Owing to a new daily schedule at our son Isaac's school, we now drop him off either at the rooftop playground or at the gym, temperature and precipitation-dependent. Today, it was the gym, and when we got there we noticed this odd collage of images on the bulletin board outside the romper room. We're still having a hard time figuring out the message and the contents. Martin Brodeur, Eli Manning: local champions. Iker Casillas, Shawn Johnson: international stars. David Wright, matinee idol. But then, there's a crossover. Michael Phelps, Spitz-slayer and newly revealed bong-hitter. Jason Kidd, pugilist. Barry Bonds, twice. And with no "hey, four year olds, anabolic steroids may do weird things to your little peenie!" warning message.
We struggled, standing in front of this photographic ode to the wasted, the clean, the legendary, the defiled, the abusive, and the adored, to discover any hidden meaning. In the end we just wondered: is this what sports is all about?