The Best Things in Life

Here in southern China, there is about a 10 day window between winter and summer—i.e. 10 days when temperatures have warmed up out of the benumbingly cold range, but have not yet reached the sweltering, insanity-inducing level that turns most of the country into a malarial furnace. I attribute the brevity of this fair season to the humidity, which amplifies any temperature differential above or below what most carbon-based life considers optimal (or endurable). That is to say, in the winter the humidity just makes everything damp, which intensifies the frostiness; in the summer, it prevents perspiration from evaporating, and leaves an unceasing (and annoying) layer of sweat upon one's skin. [By way of comparison, when I was in Beijing, they had a month of good "spring" weather, and two months of good "autumn" weather.]

The past few days I've been relishing this "golden week" as I anticipate the coming heat-inflicted agony that will persist until sometime in October. What the springtime weather lacks in duration, it attempts to compensate for in intensity: the weather today was particularly spectacular.

After eating dinner with Sam, the two of us went out to the soccer field where his class was to compete against another for a rematch (Sam and his classmates had won the original game). Although sunset was still two hours away, a thin layer of clouds created the illusion of perpetual twilight: though still too light to resemble evening, it was too dark to be considered afternoon. Besides filtering out the already waning light of day, the clouds also kept the sun's heat at bay, providing a coolness perfect for a late afternoon soccer match. Though I don't typically enjoy spectator sports (especially low-scoring ones like soccer), the liminal moment between day and night, winter and summer, lightness and dark invited me to stay out just to survey the transient changes, and dared me not to enjoy them.

The translucent clouds, stretched across the sky like some great, wonderfully back-lit silk stalking, the late afternoon breeze, the new emerging greenery coming to greet the spring—the only thing that could have made it better were if...yes. Kit happens to be one of Sam's classmates, so of course he had come out to partake in some after-dinner sport.

Again, though I fear my readers will mistake my panegyric as exaggeration, I do not think the joy Kit derives from competitive sport can be overstated—nor can the joy he imparts to his spectators. Kit in flux is a delight to watch—swift, powerful, wholly sublime in the way that a waterfall is all of these at once. Both are wonderful to behold, convincing the spectator that there is no state more natural, no state so becoming nor so appropriate for them than that of ceaseless movement. He is full of artless grace. He is effortless, easy motion. He is like the wind.

Another reason Kit is fun to watch is the gentlemanly bow he makes after making a goal. After confounding the opposing team's goalie, Kit completes the obligatory run down the field triumphantly pumping his clenched fists above his head. After spotting a familiar face in the crowd (when I am there, it's always mine), he continues his dash toward the friend, and stops about 10 paces away. With his feet in some sort of corrupted third position, he positions his left arm behind his back with his right arm over his head. As he begins to bow, his right arm comes down while his hand rotates at the wrist (à la The King and I) until it is at his stomach level (see photo at left).

This behavior may sound a little arrogant, but in practice it's actually rather quaint, as it reminds one that spectator sports are a type of performance art. When an artist's performance is worthy of commendation, the audience applauds as a collective acknowledgement of his achievement and their approbation; he, in turn, bows in gratitude for their support (and patronage). This is the traditional, time-honored system of the stage and arena. In the hands of some, the gesture could come off as insincere or pompous, but Kit pulls it off with humility and charm.

This brings me to today's question: as one who regularly enjoys the visual and performing arts, why am I so turned off by all but the most artful of professional sports (i.e. gymnastics, diving, and figure skating)? After some reflection, I decided that the grossly inflated salaries of most professional athletes are at least partly to blame.

Watching the kids run around playing soccer today was fun for me, because I know it's fun for them. They're not out there for the multimillion dollar contracts, the endorsement money, or the celebrity that comes with those things. They're out there simply because they like playing soccer. I know that the lion's share of professional athletes are true champions: people who play for the love of sport, the thrill of competition, and the drive to excel at their chosen craft. Nonetheless, it's difficult to distinguish those from the players who are out on the court or field primarily for mercenary reasons, which I find odious. Even those competitors who take up a sport out of what I would deem "pure"motivations cannot escape the appearance of the taint of greed, since I have never heard of them declining those exorbitant salaries.

I know I promulgated the excellencies of capitalism and the infallible righteousness of the invisible hand, but some old fashioned part of me expects artists to live by an oath of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Those who truly love their art will sacrifice monetary gain (even eschew it!) to gain ascetic purity, which in turn they can impart to their craft to achieve higher, more sublime forms of art. The ostentatious living displayed on shows such as MTV's Cribs or VH1's The Fabulous Life of don't help to assuage my reservations about moneyed artists, either.

Those fatty paychecks may be keeping atheletes in Louis Vuitton couture, Beverly Hills mansions and $5 million sports cars, but ironically, for me, all that money cheapens the game.