Heroes

Heroes have always been important to most Americans. When I was a kid, growing up in a Long Island suburb of New York City, my heroes were Tom Seaver, Joe Namath, and John Lennon. Idolizing Seaver was easy, he was Mr. Perfect, the golden boy from California with the All-American blonde wife, the first superstar the New York Mets ever had, and probably still the best pitcher in their history. He was the first Mets pitcher to win the Rookie of the Year award, and the Cy Young award, and his 25-7 season for the 1969 Miracle Mets is still probably the greatest season that any Mets pitcher ever enjoyed (although Dwight Gooden's second season in 1985 is a close second).

Namath was the brash, young quarterback of the New York Jets who made those ridiculous boasts about beating the mighty Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III. Back then, the Jets were part of the American Football League, the fledgling, "second-rate" league that was being regularly dominated by its NFL counterparts. The Jets were something like a 20 point underdog in that game, and Namath's outlandish boasts were ridiculed. Yet, somehow, he and his teammates managed to pull off what is still one of the greatest Super Bowl upsets, and bring the Jets the only championship in their history. The fact that Namath was sort of a playboy, a wild, swinging bachelor on the prowl in Manhattan only made him seem cooler to a kid like me.

John Lennon, of course, was one of the Beatles, and half of the incredible songwriting team of Lennon and McCartney. Lennon had the best, pure rock/soul voice of the group, his vocals were always powerful, his wit was always on display. He was brash, cocky, and not afraid to poke fun at anyone and anything. He was totally cool. Needless to say, he was my favorite Beatle. To understand the impact of the Beatles on a kid from the Long Island suburbs, you really had to live through it. I had all the records, the plastic guitars, the wigs, the trading cards, and who knows what else. I remember watching the Ed Sullivan performances, and seeing "A Hard Day's Night" at the local drive in, with cars full of screaming girls on either side of my parents' car. It was unreal, and there really has been nothing like it since.

As I grew older, my heroes came from other places. Bobby Kennedy, Al Lowenstein, and Jacob Javits from politics; Bruce Springsteen and Harry Chapin from music; and Stanley Kubrick, Jack Nicholson and Peter O'Toole from the world of film. More and more, though, my heroes have been sports figures, and more often than not, they have come from the Olympics.

The 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team was a team worthy of hero worship. Comprised of unknown college hockey players, they went up against the mighty Soviet team of professionals. It was a different world back in 1980, the Cold War was still raging, the Soviets had invaded Afghanistan, and it always seemed like we were on the edge of nuclear armageddon. The Soviet team was supposed to destroy the Americans, and indeed had beaten them something like 10-3 in the last exhibition game before the Olympics began. But before a largely pro-American crowd in Lake Placid (in upstate New York, probably some 250 miles from my home), the Americans pulled off the upset of that Olympics (or perhaps any Olympics) and beat the Soviets, 4-3, in what is now referred to as "The Miracle on Ice." I don't think there was an American anywhere who watched that game without getting a tear in their eye. Two days later, the upstart Americans won the gold medal, and were the darlings, and heroes, of their country.

And then there was American ice skater Dan Janssen. Janssen will go down in Olympic infamy as the guy who was skating in honor of his just-deceased sister, and who kept falling during his races and being unable to finish. Yet, he still kept coming back, and four years later, with his wife and baby daughter (named after that sister) watching, he finally won the gold medal. For someone like me, who had tried and failed so many times to succeed at a personal goal (which I won't mention here), his persistence and courage and perserverance were inspiring. He became one of my all-time heroes for those reasons, and after he finally won the gold, he skated around the ice with his baby daughter in his arms, and I cried like a baby.

The reason I'm writing about this must be obvious. Another Olympics is upon us, and another American athlete has taken this nation by storm, Michael Phelps. Shy, unassuming, yet ridiculously talented, Phelps has won eight gold medals at this year's Summer Olympics, and has become an American hero and icon. His performance may be the best of any Olympian in history, and his success has thrust him into the limelight as a true American hero. A good thing? I certainly don't see why not. In this age of pampered, spoiled millionaire athletes in sports such as baseball, basketball, and football, Michael Phelps seems like a breath of fresh air.

I know a lot of people who despise the Olympics. These people tend to share the belief that heroes should be parents, and teachers, and heroic historical figures such as Martin Luther King, Gandhi, and Abraham Lincoln. I certainly can't disagree with that. But if you can't get wrapped up in what has happened in the last ten days in Beijing, and feel proud of this marvelous young athlete, and the flag that he so proudly represents, well, then, you just don't get it. Michael Phelps, a hero? Absolutely. He makes us feel good about himself, and about ourselves, and what in the world could be wrong about that.