the contest

The Gay Games competitive knitting contest has always been well under the radar at this quadrennial event, and so it was at Cologne in 2010. Since our governing body originated in France, we therefore belong to Gay Federeration Universelle de Knitting Competitive (fondly refered to as GAY FUKC), an organization slightly sinister, slowly evolving, rather patriarchal and eminently totatlitarian--not unlike the International Skating Union--that prefers to keep a low profile, cotton up to garment industry big wigs, and severely punish anyone bold enough to mention change. Also our highly trained, fervently dedicated, and relentlessly driven athletes are subject to so much envy from lesser sporting comrades that we must lay low for our own safety.



From San Francisco One--where they were already ancient--to Chicago, the Welsh twins Lewis and Benjamin Jones have tied for the gold, leaving a measly bronze as scraps for the rest of us to fight over. Who can forget in Amsterdam when Lewis failed to notice a ladder from a broken stitch developing until he was well into the piece. He quickly incorporated the irregularity into the pattern and so invented the cobweb designs that inundated the fashion world for most of the next decade. Benjamin has been known to forget to pack his stunning hand spun and dyed yarns (from wool shorn from his own flock) and then unravel hotel sheets and blankets whose threads become voluptuous apparel through his magic fingers.



So the news that Lewis had a stroke and was being cared for back in Radnoshire by Benjamin and that neither would be around to defend their seven joint golds was met with much less regret than was appropriate. I was also rather pleased to hear that Russian judge Sergei ("Sir Gay") Purlovich had resigned in a huff when his crocheted border fantasies that he strong-armed into the Sydney Games were finally banned this year. And that he took two of the best Slavic knitters back with him was welcome news. Since one of them was currently dating a really talented Estonian fellow who also turned tail, I knew that a large roadblock to the medal stand for yours truly had already been eliminated.



The first phase, the day-long compulsories where everyone has to knit the same six samples, started on Sunday. It was soon evident that many of the participants had foolishly thought they could brave the opening ceremonies and the night-long party and still compete at a high level. One Spanish kid fell asleep before casting on the required stiches on the first project. Two British lads did the same a little bit later. Dutch, Italian, and French wannabes did not go the distance either.



Seam construction, cables, Fair Isle, intarsia, lace, and lace borders were the required elements of the compulsories--nothing unexpected. But the tyranny of the judging soon whittled down our group, if not the relentless click click click of hundreds of kneedles at work. At the end of the day, five others and I were leading with only tenths of a point separating us. Because of the vagaries of the scoring, the rest had little or no hope of overcoming their poor initial showing.



The week-long final event (our "long program") involved doing a single big project. As a way of rewarding those who had not already designed and executed their submission, a contestent could get a 25% bonus by using the yarns provided by the Federation instead of his own. (So good were the Jones brothers that they still easily won without the bonus.) And bringing in other materials has a way of invoking the fury of the judges, an excentric mix of fashionistas and fabric fascists.



I was sure Pietro Tuttipollice would fizzle out in the end. This fop, a truly inspired designer from Milan, sneered at any yarn other than cashmere and had ruined his chances at other games by ignoring the proffered lesser fibers. I knew--and so did he undoubtedly--the Scandinavian crew would not permit anything but wool in the finals. And the Canadian judge loathed anything but oversized sweaters.



The Frenchman Giles Tresmorveux was equally intransigent. He would always churn out yards and yards of diaphanous lace in the muddiest earth tones--I can only imagine the horror of his home decoration.



Norwegian Lars Lykkeliggutt was a more formidable foe. He could knit circles around anyone but the Jones twins. His Achilles heel, though, was that he was still besotted with his long-term partner Olaf and usually crafted a garment for his beloved. While Lars was an economic 5'9" and 145 pounds, Olaf was as large as an ocean liner. The delicacy of the design and execution got lost in the acres of knitted fabric needed to cover his boyfriend's ample frame.



And the remaining front runners (not to be confused with my teamates from New York)? What was this? Females! Women! The Gentle Sex! My lord, lesbians in our knitting contest were like linebackers in a ballet. I was already salivating and contemplating which position I would easily garner on the podium and practicing my aloof-but-engaging mien on the stand.



