Link: http://proverbs365.ericasp.com/

In light of this morning's headlines annoucing the results of yesterday's ice-hockey game between the United States and Canada (good news!) and yesterday's professional-basketball game between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Orlando Magic (bad news), I thought it might be interesting to copy today's post from my ongoing Proverbs 365 project:  P2204 - NHL vs. NBA.

Humility and the fear of the LORD bring wealth and honor and life (Proverbs 22:4).

Different sports have completely different cultures. The character qualities that are prized in golf (i.e. low profile, high self-confidence, clear-headedness) are completely different than the character qualities that are valued in American football (i.e. brash intimidation, team chemistry, sharply-channeled rage). And nowhere is this cultural contrast more clear, in my opinion, than in the differences between players from the National Basketball Association (NBA) and the National Hockey Leage (NHL). The NBA and NHL seasons overlap heavily. Both the NBA and the NHL have huge fan bases in North America (I enjoy both sports greatly, for the record). However, in spite of all the apparent similarities, NBA players and NHL players seem like they come from completely different planets, to hear them interviewed by the media. NBA culture seems to create players who usually come across as bragadocious, showy, territorial, and trash-talking. "I'm better than him." "In your face." "I got game and he don't." "He better get outta my face or I'm gonna throw him out." Many of the league's biggest stars are close personal friends with gangsta rappers (or occasionally even rappers themselves!). Throughout the past couple of seasons, two of the NBA's most dominant centers have developed an ongoing vendetta about who most deserves the nickname "Superman." It's just that kind of culture.

NHL culture, however, seems to create players who usually come across as very plain, unassuming, even-keeled, and "regular guy" (and not nearly as interesting as NBA players, in interviews!). Case in point: I recently read an on-line article about Ryan Miller, the goalie for the American men's ice-hockey team in the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver (who also plays in the NHL, of course), which underscored the cultural difference between hockey players and basketball players. Through the weeks leading up to the Olympics, Miler had been repeatedly hyped as the Americans' best chance for success at the Olympic games. However, in responding to the hype, the star goalie responded with typical hockey-culture candor:

"It's flattering when you hear that," Miller told ESPN.com. "I don't know how many photo sessions I've had with the American flag draped around me or behind me; it's bordering on ridiculous. You know, I'm one piece of the team. I understand the whole concept of a goalie being able to steal a game. In these tournaments, everyone starts to hype how a goalie can steal a game; just like the Stanley Cup playoffs, everybody starts to hype how a hot goalie can win you a Stanley Cup. But the team in front of you has to play solid, and the goalie almost always reflects the way his team is playing... You're not going to skate through a tournament or win a Stanley Cup without a team that's paying attention to detail," continued the Buffalo Sabres netminder. "So I'm going to try and hold up my end of the bargain and give my team a chance to win. And if I feel I've given them that opportunity, then I've done the best I can, and hopefully that's good enough."

It's crazy to notice the different vibes for these different sports, isn't it?!? They both have their advantages and disadvantages. As far as sports and cultures are concerned you can't really elevate one over the other. But in real life, the Proverbs would suggest, it's much better to be an "NHL player" than an "NBA player." A person can get much further in life -- in business, in relationships, in personal reputation -- if they can maintain the attitude of a humble, unimposing, magnanimous "NHL player," as opposed to the attitude of a prideful, self-promoting, chip-on-the-shoulder "NBA player." If an NBA player tried to take up ice-hockey and bring his NBA attitude into the NHL's locker rooms and arenas, he would be ostracized from the rest of the team, alienated from the fans (who seem to appreciate the NHL's humility factor, even if it does make for more boring interviews), and smashed out on the ice at every opportunity. And this really seems to be the way that the "real world" works, on issues of pride and humility. The proud are destroyed eventually, while humility and the fear of the LORD bring wealth and honor and life. Yes, if your basketball skills are up to snuff, you might want to work on your NBA persona and see how that works out for you, throughout the rest of your life. But if they're not (and let me assure you: they're probably not), I would recommend developing your NHL persona and letting that guide you.

I remember getting all giddy and excited the first time that I saw the logo for the Vancouver Olympics (several months ago, before the current Winter Olympics ever got started).  It's silly, of course, to allow such emotion to be attached to a marketing device.  But the reason that I got excited about it was because I recognized the image right away as an inukshuk:  a Native American trail marker, which has become a powerful spiritual metaphor for my life through the years.

I initially learned about inukshuks at a gallery in downtown Chicago, in the late 1990s.  I was immediately fascinated by both their natural aesthetic beauty and the story behind their design.  A few years later, when Marci and I were first considering the possibility of moving to Amsterdam, the inukshuk came back to me as a powerful metaphor for following God's direction for our lives -- ultimately providing some of the faith and confidence that I needed to make a trans-Atlantic move.  And ever since then, the inukshuk has inspired me and encouraged me.  I've written rather extensively about inukshuks through the years -- in my journals and in sermons delivered on both sides of the Atlantic -- but it's just occurred to me, with this year's Winter Olympics in Vancouver, that I've never actually blogged about inukshuks.  So I thought that I might put together a mini-series on inukshuks as a spiritual metaphor.

