Athletes, others retiring with 'no regrets' seems implausible

Before he retired on Saturday, David Beckham said what everyone says at the end of anything -- a job, a career, a life -- and that is: "I have not one regret
Athletes, others retiring with 'no regrets' seems implausible
Athletes, others retiring with 'no regrets' seems implausible /

David Beckham gave a teary farewell in his last match with Paris Saint-Germain last week.
David Beckham gave a teary farewell in his last match with Paris Saint-Germain last week :: Thibault Camu/AP

Before he retired on Saturday, David Beckham said what everyone says at the end of anything -- a job, a career, a life -- and that is: "I have not one regret at all." His former manager at Manchester United, Alex Ferguson, also retired over the weekend. Fergie had, to no one's surprise, "no regrets" after 26 years on the job.

It's regrettable, and implausible, that so few people ever confess to having any regrets. And those who do, like Frank Sinatra, have "too few to mention." Perhaps this blithe self-confidence is what makes them exceptional athletes and artists in the first place. I wouldn't know.

Over a long career in sports, I've nurtured a growing list of regrets, far too many to mention. That line at the bottom of most invitations -- Regrets Only -- will be the title of my memoir.

Consider that historic moment when Muhammad Ali, hand shaking from Parkinson's and adrenaline, brought the world's TV viewers to tears by lighting the torch to open the 1996 Olympics. I spurned a seat in the stadium that night to watch from my Atlanta hotel room because the bus ride would be kind of long and the security lines a bit ... inconvenient. Regret, in this case, proved instantaneous. It set in the moment Ali made his surprise appearance on my TV and has only grown in the years since.

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But there are so many more regrets, including the meal of hot chocolate and nachos I ate during the ski jumping competition at the 2002 Winter Olympics in Park City, Utah. Same goes for the ham-and-cheese croissant I wolfed down just before scuba diving off the Big Island in Hawaii, an experience so traumatic that I have not been scuba diving, visited the Aloha State or eaten a ham-and-cheese croissant in nearly two decades.

I regret picking the Toronto Blue Jays to win the 2013 World Series. I regret not buying Apple stock at $7 a share in 2002. I regret having Indiana go all the way in my brackets.

Every six months, while wearing a dressing gown in the examination room of my dermatologist, I regret not marinating in 100 SPF sun block all the years I covered spring training. Sitting on aluminum bleachers, white face turned to the sun, was in hindsight not smart. In hindsight, I should have been wearing a sombrero.

More than what I didn't wear, I regret almost everything that I did wear from 1989 to 2001, especially -- but by no means limited to -- the stone-washed jorts.

I regret laughing at the announcement in the Cincinnati Reds press box that some schmuck had left his house keys in the men's room and he could claim them in the front row. (Unable to key into my apartment very late that night in New York, I slept fitfully on an office couch, and woke to the scrick-screek of the Time & Life Building's bi-millennial window-washing.)

A month before Ali lit the Olympic flame in that summer of 1996, during an epic rain delay at Wimbledon, my colleague Ian Thomsen announced that he was abandoning the press box for an Elvis Costello show at London's Shepherd's Bush Empire. Did I want to join him?

Regrettably, I said, "No. What if play resumes?" Hours later, while Ian was listening to "Oliver's Army," I was listening to the Centre Court public address announce that the rain was not going to relent and the matches would not return until the following day.

And on and on and on it goes. When New York Times op-ed columnist and Middle East authority Tom Friedman said to me, "I enjoy your golf writing," I have always regretted that I did not instantly reply: "I enjoy your Gulf writing."

I regret that I spent so much time worrying before embarking on trips into the unknown -- Greenland, Antarctica, the Arctic Circle -- when hindsight showed there was no reason whatsoever for concern.

I regret for many years being too nervous, scared, stressed out, ambitious, dumb or deadline-driven to fully appreciate that a kid who couldn't hit, field, run or throw was sitting in the dugout at Yankee Stadium anyway.

I regret anything I've ever written that hurt somebody just because I thought it was important or funny or -- more likely -- because I didn't consider the possibility that the subject in question was an actual human being with the ability to read.

Woody Allen said his only regret in life is that he's not someone else.

I regret that I didn't think of that line first.

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Steve Rushin
STEVE RUSHIN

Special Contributor, Sports Illustrated Steve Rushin was born in Elmhurst, Ill. on September 22, 1966 and raised in Bloomington, Minn. After graduating from Bloomington Kennedy High School in 1984 and Marquette University in 1988, Rushin joined the staff of Sports Illustrated. He is a Special Contributor to the magazine, for which he writes columns and features. In 25 years at SI, he has filed stories from Greenland, India, Indonesia, Antarctica, the Arctic Circle and other farflung locales, as well as the usual locales to which sportswriters are routinely posted. His first novel, The Pint Man, was published by Doubleday in 2010. The Los Angeles Times called the book "Engaging, clever and often wipe-your-eyes funny." His next book, a work of nonfiction, The 34-Ton Bat, will be published by Little, Brown in 2013. Rushin gave the commencement address at Marquette in 2007 and was awarded an honorary Doctor of Letters for "his unique gift of documenting the human condition through his writing." In 2006 he was named the National Sportswriter of the Year by the National Sportswriters and Sportscasters Association. A collection of his sports and travel writing—The Caddie Was a Reindeer—was published by Grove Atlantic in 2005 and was a semifinalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. The Denver Post suggested, "If you don't end up dropping The Caddie Was a Reindeerduring fits of uncontrollable merriment, it is likely you need immediate medical attention." A four-time finalist for the National Magazine Award, Rushin has had his work anthologized in The Best American Sports Writing, The Best American Travel Writing and The Best American Magazine Writing collections. His essays have appeared in Time magazine andThe New York Times. He also writes a weekly column for SI.com. His first book, Road Swing, published in 1998, was named one of the "Best Books of the Year" by Publishers Weekly and one of the "Top 100 Sports Books of All Time" by SI. He and his wife, Rebecca Lobo, have four children and live in Connecticut.