Bleacher Report - Articles by Kaori Kitao

Men, Women, Athletes

Kaori Kitao — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 01:06:17 -0500

I.

Don Juan loved women,
women of all size and and form,
young, grown, mature and old,
blonds, brunettes, women of white hair,
tall, short, fat, and thin,
ladies, vamps, matrons and maidens.

Women come in all size and shape.
But, believe it or not, so do men --

blonds, brunettes, white, and, ah, bald,
stocky, scraggly, strapping, and, ho, sagging,
fat and flabby, rugged and raw.
You see them bare, for all to behold
on a beach and at poolside, unguarded.

Riding subways in New York where I live
I gawk at men and women, unobserved,
and marvel at their infinite variety.

There are women of towering heights.
There are men of gargantuan girth.
But some men are slim and sleek,
and some women are of solid build.

II.

Men and women are more alike than unlike
much more than we are likely to assume.
Yet most men did believe,
and, alas, many still do,
in the world of sports, above all,
that women are fair as in the fair sex,
that men are stouter and stronger,
that men carry authority by their sheer size
that manly activities are unfit for women,
speaking categorically,
speaking generically,
speaking unthinkingly.

True some women are gentle and fair,
but others are fierce, full of force.
Many women can endure brutal pain,
like the pangs of delivering a child.
Not all women are fit for men’s work,
but some are, yessir,
and they do it and they do well.

Time was when it was believed
that only men can be tailors,
that women are too tender to drive a truck,
that they are hazards at construction sites,
that they lack stamina to conduct an orchestra,
that they can compose little songs but not symphonies,
that they can cook at home but are disqualified to be chefs,
that women who dare to do men’s work
were failing in being womanly.

Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Some can’t and some can; but why should she at all?

III.

In the world of sports ethos still prevails
that manly sports are superior to women’s
because they exhibit such prowess,
that girls and women simply don’t possess,
that manly sports are the real sports, and
figure skating is frivolous if not downright silly.
If women want to play rough games,
OK, let them have their own tamer teams.

All sports, manly or womanly,
executed by best champions,
exhibit power and precision,
speed and finesse,
and stamina and endurance.
and, above all, discipline and grace,
no less than the classical ballet.

Playing pianissimo is no less strenuous than
pounding the instrument for fortissimo.

IV.

When we speak of men and women,
we are tricked by these words
into thinking that all men are of one cut
and all women come in one size.

So, some men naively believe
that men are strong categorically.
and women are weak generically.

It’s a trap but convention dies hard.
What do we mean when we say manly, womanly?
How men do and act mostly, most of the time?
How women behave for the most part?
How some men expect women to be?

Such words are abstractions,
words of statistical generalities,
with no substance in the real world.
Words delude us.

Let us learn to avoid saying men and women.
Let us learn to say some men and some women.
Let athletes, men and women, compete equitably
on the basis of their real capacities and potentials.

There are women who would drive a race car
if only given a chance.
There are women who would coach a male team.
Some can, some can’t.

There are women who like being cheerleaders.
Some do well, others don’t.
Some men like cheerleaders
only because they are women.
Some women find cheer-leading only demeaning.
Abilities vary across genders.

Let us celebrate athletes individually,
for what they can do, what they excel in,
free of any of those misguided rubrics:
male, female, men, women.

02.20.09 Copyright

Open Mic: Is Jogging A Sport?

Kaori Kitao — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 08:39:37 -0500

Joggers are everywhere. I see joggers in the suburb. I see joggers in the city. They jog in the park, on the beach, and on crowded sidewalks. In New York I watch joggers on the East River promenade.

Joggers are serious people, serious in jogging at any rate. But they don't look happy. Maybe they are happy but can't look happy because they are training so hard jogging. Maybe it's impossible to jog and smile at the same time. Tension and relaxation don't mix.

Sitting on a bench in Central Park and on the East River promenade, I watch joggers jog. There are men and women. Some are young, others are old, and many are somewhere between—neither young nor old. There are fat joggers and lean joggers. They may be trim and muscular, slim and bony, or big and flabby. There are smooth legs and hairy legs, thick thighs and small hips, massive necks and slim shoulders. Some are half-naked; others are almost naked; still others are nearly totally covered.

