small pleasures

Almost all of life's greatest joys show up unexpectedly.

Who would believe my nemesis, television, would be a major element in what will undoubtedly be one of my favorite memories of this trip north.

My brother is convalescing.  Really convalescing.  Last April, he had a kidney removed.  But that is not what has him laid up.  He recovered very well from that operation.

But there was more to come.  At our age, doctors see to find things that need to be replaced or refurbished.  Or just buffed up.

In Darrel's case, it was his left knee.  It needed to be replaced.

Joint replacements are usually a simple operation with a steady recovery these days.  Not so for Darrel.  He has had a tough time recovering.

As a result, he is spending his days on the couch or in bed tethered to either an ice therapy machine or a mechanical knee exerciser.  Neither one is conducive for the two Cotton boys to be out and about in Bend.

Instead, we are doing something I am not certain we have ever done with one another.  Watching sports on television.  The Olympics.

During a Federer tennis match, we started discussing the effect of allowing professional athletes to compete in the Olympics.  And, as it always does, to an attempt to define the distinction between amateurs and professionals.  And whether athletes should compete solely as individuals without reference to nationality.

Of course, we added nothing to the debate that people have not been discussing since Baron de Coubertin convinced the Kaiser and the French president to kiss and make up.

But Darrel reminded me of an incident in our family involving the same issues.

He was a very good high school wrestler.  Good enough that Oregon State University gave him a wrestling scholarship.  But not before questions of whether he was a professional wrestler had been resolved.

In addition to being a wrestler, Darrel had raced motorcycles since he was 13.  (By the way, if you guessed there may be a connection between wrestling and motorcycle racing and his recent knee replacement, you are entitled to pick a prize off of the top shelf.)

In the beginning, he raced for trophies.  Our house was filled with our combined wares.  But he then went on to win cash prizes.  Not Kentucky Derby purses, mind you.  But he was paid for racing.  Thus the professional conundrum.

All came out well.  In the Aristotlean logic of college sports, the powers-that-were concluded he had accepted money, but that motorcycle racing was not a sport.

This was in pre-ESPN days.  Before the day of christening paint-drying events as sport.

If he had not been laid up and if we had not been watching the dreaded television, this is another of those tales that would have floated into the ether.

Now, it will float into the ether after making its way through my blog sieve.