Something Like the Gods: A Cultural History of the Athlete from Achilles to LeBron
256
Something Like the Gods: A Cultural History of the Athlete from Achilles to LeBron
256eBook
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Overview
Why is the athlete so important to us? Few public figures can dominate the public imagination with such power and authority. Even in our cynical times, when celebrities can be debunked at the speed of light, many still look to athletes as models for our moral and emotional lives. An aging fastballer goes for a few last wins in his final season, and he becomes an exemplar for our daily struggles against time.
A top golfer cheats on his wife, and his behavior sparks a symposium on marital fidelity more wideranging than if the lapse had come from a politician or religious leader.
Drawing from art, literature, politics, and history, Something Like the Gods explores the powerful grip the athlete has always held on the Western imagination. Amidon examines the archetype of the competitor as it evolved from antiquity to the present day, from athlete-warriors such as Achilles and Ulysses to global media icons like Ali, Jordan, and Tiger Woods.
Above all, Something Like the Gods is a lyrical study that will appeal to anyone who has ever imagined themselves in the spikes, boots, or sneakers of our greatest athletes—or wondered why people do.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781609611248 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Harmony/Rodale |
| Publication date: | 06/05/2012 |
| Sold by: | Random House |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
BEAUTIFUL DEATHS
On May 16, 2010, the heavily underdog Black Knights men's lacrosse team of the United States Military Academy defeated the defending national champion Syracuse University Orange in the opening round of the NCAA championship tournament. Although it was one of the greatest upsets in the history of the sport, most observers would have been inclined to view the result as the sort of thing that can happen on any given day. Predicting winners and losers is a risky business in any athletic endeavor.
Some players on the West Point team saw something deeper than chance at work, however. Tyler Oates, a senior who was planning to serve in Afghanistan as an Airborne officer upon graduation later that year, told the New York Times soon after the game that "we never go on the field saying, 'We're going to give them a heck of a fight,' or 'We're going to play our best'... You're not going to go into Afghanistan saying, 'I hope I do all right.' That's life or death, not win or lose, but what makes you think the way you approach a lacrosse game should be different than the way you approach a training exercise or when you actually go to war?"
Whether he knew it or not, Cadet Oates was talking about more than just the preparation and mind-set of his Black Knights team when he hinted that military training could give West Point the edge over their civilian counterparts on the field of play. He was, in fact, describing a relationship between the athlete and the warrior that stretches back to the earliest days of humankind's history. From the first moment men understood they would have to kill in order to survive, they have engaged in games that were designed to perfect these deadly skills.
The athlete was born of the hunt. His first talents were those needed for pursuit and slaughter. There is evidence that Homo erectus was using clubs and perhaps even nets to hunt as long as 400,000 years ago. Homo sapiens was certainly hunting with spears by 70,000 BC. Their prey included such formidable creatures as saber-toothed tigers and mammoths. Cunning, strength, and swift action would have been essential to make a kill.
These hunters needed to practice in order to sharpen their skills. The best way to fling a net, the proper trajectory of a spear, the ideal pace at which to pursue an animal over long distances--these were things that could best be learned and perfected through repetition. These were the first games, performed in the intervals between hunts. There would have been little sense of play about these early contests, however; a distinct lack of mischief or joy. This was a grim business. It was about survival. Aggression without accuracy would have been worse than useless to the early hunter. Miss your prey and it could flee. Or it might even turn on you.
Performed in a group setting, these hunting exercises would have led to competition. As the German historian Gerhard Lukas claimed in a 1969 study of the origins of athletics, "the first sport was spear throwing." It is easy to envision how this played out. A tribe of Paleolithic hunters would fashion weapons, then test their effectiveness in order to choose which would be best for the bloody business at hand. One man would throw, another would follow. The player who demonstrated superior killing skills would earn a prime place in the hunt, along with all the benefits such status would bring.
The hunt also helped mold the human body into its present form, one capable of athletic feats. As our frames evolved from the pygmy Australopithicus of 3 million years ago, the need to run and throw caused our skeletons and muscles to develop in ways that would later allow us to sprint hundred-yard dashes, leap for rebounds, and serve aces. We were built for sports by our early history of hunting. The line from the hunter's club to the Louisville Slugger might be a long one, but it is also unbroken.
