(Not So) Secret Photos of the Colorado Olympic Complex

Bowling National Coaches Conference May 6-10

In my last post, I wrote about my Olympic aspirations and attempt to get my sport of bowling into the games. These are some of the photos I snapped during my stay at the Olympic Complex in Colorado Springs, Colorado for the Team USA National Bowling Conference. That was nearly 20 years ago, but I'm sure they are still fairly representative of the facility. The Olympic Complex, former home of ENT Air Force Base and the headquarters of the North American Defense Command, officially became USOC administrative headquarters in July 1978.

A set of sheets and a blanket for the bed, a sink and mirror, a couple of electrical outlets and a shared closet. Yep, that's about it!

I don't really know what I expected to find upon my arrival, but I'm not sure I was quite prepared for the stark housing quarters. The athletes don't live in cushy digs while they train. As it was previously a military command, it is functional and utilitarian at best. We shared sparsely non-appointed rooms and occupancy was co-ed. Females roomed and showered with females (even if their spouse was there) and it was the same for males.

This high powered conference was attended by many of the sports royalty. It was fun seeing professional people, usually seen in magazines and on television, first thing in the morning doing the Fluffy Slipper Shuffle down the pheromone soaked hallway. A bathrobe parade of half awake...one eye going this way...one eye going that way...hair going everywhere...people. For a cheery morning person like myself, they were like sitting ducks on a pond, easily going down with a straifing barrage of chirpy "GOOD MORNINGs!"

Countdown Clock

This clock is always counting down to the next Olympics. At that time, the count down was marking off the minutes until the 1994 winter games at Lillehammer, Norway.

The amazing Olympic chow hall where forks and knives waged titanic battles on the field of a porcelain plate.

The food service staff got kudos from me for the Herculean task of keeping all the athletes in attendance fueled and ready to go. All the food was donated by large American food corporations like Beatrice. This self-serve restuarant, with skyscraper stacks of nutritionally labeled food, opened three times a day to appease the hungry hoards.

The fairy like gymnasts gravitated to the low fat foods. The cyclists, constantly embattled to consume more calories than they burn in training (a feeling I would like to know for just one day), ate Mt. Vesuvius piles of food. Not yet full, the spinners were tempted by a huge, wanton tray of marshamallowy, vanilla goodness waving her scent bomb in their face. They comandeered the tray of crispy treats, took them to their table and it was a menage-a-trois to remember.

Some of the best amateur bowlers in the world at the time.

Life here was good. It was grand...full of dreams, high ideals and the pursuit of perfection. What would it be like if these high vibrations of hope and excellence were the yardstick by which the rest of the world measured itself?

Olympic Aspirations

Me in my 90s, one-piece jumpsuit. Anyone remember those? Wish I didn't.

Okay, lately I've been helping a lot of souls leave this world and move on to the next. It is worthy work but can be tiring. Since the action seems to have slowed down a bit, I need a little change of pace. The Olympic games have given me that "grounded in the body" quality that I need to feel right now.

There was a time in my life when I aspired to become an Olympian. I wish I could say that I know what the quest for Olympic greatness feels like but, I can't. Before I could pursue my medal, I had to first help my sport become accepted into the games.

Way back in the mid-1980s and early 90s, there was a big push to get bowling accepted as a medal sport. We never got any nearer than being granted Exhibition Sport status. Exhibition sports are allowed to perform, for entertainment purposes only, in the games just prior the United States Olympic Committee, USOC, voting, for or against, acceptance on medal status eligibility in the games four years down the road. It is all very political and each sport needs people in high places on their side.

Bowling was voted down. Even though I don't bowl anymore, I still think it is a great game. To me, the best thing about it is that it can be played by most anyone. To the Saturday night beer and pizza crowd, it is a game. To the elite player, it is a game of physics and perfection. But in the end, I think that is exactly what led to the demise of the pursuit.

Although almost every country in the world bowls, it was hard for the powers that be to see it as a world class sport. But if you've ever competed in the upper echelons, you know that it is an extremely difficult and complicated game. One nano-error can cost you your 200 average and send you on a long, lonely ride home without a paycheck. Unlike many sports, in bowling, amateurs can make money without becoming a professional. If you be not perfect, you be penniless in your pursuit.

In the early 1990s, I had an opportunity to spend a week at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs, Colorado. A chance of a lifetime I did not let pass. It was training for a tiered coaching program that was developed in preparation for Team USA Bowling. We attended conferences with Olympic sports psychologists, biomechanists, nutritionists, exercise physiologists and professional bowlers and coaches. Good friends were made. Good times were had.

