There were, it seems, innumerable judging controversies this year with regard to gymnastics, including some international gymnastics governing body or another requesting, though not actually requiring, an American men's gymnastics gold medal winner to return his medal. These controversies seem to stem from the fact that gymnastics now has a labyrinthine system of rules for scoring points; deductions are sometimes measured in one quarter of one-tenths of a point, and the gold medal previously mentioned was won by two one-thousandths (0.002) of a point. While scoring a routine, judges cannot keep their eyes glued to the performance at all times, as they must, at least occasionally glance down to make a note. When the difference between going home with a gold and going home with nothing at all is often less than a whole point, any distraction at all by the judges could mean disaster for a contestant.
Even though I am utterly unqualified to do so, I offer a solution to this problem: instant replay.
This could work one of at least two ways. First, have the judges watch the routine without making any kind of note or comment on their cards at all; this way they are sure to see the routine in it's entirety, and not miss some crucial point where the athlete did especially well or poor. Then, have them watch the tape, and make their scoring decisions there. This way, they can be certain of any deductions or bonus points they wish to award. The other way would be to model it after the NFL, where if the coach has a specific complaint about the score, a specific deduction or deductions he wishes to challenge, he may do so and everybody goes to the tape. If the replay bears out the coaches challenge, then the score is revised. If, after viewing the replay, the judge does not feel the change is warranted, then the athlete is fined tenth of a point or something, similar to the penalty a football team faces if they lose their challenge. This would prevent people from challenging every little thing and focus only on grievous or significant errors.
If anyone reading this had a more technical knowledge of gymnastics, say, is actually involved with the sport outside of watching the olympics, let me know what you think of my idea.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Monday, September 13, 2004
The Box
"Daddy, what's in the box?"
"I don't know. What do you think could be in the box?"
It was the boy's favorite game, one of pure imagination. The box in question was high up on a shelf bracketed to the wall of their living room. It was small, but longish, not unlike the card catalogue drawers that used to be found in libraries, with a brass pull and an empty frame for a label. The game started many years ago, when the child had first noticed the box tucked away among the knick-knacks on the shelf and had asked what was in it. His father had replied, as he now always did, asking the boy what he thought was in the box, and the boy replied "Fairies!" This started a story about the Fairies of the Box and the Evil Ogres they defeated to protect their land.
The contents of the box changed with the years. Sometimes it was a magic wand, or an enchanted sword with which the boy would, with help from his father, go on daring adventures around the house and yard. Later, when the boy discovered cowboys and wild wild west stories, the box held a sheriff's star and six shooter, or Chief Loudwater's tomahawk. Later still, when the boy was wrapped in thrilling science fiction novels, they made stories about lost data disks or mysterious gadgets from the future.
Throughout all their adventures, however, the box was never taken down, nor was it ever opened; it remained an object of pure speculation and mystery.
By degrees, they lost interest in the game. Friends and school came to take up more and more of the boys life, and he spent less and less and finally no time at home imagining things with his father. Video games and girls, cars, part-time jobs and mid-term exams all conspired to remove the magic and wonder from the box, until it was just another dusty relic in his father's home.
The years went by quickly for the child: grammar school, junior then senior high, college, moving away to start a life of his own. And, as too often happens, the boy, now a young man, and his father fell out of touch. This is not to say they never spoke of visited, but they lost the connections they shared so may years ago. The game was dim memory, as dusty and forgotten as the box itself.
Eventually, the father died, as all fathers must, and the young man was called back to his boyhood home to settle his father's affairs, and clean out the house, which he and his young wife had inherited. Three days into the painful sorting and boxing of his late father's effects, the young man spied the box, still in it's accustomed place on the shelf in the living room, and the memories came flooding back. He stood from where he had been sitting, leafing though his father's record collection and took down the box. It was the first time he had seen it up close, no, it was the first time really looked at it. He wiped away the thick layer of dust to reveal a richly stained and polished wood underneath. Quietly the young man marveled that he could forget such a potent memory from his youth. He grabbed the dull brass pull on the drawer and slid it easily open. Inside he was surprised to find....
At this point, I invite my readers to post a comment and tell us what's in the box and continue the story. After that, another post, then another, until the story reaches it's end, or we get bored.
Have fun. I'm curious to see where this leads.
"I don't know. What do you think could be in the box?"
It was the boy's favorite game, one of pure imagination. The box in question was high up on a shelf bracketed to the wall of their living room. It was small, but longish, not unlike the card catalogue drawers that used to be found in libraries, with a brass pull and an empty frame for a label. The game started many years ago, when the child had first noticed the box tucked away among the knick-knacks on the shelf and had asked what was in it. His father had replied, as he now always did, asking the boy what he thought was in the box, and the boy replied "Fairies!" This started a story about the Fairies of the Box and the Evil Ogres they defeated to protect their land.
The contents of the box changed with the years. Sometimes it was a magic wand, or an enchanted sword with which the boy would, with help from his father, go on daring adventures around the house and yard. Later, when the boy discovered cowboys and wild wild west stories, the box held a sheriff's star and six shooter, or Chief Loudwater's tomahawk. Later still, when the boy was wrapped in thrilling science fiction novels, they made stories about lost data disks or mysterious gadgets from the future.
Throughout all their adventures, however, the box was never taken down, nor was it ever opened; it remained an object of pure speculation and mystery.
By degrees, they lost interest in the game. Friends and school came to take up more and more of the boys life, and he spent less and less and finally no time at home imagining things with his father. Video games and girls, cars, part-time jobs and mid-term exams all conspired to remove the magic and wonder from the box, until it was just another dusty relic in his father's home.
The years went by quickly for the child: grammar school, junior then senior high, college, moving away to start a life of his own. And, as too often happens, the boy, now a young man, and his father fell out of touch. This is not to say they never spoke of visited, but they lost the connections they shared so may years ago. The game was dim memory, as dusty and forgotten as the box itself.
Eventually, the father died, as all fathers must, and the young man was called back to his boyhood home to settle his father's affairs, and clean out the house, which he and his young wife had inherited. Three days into the painful sorting and boxing of his late father's effects, the young man spied the box, still in it's accustomed place on the shelf in the living room, and the memories came flooding back. He stood from where he had been sitting, leafing though his father's record collection and took down the box. It was the first time he had seen it up close, no, it was the first time really looked at it. He wiped away the thick layer of dust to reveal a richly stained and polished wood underneath. Quietly the young man marveled that he could forget such a potent memory from his youth. He grabbed the dull brass pull on the drawer and slid it easily open. Inside he was surprised to find....
At this point, I invite my readers to post a comment and tell us what's in the box and continue the story. After that, another post, then another, until the story reaches it's end, or we get bored.
Have fun. I'm curious to see where this leads.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Hiatus
I am in the process of moving and new posts will be even more sporadic than usual, especially since Qwest told us that there is no DSL available in our area. They offered dial up service, but we politely declined.
As for the bees, the best answers lie here, here and here. By the way, I am a weak person, and the very first thing I did when I woke up the next morn was check on my bees.
As for the bees, the best answers lie here, here and here. By the way, I am a weak person, and the very first thing I did when I woke up the next morn was check on my bees.
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