strange musings of a distracted spunk

I went all the way to Vancouver, Canada to get hooked on American Gladiators.

No, really! While Princess Pointful made a yummy dinner, her boyfriend and I debated what to watch on TV. “The Big Bang Theory?” I said.

“Nah.”

“Dancing With the Stars?”

*dirty look*

“Ugh, Punchline is on.”

“What’s that about?”

“Sally Field and Tom Hanks.”

“Oh god no. I can’t stand Sally Field. Let’s watch American Gladiators!”

I gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“It’s good. You’ll like it. They’re crazy.”

Twenty minutes later, I was yelling at the television like a mad woman. “Watch out for Helga! Why is it so difficult for them to swim the entire length of the pool? Do the breaststroke, it’s faster! What are you doing?! He’s going to crush you! What’s the Wolf? Oh. That’s the Wolf. Ewwww.”

American Gladiators was one of those shows that was cool to watch on Saturday early afternoons, after Saved By the Bell because those people were crazy and scary, and also, it was the impetus for Guts on Nickelodeon. When it went off the air all those years ago, I never thought much of it, even when it returned. But now that I’m in Canada? I actually turned down an opportunity to go out with some of Princess Pointful’s friends because I wanted to watch Major Pain try to get past freaking Helga. (Incidentally, Helga looks like a two hundred and five pound version of a girl I went to high school with.) I was so involved with the show, I couldn’t even keep up with the conversation, because there was a former Para-Olympics medalist with one leg trying to succeed on the Eliminator. (On a side note, hand pedals? What demon conjured up that torture trap?)

As I got more involved with American Gladiators and the plight of one John Siciliano who only has the one leg, so did the others in the living room. And as we watched him try to keep his balance on a tightrope, or run down a spinning barrel, or climb up arm first on a teeter-totter rather than run up, it began to feel a bit like you couldn’t look away. But as he persevered, I realized, had I been him, I would have been pissed to know people were aww’ing every time I succeeded at doing something I had initially set out to do.

The guy who did win, after three minutes and twenty seconds did a great job, but he was ignored in favor of the human interest story of the guy who was disabled and still playing the game. The crowd began chanting, “Go John, go!” and you could see the looks on people’s faces as though they wanted to see him succeed but every time his prosthetic leg went wayward, they’d grimace. Hell, even I grimaced, because I wanted to see this guy kick Gladiator ass.

The camera stayed focused on John, zooming in to show his awkward gait because much of his weight had to be stored on one leg, regardless of the black prosthesis attached to him. It began to feel like an exploitation of his disability, rather than a genuine portrait of giving a guy a fair shot. At the end of it all, while people cheered, I was frustrated. I saw parallels in how people played up the inspirational aspects of his activity to how people have suggested I am an inspiration. I don’t think most people set out to be an inspiration. In my case, I lost my ears and did what I had to do. I don’t find anything about that inspirational.

I doubt John feels differently; in an interview at the end, he said, “If you want to do something, get up and do it.” There’s nothing heroic or poignant about that. Nike’s been riding on the “Just Do It” slogan for as long as I can remember. It’s not about setting an example. It’s about achieving goals. Why are we so eager to confuse the two when it involves someone making do with the hand they’ve been dealt? When sympathy and encouragement often walk the same line of a disability, it’s harder to be thought of as an inspiration for just living our lives.

And to think. All this came from watching American Gladiators in Canada. Not bad, eh?