By Mark Vasto
Syndicated Columnist
As I sit here burning the retinas out of my eyes trying to see the total eclipse occur (if only that darn cloud would move out of the way), my mind shifts to thoughts of Evel Knievel.
Millennials do not know the man, and if any remember some of his cameos on assorted reality TV or talk shows, they saw a hobbling old man with a cane. Well, guess what, kids? That cane was filled with Wild Turkey 101. That’s Evel Knievel, a guy who used to fling himself on a motorcycle over stadiums for our amusement. You know … a real role model.
I’m thinking about this as I watch the folks who filled the Southern Illinois Saluki’s stadium, with every person rooting for the same thing — the complete blotting out of the Sun from our skies. It shows us our place in the universe.
Well, guess what? Evel was universally beloved, or at least looked upon with a high level of bemusement. The guy would, for little or no apparent reason, jump his motorcycle over long lines of cars and through hoops of fire. He was a true “daredevil” in every sense of the word. Sometimes he would complete the jump, and people would applaud. Most other times, he would crash in spectacular fashion and the crowd would go completely berserk. He is the guy that invented the term “broke every bone in his body.”
But then came Snake Canyon and the “Rocket Cycle.” See, he was going to jump a canyon, but what happened was that he flew halfway across said canyon — clearly not going to make it — and as luck would have it, his bike “malfunctioned” and shot out his parachutes, and the world watched as Evel floated around the canyon and into obscurity. It was over for him. To this day he doesn’t exist in your spell check, which just shows you how fickle fame can be.
Back in Atlantic City, I find the city under siege in the form of an “annual air show.” Wave after wave of fighter planes fly sorties over the boardwalk, and PTSD-inducing jets are buzzing the famed resort’s tall buildings. Throngs of people are looking up in awe, some in fear. I scan the crowd. Some look like they’re having an adrenaline rush because they keep saying how dangerous every maneuver was, as if they wanted to see an air disaster. (Others contend it was Donald Trump’s show of force to this former rebel enclave, perhaps a message to the Seminoles who were dismantling the Trump Taj Mahal.)
Some fans attend baseball games hoping to see nobody do anything, because that’s “perfect.” And then there are those who go to see hockey players fight, race-car drivers crash, quarterbacks get their legs cracked in half, and motorcyclists plunge into deep ravines filled with sharks. As for me, I prefer the sun to not be blocked by the moon, that our Air Force stays strong, motorcyclists to obey the rules of the road, but more than anything, hope to see most of next year’s battles on the field of play only.
Mark Vasto is a veteran sportswriter who lives in New Jersey.(c) 2017 King Features Synd., Inc.