Joggers move each in its own particular manner. They strut, hop, prance, trudge, plod, or dawdle. One goes racing, another keeps a healthy pace. Here is one who can barely walk, pumping, pushing, panting; here is another who goes whipping by—too fast. Some don't jog but insist on fast walking, the body stiff like a robot and the face totally frozen. There are confident joggers, and there are floundering stragglers who shouldn't be jogging, breathing so heavily. There are heavy gaits, and there are light skipping steps. This one sways more than jogs; that one is stiff as a statue, cool and fresh. There are joggers who drink water from a bottle while jogging.

Many run alone, but some go in pairs. There is occasionally a whole flock together. Arms swing and ponytails fly; the body sways and flesh bounces up and down; sweat glistens on the chest and drips from the brow. There are T-shirts and sweat shirts, tank tops and sports bras, bike shorts and gym pants.

There are joggers who do a double duty, walking a dog or two or having one run with the runner. Some dogs run on a leash, others go free. There are joggers on wheel chair, and there are cyclists who are too impatient to jog. There are joggers with jogging strollers, a baby in it bouncing up and down. One day, a group of seven young mothers, each with a baby in a carriage, went skipping by joyously, but unsmiling, led by an enthusiastic jogging instructor.

They are all so serious. Obviously, it's all work and no pleasure. As I watch these joggers, I can't help asking myself. Are joggers healthy because they jog? Or do they jog because they are not but want to be because they wouldn't be if they didn't jog? If we relied less on the ever-dominating time- and labor-saving devices in our everyday life, we don't have to spend hours jogging everyday, do we? Why not take the stairs instead of the elevator? Why not walk instead of driving the car?

I don't jog. I only walk. But I don't walk for exercise. I walk all over the place when I am in New York. I say in jest that I enjoy street walking, covering block after block. So, I exercise without trying. It's all relaxation and no tension.

I enjoy watching joggers jog, however. They make me smile.

Without Sports, Still a Sport

Kaori Kitao — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 13:42:52 -0500

It is totally amazing that I am writing for Bleacher Report, the place “for fan-journalists to create and critique high-quality sports analysis.” By this definition of the on-line journal, I am through and through disqualified.

An amateur sports writer I am not. I am no athlete; I’m not even athletic; and, to be honest, I’m no sports fan by any stretch of imagination. My knowledge of sports is despicably low. I wouldn’t say it is zilch. I can name a few teams: Mets and Yankees, because I live in their city.

I know Phillies; I know Giants. But, fire-engine red in shame, I don’t know Red Sox from White Sox, except that one is red and the other is white.

I am nevertheless proud to say that I have been, all my 76 years, perfectly consistent in my lack of interest in sports. At the semi-annual track meets in my elementary school days, I was always the last in a race, any race. I was the family joke; if I made an about-face, I’d be the first, I was cheered, or, rather, jeered.

All my classmates were jubilant on track meet days because classes were off all day. I dreaded the day. I never could catch a ball, hit a ball with a bat or a racket, or throw one straight, even a basketball. I was hopeless. Little wonder I grew up hating sports.

In my undergraduate days, there were athletic requirements, and I chose two courses that seemed tame enough for me to manage if not master. One was golf. After a week I was excused and got the credit just loafing around for an hour watching fellow golfers golf.

I ruined the turf by hurling more tufts of grass than the golf ball. So, I didn’t get much physical exercise. The other was archery, and that went better. I got a lot of exercise because I missed most of the arrows and had to run a large area behind the target to hunt for and pick up the arrows I had missed during my hour’s practice.

In my senior year, I had to take swimming as the requirement for graduation. There is a family picture I’ve been shown as I was growing up more times than I needed. I’m about five, sitting on a sandy beach and looking ferociously ugly because I didn’t want to get in the water. I was afraid.

I was told that I spoiled that weekend outing because I didn’t even dip my feet in the water that came rushing to me threateningly. It was probably a slow, chirping tide. In my senior swimming class, I got in the water. The instructor kept dry by walking around the pool with a pole to save sinking bodies.

