwheel in a European garden. Or maybe like watching a skipping girl in pigtails. Like dipping your feet in the lazy creek. Like seeing Grandma clothes-pinning the wash on the line. Innocent, honest, traditional. Homey and warm.

But unlike tulips and wooden clogs and other images of Dutch tradition… the windmill, oh yes, is more than meets the eye.

Do you even realize what’s beyond this weathered exterior?

You see, upon arriving at the farm you were charmed. You were delighted as you followed the picket fence past the house, past the meandering geese, down the winding path to the stately windmill by the stream.

But walk a little closer. Near the doorway you start to notice the hum. Nearer still you feel the vibrations deep in your gut. Opening the thick, cracked wooden door and entering the structure assaults your senses. The strong smell of grain, cornmeal and dirt fill your nose. Yet this fact is ignored as you stare at the giant primitive machine before you. Two enormous 1,000 pound stones spin in a loud agitated dance. Consistently and uniformly they turn but in such constant tension, like equal strength sumo wrestlers deadlocked in grip at the center of the ring. Grinding and biting at each other the stones never stop rotating, never declaring a winner in their cruel match. Each groove and pore of the vertical stone makes pressing intimate contact with the surface of his horizontal partner but the rocks are cold and heartless to each other.

A simple mislaid hand and your fingers would be crushed then severed off, blood and flesh exploding out the ends while the bones are turned to dust. Yes, please be careful.

How those frail sails above you could turn such enormous rocks is baffling. Whole stalks go in and in the blink of an eye, fine powder slides out.

For what you thought was merely a country road marker to help you find your way like church steeples dotting the landscape is actually one of the most powerful and useful tools in the farmer’s arsenal. It is un-exaggeratingly life-sustaining. The windmill stops and farmer starves, no way to make the feed for the cattle or flour for the bread.

The windmill disguises unrecognized power like a lion in sheep’s clothing.

In the bowels of a simple windmill is an unseen contained wonder like when you slice open the dull pomegranate revealing an array of bright, juicy, flavor-laden pearls.

It is more than meets the eye like scrawny Canadian Steve Nash with his floppy hair might look like your dungeons and dragons buddy. But don’t judge by looks; he is a baller – an 8-time all star, 2-time NBA MVP and the quickest, most cleaver passer you may ever see.

Like the Wizard of Oz hiding behind the giant head masked by smoke and lights… but the complete inverse of that.

The windmill is master of the inside/outside paradox. Better than the Chameleon XLE sedan, (from the old SNL parody commercial with Phil Hartman and David Spade) the luxury sedan on the interior that’s made to look like a rusty junker on the outside so it won’t get stolen.

Let the windmill be a reminder to you: Be open to seeing potential where you thought it may not lie. See those spinning sails and think to consider what they are turning. Wonder what lies beneath. Stop and look behind the curtain. The magician does not walk in holding the beautiful doves. He must reach into the old worn top hat first. Never judge a book by its cover and do not misjudge the mighty windmill.

Donut Sunday

Do you have memories from growing up that almost feel like they happened yesterday? Memories so emotionally-charged (either positive or negative) that they can sit untouched in your brain for years but, at recall, instantly provide full, vivid, scintillating detail?

There is one such memory from my childhood that may be special above the rest. It is one of those magical memories that can bring a smile to my face at any moment. It’s one that encapsulates childhood joy and wonder, risk and reward, matching motive with opportunity and is singular in being able to cement a feeling of a time and place in my life. With apologies to my parents, this was not a special tradition or family vacation or even a learning moment. It happened at church, in fact, but was neither confirmation nor baptism.

 It was none other than Donut Sunday.

In the later years of grade school, once a month and maybe more often for special occasions a Sunday would be deemed “Donut Sunday”. I don’t know if the organizers called it this but that was its name to us. At the far end of the downstairs of our Baptist church in front of the kitchen, folding tables would be lined up end to end to end and covered with white donut boxes. Their lids were pre-opened revealing their glazed, sprinkled, cream-filled contents…

Now these were not gourmet donuts. Nothing along the lines of Blue Star or Krispy Kreme. No pink box. No bacon maple, no blue cheese cabernet. None of them had the words, ganache or brioche or mascarpone. These were not “doughnuts”, but donuts.