As weapons became increasingly sophisticated, more intensive training was required to master them. The atlatl--a cupped shaft used to propel darts-- was in use as early as 30,000 years ago. An ancestor of the lacrosse stick and jai alai basket, it could propel a spear with far greater speed and accuracy than an unimproved arm. Modern enthusiasts can fling atlatl darts over a thousand feet at speeds reaching 100 miles per hour. Our ancestors, whose survival was at stake, were probably even more proficient.
But only if they practiced. Put an atlatl into the hands of an unschooled Paleolithic hunter, and you had a hairy man with a stick. Give it to one who had been properly trained, and you had someone who could fell grazing mammals from hundreds of yards away. Practice became even further ritualized once the bow and arrow became part of the hunter's arsenal. The bow has been in use in primitive forms for tens of thousands of years; it had reached its current design in Northern Europe by 8000 BC. Five millennia later, the Mesopotamians were leaving behind fragmentary accounts of archery competitions. At around the same time, the Egyptians were providing detailed frescoes showing that they held not just archery contests but also wrestling matches. Athletic competition was becoming inextricably woven into our cultural fabric.
These contests not only helped tribes hunt. They also allowed them to choose leaders. From the time of the earliest hominids, physical prowess was the primary means of establishing tribal status. Leaders in nearly every culture were the strongest and most aggressive members of their clans. This saw little change as the Paleolithic era gave way to the Neolithic; as hunter-gatherers became herdsmen and farmers. A tribe still needed to be protected. In the Sanskrit epics the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, swordsmanship and archery are depicted as fundamental characteristics of a hero. Egyptian pharaohs confirmed their supremacy through their proficiency as bowmen. A reigning pharaoh was expected to surpass the record of his predecessor in shooting arrows from a moving chariot through a small brass target. While it is unlikely that each new king would have in fact been able to break the Egyptian national record, there does not seem to have been any scribe around who was willing to put these failures down on papyrus.
The first athletic contests were not simply a means of improving skill or establishing a right to rule. They also took on a profound magical importance. Early human competitions were thought to be incantatory. By strenuously acting out the hunt, with one group as Team Hunter and the other suiting up in animal skins as Team Prey, early humans saw themselves to be engaging in sacred rituals. Not only was it thought that such a game would lead to success in further hunts, but most belief systems also held that these mock hunts would bring fertility to a tribe's women, rain to thirsty crops, and cures to the sick. The athlete became a shaman. This ritual aspect of games is seen in cultures from Africa and Asia to Europe and North America. In all of them, it was important that this hunting game be no mere pantomime. Both sides had to strive to win. A powerful performance was needed to satisfy that most demanding of audiences--the gods.
And then there was war, which proved the hunt's equal in powering the rise of the athlete. Growing human populations and periods of scarcity led to bitter rivalry over dwindling food supplies. Hunters became hunted. The Talheim Death Pit in Germany establishes that tribes were engaging in organized battle at least 7,500 years ago; it is likely some form of combat was taking place much earlier. This led to an expansion of the role of athletic contests. Killing a human being was a more complicated proposition than taking down an animal. The boys and young men of a tribe would be encouraged to participate in games of war that would turn them into effective killers. After all, combatants possessing advanced martial skills usually prevailed, while those relying on simple aggression were consigned to the Darwinian flesh heap. These martial games became particularly important as the age of the hunter-gatherer gradually gave way to the era of the farmer, and a man's daily work no longer prepared him for battle. Something was needed to keep his killing skills sharp--war games.
The athlete became the warrior's double. As with those West Point lacrosse players, competitions served as dress rehearsals for war. The cultural historian Johan Huizinga maintains in his seminal 1938 study of the role of play in human evolution, Homo Ludens, that in the "archaic sphere of thought...play is battle and battle is play." There was no separation between athletic and military skill. Training was the same for both. The only difference came in the fading seconds of the game. The athlete pulled his punches; the warrior followed through. Combat, after all, was usually hand to hand. The man you had to kill was often as close as a blitzing linebacker. You taught yourself to be strong and fast and resilient--or you died.
It should come as no surprise, then, that the first fully fledged depiction of an athletic competition comes from one of the earliest accounts of war-- Homer's Iliad, written in the 8th century BC. In Book 23, during a lull in the fighting, Achilles requests that his comrades participate in games honoring their slain comrade, Patroclus. The tribute will include chariot racing, boxing, wrestling, a footrace, sword fighting, archery, and the discus and javelin throws. Precious metals, livestock, horses, and female slaves will be the prizes. Without a moment's hesitation, Greece's greatest soldiers become its most competitive athletes. But this is not rest and relaxation; these men are not simply blowing off steam. Their games are in many ways a continuation of battle by other means. From the very first, the soldier-athletes engage in acts of ruthless cunning and unreserved generosity. The stakes are nearly as high as they are during the war itself.
