We seemed fascinated with Olympic dreams realized or deflated by hundredths of a second. Ski slalom commentator Picabo Street reminds us of the chasm between gold and silver: years ago she won by a hundredth of a second over some little known skier, watching somewhere.
     For a few seconds I imagined myself wearing a U.S. Olympic jacket. As a lifeguard the summer after breaking my college’s swim records, I swaggered around with a whistle draped around my neck. Across town a private coach had developed Olympic swimmers. Why not  convince him to develop me? I could make the team. At that instant, I believed in headlines announcing my success like ones celebrating Wenatchee Valley’s skier, Torin Koos.
      My commitment lasted a few steps until reality washed away the dream. I wouldn’t burden my recently widowed mother, quit college, and swim for hours in chlorinated water. I have the thrill of the  belief without the sacrifices that propelled Koos onto the team, and avoided a crushing blow like Koos felt when he failed to qualify for a quarterfinal heat. He made the team, I have my dream.
      Unfortunately I’ve been seconds from good decisions but chosen failures. My sister, brother and I sold fractional Montana mineral rights my grandfather left us, but I personally couldn’t confirm them by searching county records and unclaimed royalties. A North Dakota buyer called me representing parties who paid for undeveloped mineral rights. We were suspicious because developers were discovering oil. For a few seconds I considered paying an attorney to look into it, but dismissed the idea as costing more than the offer. We sold our rights worth a nice vacation.

Weeks later a developer’s representative called to say we had unreported royalties, enough to pay for a time share in Puerto Vallarta. I was furious at myself and our slick buyer. We filed the first lawsuit to expose him, ultimately splitting the royalties. Every month an ETF voucher confirms a payment that almost covers my health club membership and needles me because a North Dakota bank deposits the other half I lost by seconds.

A Nerf basketball made by a willing supplier rested in my hands two years before it hit the market. I drowned an entrepreneurial temptation to quit my first job after graduate school because but my wife and baby girl were already under funded. Every time I throw a Nerf football I have to admit the entrepreneurs developed it well.

My most important success missed a disaster by fractions of a second. Our squirming toddler rode on my shoulders as we headed down three steps in a campground bathroom. I lost hold when I reached up to put him down and he plunged head first toward the bottom of the concrete steps. His ankle flashed past my eyes. My right hand shot down in unflinching instinct to grab that ankle and pull him up. I’ve never allowed myself to envision what would have happened. Countless times I’ve fumbled a pencil, grabbed for it, had it briefly in hand, and dropped it.