My friend, "T"

Even though we couldn't get bowling into the games, I am still proud to have been a part of that time in history. Just trying to get a sport accepted into the Olympics is an Olympic feat unto itself.

Exit, Stage Left

SWISH. That's how I feel right now. Like a basketball shot clean through the center of the hoop. Its after-wind whistling through the net...rippling those nylon diamonds as it drops and rolls across the court to uncharted destinations.

Yikes! The saga of G.G. continues. In my last post, I wrote: G.G. left behind a husband who doesn't even know she's gone. Doesn't know his own name. Doesn't even remember that she existed. They told him she had passed. He doesn't know the difference between G.G.'s death and stuffed eggplant.

I was so wrong. Me. The one who's spent countless hours studying recollections people have of what transpired around them when they were unconscious, sedated or in Near Death Experience. I've read enough case studies from medical journals to know that there is a high incidence of recorded cases where people could quote, verbatim, what was said or done. Enough to know that, despite being in the last stages of Alzheimer's in a coma and on hospice, G.G.'s husband, T.G., could comprehend the that she was gone.

When my brother told T.G. that she had passed, he also told him that if she was the reason he was holding on to life, he could let go now. And after G.G.'s memorial service, he went back to tell T.G. that we had held a memorial for her and had honored his life at the same time. All of their mutual friends and family were there, as was his hospice worker, and it just seemed fitting. Less than 8 hours later, T.G. left his body.

Since he and G.G. met, he had always bobbed along behind in her determined wake. It was like she made one last grand exit, spun on her heels, and with a haughty SWISH of her cape, wrapped it around him and...ZOOM...they were gone. Both in less than a week. Leaving together in death as in life.

I'm the one left standing here with eggplant all over my face. Thanks, T.G., for the wake up call. Bon Voyage...but I have a feeling I'll hear from you again.

Trading Places

A random universe? I think not. Would a random universe send me to a baby shower and a funeral on the same day? Back to back?

LeeLee glitters and brightens all around her. Even if you don't see auras, you can see this...her golden glow. Folding her hands across her unborn babe, lying solid and low in her belly, an intimate smile, in Mona Lisa fashion, softens her face.

G.G.'s absence is marked by old photographs, the bookmarks of one's life. Her still body, dulled and grayed in death's pallor, has been high-fired into bone-chipped powder. No more smiles for G.G. Or frowns either.


One life arriving.

One life leaving.

One mirroring hope and happiness.

The other, loss and sadness.

Gifts and Games.

Tissues and tears.


I can only imagine the Big Gal Upstairs coordinating these events:

Little soul...you go on into the body of Baby Isabelle. Old soul...you come on out of that used up, tumor ridden body and rest for a spell. Put your feet up, or what used to be your feet, while we talk about how you'll next come back to work on your karma.

Cosmic orchestration is intense. Wedding Planners and Air Traffic Controllers have it easy in comparison.


Everyone is happy to welcome the new baby...a new life...a blank slate open for great accomplishments and outcomes.

G.G.? Well, sad to say she made a lot of people miserable during her long life. I know it's not right to speak ill of the dead but, she didn't treat people well, especially family. It is what it is. She was who she was. To say it was not so would be lying. Which is worse?

She was Le Grand Bitch. Oh, not my words but those of her children and close family members who were with her through her last sucked breath. I know what they were talking about though. I witnessed G.G.'s reign of terror on many occasions. But even so, there were tears shed at her passing and the transition was hard. A memorial, that she didn't want, was held, anyway, with meat, cheese and veggie trays and salads and carrot cake.

There were a few people she'd made happy during her reign. I overheard them telling the family so. The family, gracious to the last, nodded, comforted and thanked them for their stories and memories.


G.G. left behind a husband who doesn't even know she's gone. Doesn't know his own name. Doesn't even remember that she existed. They told him she had passed. He doesn't know the difference between G.G.'s death and stuffed eggplant.

Still, the day a person takes their first breath and begins pumping blood is marked, as is their last. Two souls trading places in a universe less random than we think.

Would you care for some potato salad or a piece of carrot cake while you make the switch? Not going to be food like this, for either of you, for a long time.

Faux Spring Day

Bagging their droplets, the rain clouds

have swished on to shower other states.

Some drier.

Some whiter.

Gray and wet skies have

lost their hand to the

blue and the sunny.