One exercise was to hold on to the edge of the pool, and then drop down straight in the standing posture, hit the bottom of the pool at its deepest end, and bounce up. I never learned the knack of bouncing and had to be helped each time by a teaching assistant who, thank God, managed to catch me before I drowned.

But I learned a few things and passed the course with the lowest possible passing grade and felicitously got my degree. For one, I learned the backstroke. At the time I could go a couple of yards before I started making a gentle descent into the water. Pretty good, I boasted.

I never managed any other strokes—breast stroke, crawl, butterfly, or whatever. Then, better, I learned to float on my back, and that was a prowess by my standard that gave me confidence to get on a sailboat. If I had fallen or been thrown overboard, I can float until a kind soul came to my rescue.

Curiously, I loved sailing. No, I didn’t sail; I enjoyed being invited aboard a sailboat, large or small, and go out full sail into the sea. I don’t get seasick, and I love rough seas and gusty wind on my face. Perhaps this may qualify as a passive sport.

I didn’t mind heights, either, and there was a time when I wanted to learn flying trapeze as a circus acrobat and also flying a small aircraft—but only in my idle imagination. No sportswoman, I am nonetheless a daredevil.

Perhaps the best indicator of the despicably low degree of my interest in sports is that on opening the newspaper at breakfast, I would habitually take out the Sports Section and, as my first morning ritual, pitch it.

Yes, well, I can’t say I don’t know how to pitch. Once in a while, however, when I dare throw a crumpled paper into a waste basket a yard away I miss it almost invariably and get a beneficial exercise getting up from the chair, walking over the the basket, and depositing the ball of paper gingerly into it.

But it’s not quite accurate to say that I have no interest in sports. I could have developed interest but never did, only because I never succeeded in any sport activities. But, then, I wonder. I won’t be surprised if there were avid fans of spectator sports who don’t exercise and settle comfortably as couch potatoes, sinking deeper and deeper week by week.

But maybe they are men and women who at one time or another practiced sports. I certainly can’t imagine any sports writer with no interest in sports, and anyone interested in sports who don’t do some sports.

Thoroughly “unathletic,” I am nevertheless very healthy. I starved growing up in wartime but after gaining back health, I have always been exceptionally healthy all my adult life. I visit my doctor no more than twice a year for general examination.

I have osteoporosis and Type two diabetes, but they are in control. At 76, I can still climb up three flights of stairs without panting, and I can touch my toes with great ease—with my knees straight, of course.

I don’t shun walking, and I do a lot of that in New York. I have no strength but I have stamina. I don’t do sports, and I don’t watch sports.

A rookie writer is proverbially advised to write about what she or he knows first hand. Seasoned writers nevertheless create characters unlike themselves who engage in imagined activities far from the writer’s own experience.

So, here I am writing for Bleacher Report, as if I am a sports writer that I am not, and yet enjoying surrealistically pretending to be one, writing on matters non-sports. A good sport I think I am, or else an infatuated fake.

Steroids In Sports

Kaori Kitao — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 05:15:51 -0500

The use of steroids by athletes has been a lot on the news these few days. The practice had already been reported more than a few times in the last several years but for the first time the problem is said to be of epidemic proportions.

It is, I don't deny, a matter of public health. But those concerned have been talking of controlling the use by more rigorous screening, more stringent regulations, and louder hortatory counselling. But as I see it they are barking on a wrong tree. What is not openly discussed is the corruption of the competitive, spectator sports at the very top of the organization. Journalists are skirting the issue because spectator sports in modern America has become, as it was in Roman Empire, sacrosanct.

One team owner scowled his face in a television interview and pronounced firmly that he will get to the bottom of the matter. It made me laugh. I thought he should look in the mirror and straight into his face. The problem is not at the bottom but at the top.

Athletic teams today are corporate organizations. Enormous capitals are at stake. Players are traded like slaves. To assure their earnings, the owners must see that their stable is well stocked with strong athletes, or they will lose the games and their capitals. Coaches and players are surely culprits in their negligence in keeping their teams clean of drugs. But I have no doubt that they are under the pressure to win at any cost and by any means. The players are virtually forced to make every effort to maximize their prowess and try anything to assure, aid, and promote it by physical training and, if need be, by medical discipline and thus by extension chemical means.

