Grizbacker1
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Enjoy your retirement Rial!
RIAL CUMMINGS: Sadly, it's time to say goodbye
By RIAL CUMMINGS of the Missoulian
So here we are, you and I. And here is the last column.
While I knew I would write those words someday - barring, of course, being prematurely flattened by an SUV or an irate parent - it's still difficult to believe that day has finally arrived. At this moment, I am experiencing what highly paid professionals with legal pads call an “out of body” experience; I am looking down at a middle-aged man, with crow's feet and a gut, tap-tap-tapping on a keyboard.
He's wondering two things: a) How did it go by so fast? and b) When was the last time someone actually documented the squeal of a pig floating on the air from the tummy of a Grizzly Bear?
My first column for the Missoulian, on Oct. 8, 1981, was written by a 26-year-old punk with a perm the size of Jon Bon Jovi's. It featured references to Strat-O-Matic cards, Zonker Harris, unbleached flour and The Zoo. That pretty much set the tone for the roughly 1,154 columns that followed.
Along the way I celebrated dogs in sports, bespectacled athletes, Santa as a coach, my (then) 4-year-old son Sam's climbing abilities, my daughter Lindsay's Converse All-Stars, and both the Irish and American versions of hurling (hint: only one involves Pepto-Bismol).
I wrote what it was like to watch the Super Bowl in Yaak, the Olympic Games in Salt Lake City and Tiger Woods at St. Andrews. I interviewed Jack Nicklaus, Joe Montana, John Wooden and a real legend, the San Diego Chicken.
Mostly, I chronicled the ups and downs of thousands of Montana Grizzlies, highlighted by exotic trips to Ogden, Pocatello and Moscow, and tens of thousands of high-school Bulldogs, Eagles and Sugarbeeters.
The memories are endless and indelible:
... the national-championship drives directed by Dave Dickenson and John Edwards ... Chad McKinney, weeping, after breaking a 20-year-old state record on the final javelin throw of his career ... Larry Krystkowiak, brushing off the soles of his sneakers ... Hellgate's double-overtime win over Billings West, still the best basketball game I ever covered ... Don Read's quotes, more meandering than the Bitterroot River ... Driving on glorious autumn days to Hamilton or Thompson Falls or Whitefish for a playoff game ... Air Bergy, falling at Park City in a brave attempt to repeat his aerial gold medal ... Elvis Old Bull, threading a between-the-legs bounce pass ... Kelly Pilcher, hopping up and down after her long shot stunned Kalispell for a state title ... Writing in empty gyms while cleanup crews roamed the bleachers ... Robin Selvig, teary-eyed after the Stanford loss ... Buying a freshly printed edition from “Big Jim” Welling down at the Ox after another wild Saturday shift ...
Just last week I was reminded, all over again, the reason I loved this job.
It came at the State B track and field meet, in the boys' 400-meter relay, when the Seeley-Swan Blackhawks dropped the baton coming around the final curve. By the time anchor runner Derek Hard tracked it down, the rest of the teams were halfway down the straightaway. Hard could've simply collapsed to the track in anguish. Instead, he picked up the baton, sprinted all by himself, lunged across the finish line - and then collapsed in anguish.
Ten years from now, I won't remember the winning team. I will remember a last-place kid, too stubborn to quit.
As someone once wrote:
“We grow old, or at least older. We gain experience. We compromise. We doubt. We become cynical. We learn, grudgingly, perhaps imperceptibly, that dreams don't come true. We slide down that slippery slope that accepts the power and prophecy of words such as can't, won't, improbable, impossible. We grow up.
“Maybe the best thing about covering sports is being around people who haven't quite grown up. That means witnessing a lot of immature behavior, of course, which can be stupid, thoughtless, even nasty. But it also means experiencing the flip side: the bullet-proof innocence that counters cynicism, defies obstacles and, yes, bucks all odds.”
That someone was me. And now it's my turn to buck the odds, as a free lancer out on Puget Sound.
Writing is a solitary act, but reporting is not. I'd like to thank all the colleagues who kept me rooted in this special place; all the athletes who gave me chills; all the coaches who fielded my (often inane) questions, and all of you who came along for the ride.
That tap-tap-tapping? Well, quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
But as the door closes, one last time, my heart is full.
Rial Cummings can be reached at [email protected]. Thanks for the memories.
