While most of you were getting into the AYF Olympics spirit over Labor Day Weekend, I was home suffering from a very rare disorder.
After a very careful self-diagnosis, I discovered its origin—Post Olympics Syndrome.
How do you get it?
By attending this extravaganza over the past six decades and being suddenly away from it. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, just try being there in spirit only. It doesn’t quite work that way.
Many of you may know me as the Weekly’s correspondent behind the Olympics. The decades stretched from the late 60s to the present. Over that time, the special editions helped bring a personal touch to the games with their stories and photographs.
Last year I decided to pack it in and announcement my retirement, if you call it that. And so, I passed my very own Olympics torch to others equally capable, with Mark Gavoor volunteering to serve as the “go-to” man. It was meant to be a wonderful transition.
My Labor Day instead was spent by a quite lake in southern New Hampshire that serves as my summer retreat, entertaining four young grandchildren who were spending the weekend.
The family time was spent enjoyably with kayaks, fishing poles, movies, and barbeques. Others joined the fare and the “quiet” soon turned into the raucous of an early-morning hook-up at the Olympic hotel.
For the books, over these 42 years, I did miss 3 Olympics—once when a newborn intervened; another time when it was hosted in California; and a third time when a favorite niece decided to get married.
I was all set to boycott the wedding, but it would have created too much family dissention, so I quickly dismissed the thought and attended, much to my discord. Let me tell you, my body may have been at that wedding but the spirit was with the Olympics.
Guys like Rich Chebookjian and Kenny Sarajian opted to supply the coverage that year and did a commendable job. But they never let me forget it.
Years later, it grew into a Trivia question among the Olympic jet set. “Can you guess the year that one of the most prolific scorers of all time actually collaborated on putting out an Olympics issue?”
So there I was this Labor Day in the “comfort” (and “discomfort”) of my summer retreat with grandchildren running amok.
It is Friday night and I’m spending a restless night in bed with insomnia. At midnight, I leave my bedroom bug-eyed and wary. I adjourn to the porch and stare at the ceiling still awake. It would be just about the time I was spending with friends from around the country at Alumni Night.
Who won the tennis? Any swimming records set? Wonder how golf turned out.
I had my very own poolside banter. Grandchildren nudged me on the shoulder with a book in hand. “Will you read me a story, Papa?”
Gladly. It happened to be the life story of Olympic champion Michael Phelps, which did nothing to deter my attention elsewhere. I had often labeled Raffi Karapetian the “Michael Phelps” of the AYF swimming world.
Shouldn’t I be gathering up some tidbits for the back page? Usually, I’m seen with a notebook protruding out my back pocket and a camera dangling around my neck. I was relatively easy to spot as the ubiquitous reporter of the Armenian Weekly.
On Saturday, while meandering around a lake with the little ones, the mind switched to softball. All the years I suggested this become a medal sport always went unheeded. Just when I envisioned a homer being swatted, a bass took my granddaughter’s line and broke water. The timing could not have been any better.
A telephone call from Gavoor brought me back to reality. He telephoned to give me an update from the stadium. “Philly and Providence are in a dogfight,” he revealed. “A lot of people are wondering where you are. Some runner asked where the old guy was taking pictures.”
Years from now, they may not recall your name, but the “old guy” certainly made an impression.
By dinnertime, I sat down to my meal wondering about the final outcome and where the group from Merrimack Valley would be dining. We always made it a Sunday night tradition. The time I would have spent chasing down interviews at the dance was spent watching Bugs Bunny cartoons and keeping order between two hyperactive siblings.
It was a good run, filled with gratitude and fulfillment. So when does a man with a “lifetime” job retire like I did a year ago? When you’ve completed your course and not overstepped your bounds.
Thanks for the memories. I’ll always revive them.
Tom Vartabedian
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Tom,
Awesome job as always.
I wish it was your material I had to read when I was in school many years ago. It would have been something to look forward to doing vs. something I dreaded. You are a master in your calling to be a writer. Your words bring the stories you write to life and vividly at that. It’s an amazing talent. Glad to call you my friend.
Steve