For today, I thought I'd share a short story featuring inukshuks that I wrote back in 2002...

*     *     *     *     *

It’s been a long hunt.  He began over a week ago, following the trail of the caribou herds northwest towards the Arctic Ocean.  And after a disappointing week of tracking and hunting, he is on his way home.  Unfortunately, the village is still a long ways off -- he estimates perhaps another full day’s journey.  His supplies are running low, and he is hungry because he has been rationing his food supply for the past day and half -- ever since it became clear that he would not be returning with fresh meat.  He is tired and alone.  And he is starting to worry that he’s lost.

The surrounding landscape offers little reassurance.  For miles and miles in every direction, the flat arctic tundra spreads out like a cold gray blanket.  Broad fields of stone and ice, moss and lichen -- there is very little to look at, and even less to mark the way home.  The hunter has a vague sense that he is traveling in the right direction, but nagging doubts persist and it is difficult to be certain in regards to his heading.  He looks behind him, in hopes of finding reassurance that he is going the right way -- but he can find none of the landmarks that have guided him to this point; they are all far behind him, blended into the flat desolate wasteland.  He can do nothing but press ahead in the direction that he thinks to be the proper path.  Straining his eyes toward the southeast horizon, he walks onward… continuing by faith and instinct...

And then he sees it.  It is still a long ways off -- its form difficult to make out over such a great distance, but unmistakable nonetheless.  He is encouraged to see it, and his step quickens in the direction of the distant shape.  As he approaches, he’s able to see more clearly and there’s no mistaking the fact that he has found the next inukshuk.

Walking up to the structure, the hunter smiles and then stops to sit on his pack for a moment and gaze upon the inukshuk in front of him.  It is simply a pile of stones, loosely arranged in the shape of a human figure, rising from the desolate landscape.  It is plain and basic, but its design is unmistakable -- obviously erected by hunters before him, standing solid and keeping vigil to direct the lonely traveler on his way back to the village.  It is called an inukshuk -- meaning “image of a man’s spirit.”  His people, the Inuit, have used inukshuks for many generations to mark the best and safest passages through the wilderness.  Their individual forms are unique -- varying according to the available materials -- but in every case, they are of distinctly human design, never to be mistaken for a natural rock formation...

By studying the placement and design of the inukshuk, reading the orientation of the stones as if they were a map, the hunter is able to once again determine that he is, in fact, on the right trail.

He must still travel a great distance before he will reach his village, but it is good to be reassured of the direction that he is going.  Chewing a small portion of dried meat, he stands up and shoulders his pack again.  It will be getting dark soon, and he still has a lot of ground to cover if he wants to make it home by tomorrow night.

Placing his hand on the cold stone “shoulder” of the inukshuk, as if to say good-bye, he turns away and begins to trudge onward in the direction of his village, faithfully plodding along the vague path that was marked out for him by the inukshuk -- waiting and trusting for the next inukshuk to guide him yet another step closer to home.

*     *     *     *     *

In my next post, I'll explain more of why the inukshuk has taken on such spiritual significance for me and what it teaches me about the life of faith.  So stay tuned...

It's 6:30 in the morning.  I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and franctically prepare for the day ahead of me.  By 6:49 I'm parked in front of the screen, hot blood pumping through my ears, stomach made queasy by a sudden wash of adrenaline.  The advertisements seem eternal.  But then, finally, the results.

And oh, the joy.  The ecstasy.  Twins win!  Twins win!  Twins win!

Yes, I know it's embarrassing -- to get that excited over a silly baseball game.  But I think it's less about this season's (and specifically yesterday evening's) triumph,  dramatically winning the American League Central Division's championship over the Detroit Tigers, and more about remembering my childhood.

Because as much as the first paragraph above describes my actions from this morning -- going on-line to find out what had happened on the other side of the Atlantic while I slept last night -- it was actually written as a recollection from October of 1991.  I was 14 years old.  Having moved to Ohio from western Wisconsin when I was 10 years old, I somehow pinned a part of my identity to the Minnesota sports teams (even while everyone else around me cheered for Cleveland teams); and my bedroom walls were covered with posters of Anthony Carter and (especially) Kirby Puckett.  And 1991 was a good year to be a Minnesota Twins fan.  The previous year, they had been the worst team in baseball, but that year they had become the best team.  They were playing against the Atlanta Braves in the World Series, and I hung on every newspaper box score and television recap (which, given the local television networks' Ohio constituencies, only allowed the most cursory coverage of Twins highlights).  CNN Headline News was the only channel which could be reliably expected to report on the Twins' successes.  So I depended on their half-hourly sports updates (delivered at 20 minutes after the hour and 50 minutes after the hour).  And that year, every loss meant depression and despondancy.  And every win represented joy, ecstasy, and (oddly enough) a sense of self-affirmation.  I would be able to hold my head high in school that day.