We’re talking run-of-the-mill, Middle-America, policeman, served with cheap coffee DONUTS. This did not matter in the slightest to me. And it certainly doesn’t tarnish the memory’s mystique. These were God’s gift to my taste buds. Upstairs I fed my soul and downstairs I delighted my stomach.

My older brother and I took Donut Sunday very seriously. And by took I mean “took advantage of”. This was no casual opportunity. It required a plan of attack. He was the captain and mastermind of our plan, I am sure, but I was a dedicated first mate and second to none in enthusiasm for it. In our lives growing up as brothers we may never have collaborated in such close fashion and with such perfect teamwork. I imagine the aspects of the plan grew organically through trial and error but by its final (dare I say, genius?) iteration it went something like this:

Upon discovering it was a Donut Sunday the onset of giddiness turned to nervousness and (like any great championship athlete) these energies were redirected into focused attempts of a flawless execution…

Phase 1: Quick and Dirty Firsts

When the church service would end my brother and I would race downstairs and beeline for the donut tables. Donuts one and two down the hatch as quickly as possible before anyone could notice. By this time many adults including my parents had made their way to the hall and so it was on to Phase 2.

Phase 2: Our Public Allotment

We could now take our time and carefully choose our favorite two donuts to enjoy in full view. Occasionally a third Phase 2 donut could be consumed should my parents have lingered too long after service and/or my general sense was that the eyes of the small-talking adults around me or the white-haired ladies in the kitchen had not fully or consciously cataloged my donut consumption.

Phase 3: Taking it Underground

Phase 3 was where the plan got real. We were in a large open rec hall/gymnasium-type space. In the layout of this room there was alcove off to the left. It was a sort of vestibule/mud room, maybe 10’x10’ with some coat hooks on the wall. It had a door to the kitchen, a door to the parking lot and an opening to the main room. This was our secret home base and it worked perfectly to our advantage. From this locale we could, within just a few steps, grab a donut and quickly be out of sight to enjoy another delicious pastry. Two, three or more donuts were had in this way, our 5th, 6th and 7th of the morning. We could take our time between donuts and wander the room and see if anyone was noticing us. We moved past the crowd of adult legs like snakes through grass.

Phase 4: The Beg

By now folks were finishing their conversations and beginning to head home and the thinning crowd meant time to ask my parents if we could please have another donut (or two). Things were wrapping up and there were still some donuts left on the tables, we informed them. The yeses were increasingly hesitant but generally did come. And usually the begging only had to kick in with Phase 4’s second donut.

My dad was in the Air Force and we moved throughout my early childhood. If I wanted friends in a new place I had to (get on my bike and) go out and make them. I learned to be independent, fend for myself, take charge of my own destiny in a way. I don’t know if this part of my personality came into play in my attitude toward taking full advantage Donut Sunday but it came in handy.

The reason this memory is so vivid and fond for me may have been something about my inner childhood rascal getting to come out. See, I was normally a really good kid. It was the feeling of getting away with a deed quite close to the line of wrongdoing. It was something that I probably wasn’t supposed to be doing and thus I was “getting away with something” and yet was not so bad as to actually upset anyone or get me into real trouble should I be caught.

It was getting to hone and execute a plan: applying ingenuity and innovation, savvy and cunning. Playing spy and thief. Getting to feel both giddy and honery. It was a feeling a bit like Bus driver Chris Farley in the scene from the movie Billy Madison where he laughs all the way through eating a white bread PB&J from 30 stolen bag lunches.

Honestly… I don’t know how I never threw up. I don’t know how I ate lunch or dinner that day. I don’t know how my button-up shirt still fit.

I believe enough years have past that I can fully admit the extent of my donut skulduggery. Maybe this post should be titled, Donut Sunday: maple-glazed confessions of church kid. Again, very sincere apologies to my parents and a heartfelt Thank You to whatever faithful churchgoers regularly provided that endless supply of Sunday Donuts. God bless you.

