THE LAND FISH

When Michael Phelps touched the wall for the final time, I imitated a Tiger Woods Fist Pump to celebrate. Hard to fathom how much skill, effort, and determination it takes to accomplish such feats. Phelps seems like the All-American Lad, and has apparently remained free from the evils of dreaded performance-enhancing substances. Aside from his endorsement of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, which has the Food Police in complete apoplexy, this remarkable Land Fish is as close to perfect as anyone can possibly be. But with all the joy, pride, and admiration Phelps has engendered, he still falls short on my hero list.

I realize that last comment may sound blasphemous, however something is missing from the biographical sketch. Yes, as much as I wish to anoint Michael the greatest human of all time, I discovered a distinct flaw. No, it's not something physical (despite his more than generous set of ears) as he is in sterling condition. And it has nothing to do with his mental acumen, which obviously remains strong. He has a pleasant, disarming, and humble personality that does nothing but endear him to the drooling masses of prospective agents and marketeers. No, none of the above. But I just can't overlook this seemingly minuscule chink in the Phelps biographical armor.

You see, my perception of an athletic Zeus goes a bit beyond Phelps' aquatic feats. Through years of training and observation my qualifications for hero/heroine go beyond the Wheaties (or Frosted Flakes) box. I demand perfection! Ted Williams hit over .300 every year EXCEPT one (.254 plagued with neck injuries in 1959). Bill Russell didn't win an NBA championship in TWO of his 13 seasons with the Celtics. Gale Sayers only played SEVEN seasons with the Bears because of knee injuries, Lee Trevino only won SEVEN major golf titles, and Chris Evert lost more than 50 tennis matches in her career. Flawed, all of them. But isn't Michael Phelps perfect? Didn't he win eight gold medals in eight events? True. Yet there remains the dark blemish on a supposedly pristine performance.

Alright, I've dragged this out interminably. The suspense and curiosity has moved toward fever pitch proportions. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MICHAEL PHELPS? Did you happen to notice that in his eight events, he set seven world records? What about the other one? It happened to be the 100-meter Butterfly, the last individual race, where he barely out-touched his Serbian rival. Okay, it was thrilling and dramatic and all those other adjectives the media used for description. But come on, Michael! Where was the eighth world record? There's just an empty space next to that entry on your sheet. How can you expect to be a hero when you lose focus in the 'fly?

I've let it out now and feel ever so much better -- cathartic would be the appropriate description. I guess Mr. Phelps will have to improve in 2012 to hear my full applause.

For what it's worth, I'm not actually that mean or demanding. His feats stand unmatched. A million quotes fit the moment, but I like this one by C.J. Weber: "Perfecting is our destiny, but perfection never our lot."

The Land Fish almost proved him wrong.

MM