We welcome the break with

open windows and doors

letting in 70 degree temperatures...

letting the breath of warm breeziness

stir the curtains.

People smile...

Inwardly and outwardly.

Shorts and flip-flops,

ball caps and muscle-man T's

bare flashes of white, pale skin...

blinding affirmations of the coming warm.

Animals soak up the warmth of El Sol.

I swear they are smiling too.

Especially those happy California cows.

The steady drone of mowers

and weed eaters from across the way

accompany my walk to the mailbox.

And clean it smells...and green.

Fresh soaked earth--steaming.

And one family member

chooses to leave her body

during this brief respite.

She saw the Light...

too bright to ignore.

Goodbye, G.G., I'll miss you.

But you were wise to

make your move now.

This won't last,

It never does.

It is just a faux spring day.

De Good Life

Willow, of the blog Willow Manor, has created a new blog called Magpie Tales. Willow says, "This blog is dedicated to the enjoyment of writers, for the purpose of honing their craft, sharing it with like minded bloggers, and keeping their muses alive and well." On Friday of each week, she will post a photograph which is a prompt to inspire you to write a short piece of fiction or a poem. Today is the blog's debut. Go on over to Magpie Tales to check out the rules and other contributors work.

De Good Life

"Granpop, I found this while I was cleaning out Gramma Lu's closet. What is it? It sure is pretty."

"Bring it on over here, Calvin," said the old man. "Mah ol' eyes don' work since I got de diabetes." Slowly, he rubbed his hands over the cool piece of metal. Frail, ragged fingers trace its wide mouth and trail down the handle to the tapered base. A solitary tear squeezes out the corner of his eye as a smile rises on his lips like a rainbow in the rain. "Son, oder dan your Gramma Lu, God res' her soul, dis was de best part o' mah life.

Dis was de first trophy ah won on de golf tour. De white men wouldn't let us neaga people play wit dem so we had ta start our own. Had a hard time gettin' sponsors, we did. We couldn' play fuh much money. Hell, we had ta hustle Joe's in every town we wen' to jus' ta make 'nough money ta stay out der. De day ah won dis, ah was flat broke. Ah didn' have a penny ta mark mah ball an' if someone hadn' brought apples ta de tourney, ah wouldn' have been able ta eat. Ah don' think I even tol' your Gramma Lu how busted ah was. An' when ah won dis, ah didn' hafta. She smiled like ah'd given her de world when ah gave her dis.

Son, when ah got up ol' 'nough, ah'd go ta de club an' caddy. Ah was 'bout 12 year ol' when ah started carryin'. Good way ta make some good money...fuh mah family. In dem days, oh, back 'roun 1925, mah daddy only brought home $10 a week fuh some hard ol' work. Why, ah could make $6 fuh carryin' clubs fuh 18 holes. Dat was a lotta money. Mah mama grabbed me by de ear an' pinched it real hard all de while asking me what ah was doin' ta make dat much. Den I'd give mah mama all de money 'cepn a quarter an' ah'd buy me a cegar. Yep, made me feel like a real man.

Mostly taught mahself ta play by watchin' the better players from de caddy shack. Wha, ah even remember lil' Arnie taggin' 'long behin' us buggin' us ta play. Arnold Palmer. He always said de caddies was de best players. He loved a good game. Das' de truf, son. Yo go as' him yo'self. Turned into a mighty fine golfer hisself 'long de way.

Ah walkt 'round wit dat bag on mah shoulder...no shoes. No shoes. Never knew what golf shoes was. Dos spiky, lil' burrs used ta eat mah feet alive. When ah got home, ah'd have ta take a needle an' pick 'em all outta mahfeet. Didn' have no clubs. Jus' took a tobacco stick or a Dogwood strip an' trim it down...made dat ting fit. Know what ah mean? Got some epoxy or somethin' an' put dat thing on de bottom...took it out an' hit it de next day. Man, ah had mahself a golf club...shit. No grip or nuthin'. Jus' took it out an' hit it. Never thought 'bout it. Had one ball as brown as mah daddy's face. Didn' matter how far it went. Wasn' no gripin' and carryin' on like dos boys do today.

Calvin, what yo found der is a man's hopes an' dreams for a better life. You take it now, son. Ah had mine an' Grama Lu don' need it no mo'. Yo go on out der an' get yours. Dat right, son...dat right."

Rain, Man!

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While the right coast has become a giant sno-cone,

The left coast has turned on the water faucet.

Who the heck is that taking pictures while she's driving?

I would NEVER do that, would I?