On Summiting Mountains: Life in the Shadow of the Cascades

My first Mountain Top experience came at age 14. On a summer Boy Scout trip to the Philmont Ranch in New Mexico we trekked to the top of Mount Baldy, or ‘Old Baldy’ as the old gold miners called it. I recall it as a tougher-than-average hike but that was just compared to my usual Scout hikes on the Pacific Crest Trail. As a kid I didn’t appreciate the accomplishment like I do today. I didn’t even take a picture. I certainly didn’t think it was any kind of defining moment in my life. The hike that day wasn’t very long and aside from some loose rock (scree, serious climbers call it) on the final scramble, it wasn’t technical.

Another term serious mountaineers use, topographic prominence, refers to a mountain’s relative height to its surrounding landscape. Baldy’s is just 2,701’ and I believe our hike was only 3.5 miles each way. It may be the easiest summit I’ve completed despite being the second highest peak I’ve experienced. It only struck me much later, looking back, that Baldy’s 12,445’ elevation sounds fairly impressive. At least in these parts.

Cousin Dave on Mt St Helens’ crater rim.

By comparison one of the most difficult summit journeys I’ve done is Mount St. Helens whose blown-out crater rim “summit”, paltry by comparison, only measures 8K’ and change. But the elevation we gained that day was 4,500’.

A little on that trek: My hiking partners, cousins Sam and Dave, and I started out about 11pm, hiking through the night in hopes of a sunrise summit. In the dark of night and cover of snow, we ended up losing the trail. We were still heading basically for the intended crater rim spot but ended up ascending a more steep and icy route just at that time of night our bodies were tiring. And then the wind began rapidly picking up to significant speeds and the ice-frosted snow underneath thickened and stopped securely crunching under our footfalls. Thank God for good crampons. We conquered the steep slope but ended up taking an hour break pressed against an outcropping of rocks trying desperately to stay warm and keep that blasted wind off us. It was a sobering experience for a father of two, to be sure, and a good reminder of why we take the safety precautions we do. And to think I’ve started hikes at trailheads higher than this summit!

These experiences are all relative.

Now, I am definitely not a Mountain Climber. I don’t own rope you measure in meters. I don’t own carabiners rated for anything more than securing a towel to your golf bag. What I’m doing is more like ‘extreme hiking’. With an ice axe, boot crampons and a helmet we can look the part of climbers but most of the time we’re really just walking. Up steep mountains. Over snow, ice and sometimes boulders.

We start at the prescribed trailhead (usually the highest point up you can drive a car). Then we backpack a common route to the summit, sometimes with a short tent sleep somewhere in the middle. I may have some “rope up” treks in my near future but I’m not there yet.

Other mountain enthusiasts pick more difficult or longer routes up grander glaciers or rock formations. Noble and impressive. Then again, other climbers take any advantage they can get to hit the top, such as on Mount Hood, renting a ride in a SnowCat to chew up the first 2,500 feet from Timberline Lodge to the Palmer Chairlift. To each their own.

Some spend days at altitude to acclimatize and another full day to summit. Some elite athletes race up and bomb down on skis in a single morning. And I’ll never forget on a dry and warm day on South Sister watching a grade school girl in sandals begin the final ascent past grown men in technical boots who’d said they weren’t going to continue. The men changed their minds.

Pride is powerful; the body’s built-in miracle drug.

Despite differences in method and style there is a certain bond mountain summiters hold. The community you will find on dedicated Mountaineering websites and blogs out there shows as much. And on a trek when summit ascenders pass descenders, a quick friendly conversation is nearly always had.

My brother Ryan makes his way up the final chute after the Pearly Gates on Mt Hood.

View of Central Oregon Cascade peaks from Middle Sister.

There are a lot of downsides to this activity. The risk of injury or worse, for sure. But the guaranteed downside is pain. All kinds of pain. There’s the cold. The muscle ache and body fatigue. Sleep deprivation. Sore knees, feet, backs. Blisters, rashes, scrapes. Altitude headaches and nausea.

But the upsides. Oh, the upsides. For a person who loves the outdoors, loves sport and competing but also gets high on color and texture, witnessing unique shapes and ‘scapes… it is wholly ideal.