The World Series that year went a whole seven games.  Tied at 3 games to 3, whoever won the seventh game of the World Series would be the world champion.  But wouldn't you know it:  the game happened to fall upon a school night.  So I had to go to bed without knowing the results of the game!  I don't know if I ever jumped out of bed as quickly as that following morning, anxiously awaiting the tidings that CNN Headline News would bring me at 6:50 AM.

When I learned that the Twins had won in extra innings, in one of the greatest World Series finshes of all time, I was... euphoric -- though even that word doesn't seem to come close to describing my joy.  It was probably one of the happiest moments of my life.  I know it sounds ridiculous to say that, but it really made that big of an impression on me.  I still remember the sights and sounds of that morning vividly.  I remember strutting around school with my Twins shirt on, soaking up the glory of that October morning.

I've grown up a lot since then.  Sports have become a significantly smaller part of my life (which is probably just as well).  And even when I do check in on sports scores these days, I'm actually much more balanced in my enthusiasm -- even investing a bit of emotinoal energy in the Ohio teams that I once loathed.  But when the Twins win another division title in dramatic fashion (some of the write-ups in the on-line news sources this morning talked about it as if it was one of the greatest baseball games of all time), pulling out a win in extra innings, jumping around on the artificial kermit-green turf of the Metrodome, you'll have to forgive me if my heart strings ended up getting tugged a little bit.  I don't hold out a whole lot of hope that they'll make it much further in the post-season this year (even making it out of the first round of the playoffs would be pretty impressive)... but you can bet I'll be checking the scores each morning.

The light is red.  I hover above my bicycle, left pedal cocked, waiting for the light to change.  Other Amsterdammers fill in around me, on their bicycles.  As the red light lingers, the crowd has perhaps swelled to a dozen riders.  And then the light turns green.  I shove off from the curb with my right foot, while pushing down hard with my left, in a smooth, practiced maneuver that immediately juts me to the front of the pack.  Other riders push their way across the intersection, close at hand.  My eyes are locked on the zebra-striped cross-walk on the far side of the intersection.  I get up off the bike seat to pedal with full thrusts of my weight, leveraged with long, alternating tugs on the handlebars.  It's down to me and some punk who had the good fortune of just perfectly timing his drift into the intersection with the light-change, thus transferring his full-speed momentum into the cross-roads.  But I will not be denied.  As the cross-walk finish-line looms, I pedal harder and harder.  The tendons in my forearms stand taut and sinewy.  I stretch my legs to full extension.  My neck even leans forward...

And then, joy!  Victoire!  The front tire of my bicycle crosses the line a full tire-length ahead of the other guy.  I pick up some valuable sprint points in being the first to reach the other side of the intersection, and I feel incredibly satisfied, settling back onto the bike seat and pedalling in a more regular rhythm... I feel good about myself.

The sad thing is that the situation described above is not exagerated (or at least not by much).  I get into this frame of mind for about three weeks almost every summer -- where my afternoon enjoyment of the Tour de France subconsciously transfers itself into my daily commutes.  Every intersection is a sprint.  Every bridge is a climb beyond category.  Every tourist roaming into the bike path is one of those ridiculous Norwegian fans on the Alpine inclines wearing a viking helmet and waving a red-crossed flag within centimeters of the spokes on my front wheel.  Every time I lock up the bicycle is a return to the team bus at the end of a day.  My imagination gets the best of me.  And though it feels like the fantasies of a nine-year-old boy on his BMX (though, to be completely honest, those were actually more the days of my bike being a speeder zipping through the forests of Endor, just like in the "Return of the Jedi"), I only feel a little bit embarrassed to publicly admit these thoughts.

The Tour de France is a lot of fun for me.

Ironically, when I watch the Tour de France on television, it's actually more of a relaxing experience than a thrilling adventure.  The coverage is slow-paced (except at the end of the day).  The announcers' voices are subdued.  The vast panoramic views of the course -- provided by helicopter -- are like postcards or fairy-tale books, with a modern-day bicycle race running through them.  Coverage lasts for hours every afternoon, for three weeks.  When I get home around supper-time, I can usually just catch the last five kilometers of the stage before settling down to a pleasant summer evening.  Like so many Americans, Lance Armstrong was indeed my gateway into the Tour de France.  And I have to admit that his return to the Tour this year has made things more interesting than they've been for four years -- my love of the Tour transcends my admiration for Lance Armstrong.  Even so, I'm thinking that if Armstrong looks like he might be in a position to win this year's Tour, our family might need to organize a last minute trip to Paris to see him accomplish the historic feat... Who knows?!?  That remains to be seen.

But in the meantime, I'm definitely enjoying the ride.