RIAL CUMMINGS: Sadly, it's time to say goodbye
By RIAL CUMMINGS of the Missoulian
So here we are, you and I. And here is the last column.
While I knew I would write those words someday - barring, of course, being prematurely flattened by an SUV or an irate parent - it's still difficult to believe that day has finally arrived. At this moment, I am experiencing what highly paid professionals with legal pads call an “out of body” experience; I am looking down at a middle-aged man, with crow's feet and a gut, tap-tap-tapping on a keyboard.
He's wondering two things: a) How did it go by so fast? and b) When was the last time someone actually documented the squeal of a pig floating on the air from the tummy of a Grizzly Bear?
My first column for the Missoulian, on Oct. 8, 1981, was written by a 26-year-old punk with a perm the size of Jon Bon Jovi's. It featured references to Strat-O-Matic cards, Zonker Harris, unbleached flour and The Zoo. That pretty much set the tone for the roughly 1,154 columns that followed.
Along the way I celebrated dogs in sports, bespectacled athletes, Santa as a coach, my (then) 4-year-old son Sam's climbing abilities, my daughter Lindsay's Converse All-Stars, and both the Irish and American versions of hurling (hint: only one involves Pepto-Bismol).
I wrote what it was like to watch the Super Bowl in Yaak, the Olympic Games in Salt Lake City and Tiger Woods at St. Andrews. I interviewed Jack Nicklaus, Joe Montana, John Wooden and a real legend, the San Diego Chicken.
Mostly, I chronicled the ups and downs of thousands of Montana Grizzlies, highlighted by exotic trips to Ogden, Pocatello and Moscow, and tens of thousands of high-school Bulldogs, Eagles and Sugarbeeters.
The memories are endless and indelible:
... the national-championship drives directed by Dave Dickenson and John Edwards ... Chad McKinney, weeping, after breaking a 20-year-old state record on the final javelin throw of his career ... Larry Krystkowiak, brushing off the soles of his sneakers ... Hellgate's double-overtime win over Billings West, still the best basketball game I ever covered ... Don Read's quotes, more meandering than the Bitterroot River ... Driving on glorious autumn days to Hamilton or Thompson Falls or Whitefish for a playoff game ... Air Bergy, falling at Park City in a brave attempt to repeat his aerial gold medal ... Elvis Old Bull, threading a between-the-legs bounce pass ... Kelly Pilcher, hopping up and down after her long shot stunned Kalispell for a state title ... Writing in empty gyms while cleanup crews roamed the bleachers ... Robin Selvig, teary-eyed after the Stanford loss ... Buying a freshly printed edition from “Big Jim” Welling down at the Ox after another wild Saturday shift ...
Just last week I was reminded, all over again, the reason I loved this job.
It came at the State B track and field meet, in the boys' 400-meter relay, when the Seeley-Swan Blackhawks dropped the baton coming around the final curve. By the time anchor runner Derek Hard tracked it down, the rest of the teams were halfway down the straightaway. Hard could've simply collapsed to the track in anguish. Instead, he picked up the baton, sprinted all by himself, lunged across the finish line - and then collapsed in anguish.
Ten years from now, I won't remember the winning team. I will remember a last-place kid, too stubborn to quit.
As someone once wrote:
“We grow old, or at least older. We gain experience. We compromise. We doubt. We become cynical. We learn, grudgingly, perhaps imperceptibly, that dreams don't come true. We slide down that slippery slope that accepts the power and prophecy of words such as can't, won't, improbable, impossible. We grow up.
“Maybe the best thing about covering sports is being around people who haven't quite grown up. That means witnessing a lot of immature behavior, of course, which can be stupid, thoughtless, even nasty. But it also means experiencing the flip side: the bullet-proof innocence that counters cynicism, defies obstacles and, yes, bucks all odds.”
That someone was me. And now it's my turn to buck the odds, as a free lancer out on Puget Sound.
Writing is a solitary act, but reporting is not. I'd like to thank all the colleagues who kept me rooted in this special place; all the athletes who gave me chills; all the coaches who fielded my (often inane) questions, and all of you who came along for the ride.
That tap-tap-tapping? Well, quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
But as the door closes, one last time, my heart is full.
Rial Cummings can be reached at [email protected]. Thanks for the memories.
