Of Brooms and Stones

On cold winter days, there is nothing I like to do more than to go outside, find a large stone, and slide it with finesse across a frozen pond. But if I can't find an adequate rock, taking a broom to that frozen expanse is almost as good. In my dreams anyway. Maybe if I lived in Sweden instead of Georgia.

You may be wondering what on earth I am talking about, and you would be justified. If you are perplexed by my sporting wishes, let me be the first to tell you of the best of obscure sports: curling. It is a truly obscure sport, especially in the southern United States where long-standing ice is rare in winter. But curling almost seems to be famous for its obscurity, a delightful paradox. As far as I know, the sport was developed by the Scottish, no doubt in an attempt to fill the bitterly cold winters with something exciting. The plenitude of lochs must have had something to do with it also. Regardless of its origins, it is amazing, so let me fill you in on its wonders.

Basically, you have a large smooth stone with a handle on it, and you have to slide it along the equivalent of an ice shuffleboard into the center of a target. Sounds easy enough. But the strategy can become quickly complicated because competing teams alternate turns. You may launch your stone precisely into the bullseye only to be dislodged by the next team. To heighten the competition, two members of each team are allowed to use brooms (and yes, they really used regular old brooms back in the day) to brush the ice in front of the stone as it hurtles (gently) towards the target. At first I was skeptical that this would have any effect, but I have seen sliding stones spin and twirl behind the able guidance of British broomsmen, among others.

Although I had first heard of the sport in high school as a look-what-I-know anecdote from a rightfully proud classmate, I did not experience the thrills of curling until my college days at UGA. There, due to the misfortune of 8 o'clock classes, I was drawn to the dining hall at ungodly hours with some of my cohorts. It was winter 2006, and the UGA dining staff had set up a projection screen in O-House dining hall to provide non-stop Olympic coverage. Of course, curling did not have quite the following to merit primetime scheduling, so my friends and I would encounter this stone ballet on ice every morning amidst our juice and cereal. We didn't think much of the sport initially - it appeared to require the patience of cricket and was, frankly, quite silly-looking. It's not often one sees grown men and women gliding stones over the ice and frantically brushing away unseen obstacles as if to save their lives. But every morning as we battled our way through endless preliminary rounds followed by the semis and finals, we all became more and more engrossed. We knew which teams had what it took; we knew the basic strategies employed by the epic broomsmen; we even knew that they were stones, not rocks. We knew this was no sport for wimps - this was the sport of champions.

But more importantly, we were bound together by our shared experience of this unforeseeable icy tournament. And not only my group of friends, but all the other students who shared our frozen universe every morning. It was so clear who deserved to win, who was the noblest and finest of them all. In this case, the Americans had no chance for gold (although the men won a very respectable bronze), but we cheered them on nonetheless, for they were us, through and through American. And in fact, our solidarity reached far beyond our little dining hall. At a school so fiercely competitive and proud of its football team, this was the one time we knew that we were one (as blasphemous as it may sound) with all of our Saturday evening enemies. All of us, across America, were joined in hopes of eternal curling glory. It was truly a unique, wonderful experience.

This scene was repeated at a completely different level this year as Michael Phelps swam for golden history. And what awe-inspiring moments he and his teammates produced with their electrifying comebacks, hundredth of a second victories, and even the complete blow-outs. At no other time in my life have I felt such unity with my countrymen, together as one behind one young athlete, hoping he would get that next medal. I know I was not alone in this sentiment.

As special as his triumph was, what happened back home in the US was even greater. I was not around for the era of the large-scale wars of the 20th century; I do not know what it is like to be united by a global war in which every family has a son or daughter helping the cause against Naziism and Fascism. In fact, the recent wars we have fought have been completely the opposite - they have polarized our nation.

So when I stumble unknowingly into the raptures of curling, or when I knowingly hope for Phelpsian records, I am really making an appeal to my homeland, an appeal for unity. And my countrymen respond with brilliance. Beyond all the politics, the personal enmity and everything else that divides our blessed nation, some things rise above. So cherish the memories of these Olympics and others gone, and remember that patriotism need not hibernate until London.