Admittedly, there are honest and morally straight athletes; there are individual men and women who take their individual athletics seriously. But competitive team sports loom large in American culture, and in the process of their becoming corporate, they lost their soul. Winning is everything; and anything goes to win. The moral sense of the word sportsmanship has long been dead.

Saddest of all in this degeneration of athletics is the politics modelling itself on competitive sports. Little wonder moral values from the mouth of politicians means no more than the rotten sportsmanship.

Copyright: T. Kaori Kitao - 12. 04.04

War Is No Spectator Sport

Kaori Kitao — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 04:58:59 -0500

Copyright:

T. Kaori Kitao - 03.24.03
Five Days into the War with Iraq

I.

War is no spectator sport.
Or is it? Is it?

Take jousting.
It was a combat.

But in peacetime,
men jousted to keep up their skill
ever ready to engage in a combat
on the battlefield.

Athletic exercises trained the body
to make men fit and ready
just in case they had to go and fight
on the battlefield.

But, played in make-believe,
jousting was a game,
but as in the war, so in the game,
there were victories and there were defeats.

Then, those who did not need the skill
could sit and cheer
and partake in the excitement
anticipating who will win and who will lose.

Those who were unwilling to join or unfit to play
could also sit and cheer
and enjoy the participants' changing fortunes
from a distance without sweat and pain.

Games were mock battles waged for fun,
one on one or in paired teams.
Wars were games played for life and death,
one on one or in paired teams.
So, wars and games had strategies, or game plans,
and spoke these same words.

Who's winning?
Who's losing?

Isn't war a spectator sport?

II.

But war is brutal; war is cruel.
War decimates.

Those who stood helpless in the midst of a blitz,
with walls crumbling down all around,
the deafening blast too near overhead --
they can remember that war is no sport.

Those who stood in the hissing rain of incendiaries
that seemed never to cease,
houses ablaze as far as the eye could see --
they can remember that war is no spectacle.

Those who saw dead bodies strewn all around
charred, mangled, abandoned,
those who heard the screams of the dying,
those who smelled the odor of rotting bodies --
they can remember that war is no spectator sport.

But we all like conflagrations.
Don't we? Don't we?

A fire in the neighborhood always attracts onlookers.
A whole town on fire is no doubt a spectacle
for those who stand at a safe distance,
across the river, up on a hill,
offering a commanding view of a sea of fire.

Spectators gather and have a great time,
the event of a lifetime,
thrilling to experience,
exciting to remember.

Fire, to be sure, is spectacular.
But what about those engulfed in the spectacular blaze,
choking in the smoke, no way out,
whose screams were muffled in its infernal roar?

In the throes of excitement but from a safe distance
spectators don't see the poor lost souls
and don't think about them, not until much later.
The spectacle obliterates the distant victims.

Television does exactly that and does so spectacularly.
It makes war into a spectator sport.

III.

This is no fault of the media, of course.
That is what television does --
show and tell, and show more, still more.

Broadcasters proudly explain
that they bring the reality of war into your living room,
reporting on its progress minute by minute,
in pans and close-ups and in aerial views.
Isn't it exciting?

Who's winning?
Who's losing?

Reporters want to do their job well.
They do it dutifully and earnestly,
to inform accurately and honestly.

Stations boast the size of their spectatorship
when they preempt their regular programs
in order to show us the war
day and night,
hour by hour.

Come and watch our reality show,
our truly irresistible reality show.

Who's advancing?
Who's retreating?
Who's fleeing?
Who's dying?

Television makes war look like a spectacle,
because there are spectators who clamor for it.
They want to see the war made into a spectator sport.

But the spectacle of war obliterates its true horrors.
It veils the horrors of living in the war.
It veils the horrors of dying in the war.

The intention is good -- yes, so sadly.
The effort is genuine -- yes, so sadly.
But how many realize the horrors of dissimulation?

Stand in the midst of a city in blitz.
Stand under the rain of incendiaries,
day in day out
weeks on end.
Then, you will see.

War is no spectator sport.

[Note to Editors: Kindly do not change the wordings--thank you]