I summit:

  • To see the icy textures up close.
  • To experience the landscape changes from valley floor to forest to timberline to peak.
  • To gain unique vantage points, looking down onto the land you normally inhabit.
  • To see more stars at night than you ever thought possible.
  • To be within view of civilization but feel so, so far away.
  • To witness “mountain shadow” (a mountain peak’s sunrise shadow on its Western face or, even cooler, right in front of you on top of clouds or haze)
  • To realize in such a unique way the size and ferocity of these landscape dominators.
  • To constantly experience completely new views of mountains you thought you were pretty familiar with.
  • To take the final step and realize, after hours of toil, that you’re there. That you can now spin 360 degrees and see absolutely nothing above you and miraculous topography below.
  • To push myself mentally and push my body physically to accomplishments just not replicated in a gym.
  • To glissade down (basically the longest sled run you’ve ever taken)
  • And then there’s the simple accomplishment of it. It’s like the biggest, fastest roller coaster at the theme park. Sure the smaller rides are fun and you’d rather just do the bumper cars with the kids… But it’s there. It’s the big one. How can you say you “did” the park without hitting its main attraction?

Mountain shadow of Mt Hood.

Ice formations at sunrise on Mt Adams.

When you live near a mountain range, these are our main attractions. I live in the shadow of the Cascade Range so my bucket list looks like this (four down, six to go). There are bigger ranges in the world but these peaks are my peaks.


On the long slog back down the mountain (when the snow has softened too much to glissade) with our knees throbbing, quads screaming, heads aching and stomachs growling, we play a game called “How much money would it take for you to turn around at the trailhead and go right back up again”? I believe the first time we played it my figure was around $10K. Subsequent trips may have ended up five or ten times that. I honestly think on most occasions, even with iron will power, my body simply would not have been able to make that happen.

Many times the phrase “That’s the last mountain I will ever climb” is uttered by someone. But “The Pain is Temporary, the Pride is Forever”, right? Or “Time heals all wounds”, they say. Well, time also heals memories of wounds it seems…

The over/under on time passed until we start planning the next one is about three months.


You feel “on top of the world” on a clear day on Shasta.

If the effort doesn’t get you, the altitude headache will. Looking back up whence we came on Shasta.

My high-point on earth. 14,179′. Here’s to going higher.

St Helens


View from the top of Adams.

Our signature post trek photo in our matching MSR Mountain SnowShoes.

Pole Power: The white eagle flies on the gridiron

Another oddity from the world of sports happened over the weekend and I could not let it go unnoticed…  If you watched the Raiders-Patriots NFL game you would have seen every point in the contest scored by a name ending in -KOWSKI.  First a FG by Sebastian Janikowski.  Then a TD by Rob Gronkowski, followed by the PAT by Stephen Gostkowski.  Then another couple FGs from Janikowski and a pair from Gostkowski for the final score of 16-9 in favor of the Pats.  But no matter the team result, not a bad day for the Polish proud!  The noble white eagle deserves to firmly grasp an American football in its clearly capable golden talons…


A Donovan Tribute

The all-time top goal scorer and assist leader for USA soccer.  Number one in MLS for career goals: regular season, playoffs AND all-star game.  This is none other than Landon Donovan.

In light of his recent announcement to retire from the LA Galaxy and Major League Soccer, I present a tribute to what many feel is his greatest goal.

By the way, the announcement comes right on the heels of Donovan scoring the game-winning goal in the MLS All-Star game versus Bayern Munich.  Anyone else think Jurgen Klinsmann, coach of goal-challenged Team USA, noticed that Donovan (whom he left off the World Cup squad) blasted a goal past German goal keeper Manuel Neuer (the man universally called the best keeper at WC14)?

This tribute is a visual of the ball path leading to Donovan’s 90th minute goal versus Algeria in the 2010 World Cup (which as we know, would end up being his last).  The significance of the goal cannot be understated, as it single-handedly took the USA from elimination to winners of Group C, advancing to the round of 16.  The last minute goal of a 0-0 game brought pandemonium to the country, as awesomely documented in dozens of fan reaction videos, garnering many millions of views online. The accomplishment was defining.  The moment was electric.

