Do You Believe In Magic?: An Old Warrior In Orlando

Where is the horse gone? Where the rider?
Where the giver of treasure?
Where are the seats at the feast?
Where are the revels in the hall?
Alas for the bright cup!
Alas for the mailed warrior!
Alas for the splendour of the prince!
How that time has passed away,
dark under the cover of night,
as if it had never been!
-The Wanderer
Legends and myths, the tales and songs of antiquity, stir something in us. Whether it is an embedded, genetically encoded continuation of ancestral memory or simply humanity's ongoing quest for truth and understanding, a journey that sees repetition after repetition, the emergence of old ideas into new forms, is inconsequential. It is merely enough to know that they do strike the chord, do resonate deeply within some indescribable region of ourselves.
Even more recent sagas, whether romantic or sporting, as in the imagined books titled The Beautiful Girl and the History Class and Restoring the Glory: A Modern-Day New York Knicks Dynasty, continue to speak to some of our most primal desires, such as love and victory, two of the sweetest accomplishments available to our kind.
And yet, the heady delights of such attainments can not last. The slapped congratulations, the celebratory dances, the feeling of Yes, Yes, Yes! must invariably fade, erased by time and the accumulation of other cares, other worries. Eventually, that which imprinted itself so strongly in our memory will disappear, and all we will be left with is what preserved records survive. And even then, even then it is all too likely that, like The Wander, we shall wander the deserted, decayed halls, singing our mournful ubi sunts, with nary an answer.
But let us move away from such weighty, maudlin concerns, and travel to a moderately sized room in the desert city of Las Vegas. Stacks of boxes sit here, along with three bright turquoise suitcases, three Eastpak backpacks (also bright turquoise, red, and silver/white respectively), and a very familiar figure sitting at a computer screen. Windows are open to what appears to be the beginning of lecture notes and a syllabus for a course in issues in college sports. Another set of tabs call up the admissions pages for various graduate sports management programs. Yet another program displays what appears to be a novel in progress.
So much to be done and so little time.
And then the cellphone sitting next to the laptop rings. The number's glanced at with a frown of nonrecognition.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Jestor?"
"Yeah?"
"This is Richard DeVos. We not only need your help with the D12 situation, we need you. Come join us."
"...On my way."
*****
The thesis, the course, the gazillion more graduate school apps, those could all be dealt with later. For now, it was time to climb back in the saddle and ride again, like that old Tiger, Huang Zhong.
Fittingly enough, my destination was the Magic Kingdom.
Say hello again to Jestorball, NBA. Only this time, I hope I last more than a year at my first stop.
Where the giver of treasure?
Where are the seats at the feast?
Where are the revels in the hall?
Alas for the bright cup!
Alas for the mailed warrior!
Alas for the splendour of the prince!
How that time has passed away,
dark under the cover of night,
as if it had never been!
-The Wanderer
Legends and myths, the tales and songs of antiquity, stir something in us. Whether it is an embedded, genetically encoded continuation of ancestral memory or simply humanity's ongoing quest for truth and understanding, a journey that sees repetition after repetition, the emergence of old ideas into new forms, is inconsequential. It is merely enough to know that they do strike the chord, do resonate deeply within some indescribable region of ourselves.
Even more recent sagas, whether romantic or sporting, as in the imagined books titled The Beautiful Girl and the History Class and Restoring the Glory: A Modern-Day New York Knicks Dynasty, continue to speak to some of our most primal desires, such as love and victory, two of the sweetest accomplishments available to our kind.
And yet, the heady delights of such attainments can not last. The slapped congratulations, the celebratory dances, the feeling of Yes, Yes, Yes! must invariably fade, erased by time and the accumulation of other cares, other worries. Eventually, that which imprinted itself so strongly in our memory will disappear, and all we will be left with is what preserved records survive. And even then, even then it is all too likely that, like The Wander, we shall wander the deserted, decayed halls, singing our mournful ubi sunts, with nary an answer.
But let us move away from such weighty, maudlin concerns, and travel to a moderately sized room in the desert city of Las Vegas. Stacks of boxes sit here, along with three bright turquoise suitcases, three Eastpak backpacks (also bright turquoise, red, and silver/white respectively), and a very familiar figure sitting at a computer screen. Windows are open to what appears to be the beginning of lecture notes and a syllabus for a course in issues in college sports. Another set of tabs call up the admissions pages for various graduate sports management programs. Yet another program displays what appears to be a novel in progress.
So much to be done and so little time.
And then the cellphone sitting next to the laptop rings. The number's glanced at with a frown of nonrecognition.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Jestor?"
"Yeah?"
"This is Richard DeVos. We not only need your help with the D12 situation, we need you. Come join us."
"...On my way."
*****
The thesis, the course, the gazillion more graduate school apps, those could all be dealt with later. For now, it was time to climb back in the saddle and ride again, like that old Tiger, Huang Zhong.
Fittingly enough, my destination was the Magic Kingdom.
Say hello again to Jestorball, NBA. Only this time, I hope I last more than a year at my first stop.