The chariot race that opens the competition sets the tone for everything that follows. Homer describes it with a breathless attention to drama and detail that would make a modern sportswriter proud. There is even some overbearing coaching, as King Nestor provides his son Antilochus with long- winded advice on how to race. After assuring the prince that "there's no need to issue you instructions," the king, in what would become a time- honored tradition of coaches everywhere, then spends the next 50 lines doing exactly that: reviewing course strategy, listing the strengths and weaknesses of his competition, and even telling Antilochus how he should position his body in the chariot. During the race, the prince proves himself to be his father's son when he rages at his underperforming horses like a football coach trailing by three touchdowns at halftime:
Why falling back, my brave ones?
I warn you both--so help me it's the truth--
no more grooming for you at Nestor's hands!
The old driver will slaughter you on the spot
with a sharp bronze blade if you slack off now
and we take a lesser prize. After them, faster--
Full gallop--
Despite these blunt commands, Antilochus finishes second, and then suffers the indignity of being accused of fouling other riders. He is stripped of his prize by Achilles, who rules over these games with the steely authority of an old-time baseball commissioner. Threats and appeals ensue, accompanied by the distinct sense that a brawl is about to break out among the competitors. Achilles must use all his powers of persuasion to calm the hot-blooded contestants.
The intensity of the competition remains high through the remainder of the games. Before the boxing match, which Homer assured the reader will be a "painful contest," the boasts of Epeius foreshadow the bombast of many modern fighters.
I'll crush you with body-blows,
I'll crack your ribs to splinters!
You keep your family mourners near to cart you off--
once my fists have worked you down to pulp!
As predicted, Epeius wins with a devastating punch, then graciously helps his bloodied opponent to his feet. Ulysses employs a more subtle form of psychological warfare during the footrace. Unable to pass Ajax, he calls upon the goddess Pallas Athena for help. In what is perhaps the first instance in Western literature of an athlete rigging a result, the goddess trips the leader, sending him face-first into a dung pile to give Ulysses the victory. A god intervenes yet again in the archery competition. After Teucer, the favorite, forgets to honor Apollo before taking his first shot, the jealous god of archers causes the mortal to miss the quivering dove that serves as the target.
The pitched intensity of the competition here is more than just macho posturing. As with their primitive ancestors, the Greeks are performing not just for each other, or even for any Trojans who might be watching from the ramparts. Their audience is the gods. These are, after all, funeral games. Athletic intensity is intended to impress the heavenly spectators waiting to usher Patroclus into the next world. It is only by competing as hard as possible that these Greek warriors can truly honor their fallen comrade and assure his place in eternity.
The reason behind this belief is a concept that stands at the heart of Greek culture--arete. It is a difficult word to define. Valor is perhaps the best translation. Honor, excellence, and bravery also give a sense of its meaning, as does Hemingway's notion of grace under pressure. Or, simply, guts. Arete was the most potent motivating force in Greek culture, more compelling than gold or sex or political power. The Greek male was judged by the sum of this quality he earned through his actions. And the primary way to get it was in competition.
For the Greek warrior, battle was not just about gaining territory or riches. It was about showing his comrades that he was brave and honorable. The warrior met his foe on the battlefield and he killed him. He then took possession of the enemy's armor and weapons. By doing this, he assumed his enemy's arete, thereby increasing his prestige among his comrades. Achilles was seen as the foremost of the Greeks because he killed Hector and the other Trojans he faced, often in circumstances where lesser men would have been vanquished. Enemy blood was the wellspring of his fame.
The battlefield was not the only place that arete could be won. In fact, Greek men saw much of their lives as a competition. Aeschylus and Sophocles gained fame in playwriting contests; Socrates' dialogues and Demosthenes' orations could be downright pugilistic. The main arena for competition beyond the battlefield were athletic games. The one aspect all these contests shared was that there was only a single winner. One man walked away with arete. There was nothing noble to be gained from a close second. There were no honorable mentions in Greek culture. This is why Achilles' athletes go at it with such intensity.