Saved By The Bell: The Beauty of Bubka

At some point during this packed sports February, between the passing of Dale Earnhardt and the XFL's fifteen minutes of fame, between the Mutombo trade and the return of pitchers and catchers, Sergei Bubka quietly retired.

I only found out a couple of weeks after the fact while browsing an obscure area of ESPN.com. After I read the Associated Press brief on his exit, I sat back and thought for a bit. Ultimately, I came to the admittedly odd conclusion that no single athlete is as responsible for my love of sport today as Sergei Bubka, the world's greatest pole vaulter.

I have my father to thank for this. Dad used to take me to see the Millrose Games--generally considered one of the world's premiere indoor track meets--at Madison Square Garden. We'd show up after taking the 2 train into Manhattan--always late, never caring. We'd watch the sprinters and distance runners take their marks, and recognize a few names from TV.

And, at seemingly random points in the program, we'd witness moments of Bubka.

I can't remember ever seeing another vaulter. There's a good chance that by the time Dad and I showed up every year, the Ukranian had already blown the field away. By the time the competition really got interesting, Bubka's opponents were few in number.

There was the bar. There were the twenty feet that separated him from it. There was history.

And there was Bubka himself.

I lack technical knowledge with which to describe Bubka's forays into the Garden air. What I can say is that each and every jump was a perfect example of muscular coordination, and that each revealed unrivaled intensity and focus. I can also say that Bubka's jumps forever changed the way I looked at athletics.

Before that, sports had always been about seeing a winner emerge, a loser limp off and for rooting interests to develop accordingly. Now, with results not an issue, there was still something appealing about watching Bubka go. He competed against himself, and was quite possibly more determined than he would be against an actual opponent.

I picked up on the beauty of watching an athlete push his own limits.

Another figure of Garden lore, the more widely-known Willis Reed, gave the country one of the greatest sports moments in its history when he limped onto the Garden court in Game 7 of the 1970 NBA Finals. Having torn a muscle in his right leg in Game 5, the captain and MVP defied expectations and human physiology to inspire his teammates to an incredible victory.

What is the importance of Reed's triumph here? Simply that the most enduring aspect of that magical May evening wasn't the two shots Willis hit in the opening minutes or the champagne bath he received at the end of the game.

What sent chills down the spines of 20,000 fans in that arena was when Reed tested out his injured leg prior to tipoff. His warm-up routine that night is the only one I can remember that received actual play-by-play, as well as the rapt attention of the entire opposing team.

The situation was very intense, with the NBA Championship on the line. Still, I think that Reed's brief practice session would have been exhilarating even if one removed the Lakers, the fans and the tension of a playoff situation. There was a drama inherent to Willis' testing the limits of his body and being utterly uncertain of what the results would be.

I was able to appreciate this part of the drama as I watched the game on the Classic Sports Network almost three decades later. I owe that appreciation, in part, to Sergei Bubka.

Quality moments of limit-testing are visible in many sports. Anyone who claims that baseball is boring lacks an understanding of this side of athletics. When Andruw Jones dives to make a spectacular grab in center field, the drama of the individual catch transcends the immediate circumstances of the play. Even the most devout Met fan has to express approval after such a catch because--if only for a second--the score that matters isn't Mets 3, Braves 2. It's Man 1, Limitations 0. The athlete has surprised himself and enchanted us all.

The most appealing part of this aspect of sport is that its simplicity makes it accessible to all of us. It's what feels so good about trying to tack another 20 pounds to the weight machine or shooting free throws at the MAC. It's something I myself felt when I returned to biking late last summer after tearing knee ligaments in May. The beauty of surprising yourself is there for the taking. Go try.

Or, go to a place where you can watch others. For me, the best place will always be the Garden, regardless of the sport. It's a good place for me to look up and see Reed's No. 19 hanging from the Garden rafters and envision Sergei Bubka soaring through the air seemingly just inches below it, close enough to touch the banner if he really wanted to.