The Women's Gold Medal Curling Event at the 2010 Olympics

One observer's astute analysis of the competition

By Neal Fisher

The women's gold medal curling game was exciting! Canada had the gold medal in their grasp (heck, it was practically on the mantle pieces, in the  junk drawers, and forgotten in the attics of the team members). The crowd was jubilant, the joy was palpable; they were about to erupt. The curling team was smiling and joking with each other. Then the Canadian skip, who was brilliant and flawless after settling down after the first two ends, inexplicably, unbelievably, on what should have been the last rock, the gold medal clincher of the 10th and final end,  somehow allowed the Swedes to tie. 

Up by two, it was beyond hope for the Swedes. But the final rock, which should have added to the margin of victory and sealed the gold medal win for Canada, was off the mark. It should not have mattered because the Canadians were up by two. But somehow that final, fateful rock hit the Canadian "shot" rock and both spun out of the house. Sweden stole two points which forced the game to an 11th end. 

I was absolutely speechless; and screaming in disbelief at the same time. After gaining an early advantage in the first two ends the Swedish skip had been struggling.  By the eighth end the look on her face was that of a deer in the headlights. I was rooting for the underdog Swedes of course, especially since they were struggling. But I was also very happy for our neighbors to the north and the idea of them winning it on "home" ice, coupled with the strong possibility of the undefeated men doing the same the next day, was captivating.

For their part, the percentage of winning for the Canadian women, when throwing last rock in the 10th end was 82%. That is what makes the outcome extraordinary. What happened to the universe? Time ripped and bent, space compressed and twisted, matter and energy flowed between states. And on that last, fateful rock, which should have been the last stone thrown, the Canadians basically gave two points to the Swedes. It just didn't make sense.

So we go into overtime and the Canadians again will be trowing last rock which is an incredible advantage. And again, incredibly, impossibly, the Canadian skip falters again on the final stone and the Swedes steal one to take the gold. It was way worse than the ball through Buckner's legs. It was tantamount to the Yankees being up three games and losing four in a row to the Red Sox. Never, ever, in a million years would this happen. But it did.

I felt really sorry for the Canadian skip (as I would for anyone in the same position). She was there, home free, sittin' pretty, the hero of her country, feeling good, thinking about how proud her family was going to be of her, thinking of how she was going to handle the endless interviews, the disruption of signing autographs while food shopping, the uncomfortableness of strangers walking up to her and gushing their emotions and thanks and gratitude and love to her. And then . . . it all vanished as a dream does after a few hours of waking. Except now, the scorn and embarrassment are real and hard as nails, painful and unable to be assuaged.

But later the next day I felt better. During the men's final they interviewed the American skip. I had been lambasting this guy for a week. He was "demoted" from skip to the bench after three consecutive loses in which he missed final, game clinching throws on what should have been final rock. But here he was on live television, giving an interview, reflecting on all the negative, insulting "twitters" and Face book posts. And, impossibly, he was smiling and upbeat. He was relaxed. And he was happy. Because Americans were finally taking notice of curling. He spoke of the pressure, the drain on the emotions, and the general feeling of having all the energy vacuumed out of your psyche. As proof he offered the fact that his team had given up their guaranteed spot in the Nationals because they jut couldn't handle any more.

And because he felt better, I felt better too!

And this make me think. Isn't curling more reflective of life than most (if not all) of the other Olympic sports? 

Life is not like throwing yourself down an icy bobsled track. Nothing I do in real life compares to launching myself off a ski jump or bumping an ice skater on the final, hectic turn the short track. And I know it is impossible for me to stay on course beyond the first gate of an Olympic downhill event. But . . . that rock moving so slowly, imperceptibly adjusting sideways, small imperfections in the ice, and the actions of the sweepers which I have no control over . . . and that stone finally stops somewhere . . . and people cheer . . . or cry . . . or heap me with scorn or praise.

We get up in the morning, turn off the alarm clock, throw back the covers. This is like sitting in the hack, brushing the bottom of the stone, expecting the ice to behave as always but somewhere, deep down inside, we know there is the possibility of something unexplainable occurring. As we back out our driveways, wait for the light to change, negotiate our way through traffic; isn't that the same as pushing off and judging how much weight to impart to the 40 pounds of granite . . . does that decision to take South Street instead of Main Street really make any difference? . . . does allowing that other driver to turn right on red in front of us matter? . . . is there any possible way we can bump that rock off the button and lie two? This is our hope in the morning.

Then the stone is gone. At this point where the rock it stops is controlled by others, and the ice (the ice is immutable, yet usually predictable). And the rock has consequences. Other rocks are moved, or our rock is perfect, or near perfect, or completely off the mark. And others are affected by our thrown rock. We intended for that result . . . or we absolutely did not want that outcome . . . or it's something that we all can live with and try to make the best of. 

An analogy to life may lie on the ice.