Coming October 2022: "The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson"

Ashes, ashes

Just watched the dazzling duo of Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh win the beach volleyball gold medal. It was tremendous drama, and the two clearly have to be considered the greatest we’ve ever seen in their sport.

That said, I was a little baffled by May’s post-match action, when she sprinkled her mother’s ashes on the volleyball sand. This is nothing against May (her husband Matt, Florida’s catcher, is a ballplayer I’ve had very good relations with over the years), but, well, ew. What if other people plan on playing in the sand? Do you really wanna be the person who dives for the ball, lands headfirst in the dirt and comes up with a mouthful of someone’s remains?

I know people are very attached to a loved one’s ashes, and I personally would prefer to be cremated, too. But after I die, I ask my wife not to spread my ashes across, say, the sports section of the local Borders or the University of Delaware’s indoor track and field facility (where, in 1990-91, I established myself as one of the worst distance runners in Division I history).

No, I prefer the ashes be fed to our dog, Norma. That way, whenever my wife or children are forced to take her out for a post-midnight poop, each pickup will bring them closer to me.