The play developed thus: a sure-handed stop of a header toward’s USA’s goal by Tim Howard, who immediately overhands an outlet to Donovan.  Donovan takes the ball in stride and streaks down the right side.  The play starts with a perfect pass to Jozy Altidore who crosses to Clint Dempsey whose point-blank shot is blocked by Algerian keeper Rais M’Bolhi. The rebounded ball sees a quick flick of the inside of Donovan’s right foot and rest is history.

Included is the delightful and historic commentary of announcing great, Ian Darke.


Darke’s commentary:

“…Distribution: brilliant.  Landon Donovan.  There are things on here for the USA… Can they do it here? Cross. Dempsey is denied again… But Donovan has scored!!  Oh, can you believe this?!  Go(al) go(al), USA! Certainly through.  Ohhh, it’s incredible!  You could not write a script like this!”

The Agent of Champion

I recently attended the Pre Classic track meet in Eugene, Oregon (AKA Track Town, USA).  It’s one of just two Diamond League events in the USA and has been, arguably, the most competitive professional track meet held in this country. A great day of watching track with the Rasca twins, fellow track junkies and Pre nuts.


Upon entering Hayward Field I took a place standing right at the fence at the south end of the track across from the high jump area.  After the national anthem, up walked a fairly imposing 6’6″, broad-shouldered, salt ‘n’ pepper-haired man who took a place next to me. I looked up and said, “How ya doing?”  He gave me silent, polite nod. He wore a red polo and multiple meet credentials around his neck so I ventured a conversation starter, “Are you a meet official?”

In a thick Eastern European-esque accent he replied, “No, I am agent.”

A secret agent? Wait, if he’s Russian, is he KGB? The mob?… The reality of my surroundings sunk in quickly enough however and I replied, “Oh, who are your athletes?”

“Chicherova.” Which, in his quick Russian speak sounded to me like “Chchhhvuh.”  After reading my face, which may have given away my lack of total comprehension he added, “She is champion”.  A snarky version of me would have countered, “Well, aren’t we all?”  But a quick search on my iphone revealed, yes indeed, he was referring to the Russian, Anna Chicherova, both the reigning Olympic and World Champion in the high jump. If you come across the world for whatever “agent work” there might be in an afternoon of track for a single athlete, she is not a bad one to represent.  He was happy to chat and talked about how he like liked the area and what a great meet this was.

While all the women warming up for the high jump competition looked similar – tall and slender with long pony tails and many wearing matching magenta Nike warmups, I was, indeed, able to find his muse, who walked around the red track surface, not unlike a giraffe, with a slow, measured grace.

Later as I watched from the stands as Chicherova easily cleared 2.01m (6’7″) to win the meet I quickly looked over to the south fence and saw the giant Russian give a silent satisfied nod and clap politely. His girl is champion again.

World Cup Brand competition

World Cup fever is continuing to swell with competition in Brazil starting in just two weeks.  News and stats have been coming out recently regarding brands involved with World Cup players and teams. And in light of Adidas and Nike thought to be about equal, currently, in soccer revenue and Puma coming on strong lately in pursuit of teams but, interestingly, also deciding to hold off all its marketing push until after the World Cup, I thought I’d provide some visuals regarding these three giants of the footwear and apparel industry. Of the 32 teams involved in WC14, 27 are sponsored by the big three: Image

Nike sponsors six of the top 10 most marketable players (calculated mostly by perception of global awareness).  This year’s Ballon D’Or winner, Ronaldo, interestingly, has three times the number of Facebook and Twitter followers as the average of the rest of the top 10…



*Note: Not all top 10 most marketable will get to continue their exposure over the next month.  Zlatan’s Sweden failed to qualify for WC and 36 year-old Henry is not on Les Bleus’ squad.

Houston = Portland?

On one odd day in late April, 2014 the cities of Houston and Portland took a long look at each other on the field of play and may have felt like they were looking in a mirror.  Despite their notable differences in player personnel and style, the professional teams from these two cities found they had identical offensive output at the end of the game… in two different sports on the same day!  So, kinda weird, right?



Okay, maybe not so shocking since we know the Timbers are (not so) secretly the Tie-ers, and the Blazers and Rockets have gone to overtime 3 out of their 4 games so far in this 4/5 NBA playoff first round match-up of teams who had the same regular season record (54-28).  But nonetheless, I give pause to this sporting world anomaly we may never see the likes of again.


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