Allison Treehugger from Modesto, CA, raised seven children (for whom she knitted from cradle to university and beyond) before she left her busband for a marijuana farmer/animal rights activist old-line dyke. She had acquitted herself herself very well in the compulsories but, I figured, would be ignorant of the minute rules of the scoring and the quirks of the judges that were necessary to take into account to gain ultimate victory. That proved to be true. When she arrived at the yarn distribution meeting of the finals with size 16 needles and all the equipment necessary for felting, she was practically laughed out of Germany (cattily behind her back, of course).



No one gave much notice to Crystal Pistolpacker from Arizona at the beginning of the day before at the preliminaries. Her stubby fingers and hangdog look did not bode well for her chances. So why was she now in a slim lead and the one to beat? And after the ice was broken, she proved to be a witty, gentle, affable contestant. Hadn't she heard of Stitch and Bitch?



Because of the 25% bonus alluded to above, picking your yarn can determine your chances in the finals from the get-go. Everyone was understandably nervous when the judges revealed the three lots--worsted weight merino all. (So long, Pietro and Giles.) Lars was sure to chose the cream, red, yellow, and black medley of yarns to craft yet another Lillehamer circus tent for his darling Olaf--as if he needed the extra insulation in the first place. What was he gonna do? Ski to the Arctic?



Crystal made a beeline for the array of the whole 72 of the color wheel--it was obvious she would do a Fair Isle variant. I was already beginning to sweat--I had seen her swatches the day before and knew she had the technique down pat. Two Americans using the same yarns would probably split the judges and leave us both on the lower level of the podium, if not off it altogether. And I didn't see where Lars' choice would get me.



That left me with the ivory and midnight black--I saw its immediate possibilities. I grabbed my lot, rushed out to get to work, but forgot to butter up the judges (and get some insight into what they were looking for). With charts, pencils and a soon well-used eraser, I spent the better part of the day and evening trying to come up with an Op Art opus to wow the crowd. But my results yeilded only frustration and a splitting headache. On an evening stroll up to and into the Ludwig Musuem and the Roy Lichtenstein exhibit, I realized I should have chosen the yarns Lars did. Those could easily be turned into a pop art inspired masterpiece. Luckily Lars would be holed up all week churning out Olaf's covering and would not be out and about at the Ludwig and be similarly inspired.



Stripes would not do it for me and I couldn't think of much else. The next morning, still frustrated, I went to the cathedral to sketch the Gothic tracery in an effort to transpose their delicate pattern into a coherent schema. That just wasn't working either though. Taking a break and almost at the point of praying for inspiration, I entered the edifice and meandered around. Hm, Christ's loincloth is there in a gold casket. Dare I knit a replica, decorated with my own sweat and blood? Tempting and quick--then I would not have to completely miss out on my friends' less sporty competitions in track and field and swimming. My mind quickly jumped to thoughts of the Black Party and visions of sweaty young flesh on the dance floor and writhing bodies in the back room--another thing I would miss while knitting my fingers to the bone in a lonely hotel room. Dejected and despondent, I glanced at then was transfixed by the Gerhard Richter stained glass window, a stunning abstract kaleidoscope of colored glass--all the colors Crystal had chosen and I had spurned. I fervently hoped she was church-shy and staying away from the cathedral.



I had already fritted away the better part of two days with nothing to show for it. Dave was screaming at me to stop littering the room with crumpled graphs and to get out and enjoy the city. Easy for him to say, he already had his third of five medals. The thought of more mealy take-out wursts and the claustrophobic living space was depressing me and keeping me from coming up with even a hint of an idea. I was cursing the contest, the judges, my competitors, and especially the Byzantine rules when a light went off above my head. Byzantine! That's it. I would knit a poem.



I don't know why I didn't think of it before as I had been planning such a project for quite a while. My sweater--front and back--would be the first two stanzas of William Butler Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium":



That is no country for old men. The young

in one another's arms, birds in the trees

- Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect
____________


An aged man is but a paltry thing

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

to the holy city of Byzantium.



It was then pretty simple to draft the pattern and start. Knitting cuff to cuff--a very easy but impressive technique--would allow me to display the poem in full when I garnered first prize, took my place in the center of the podium, and raised my arms horizontally (before bringing them to the classic victory pose). I even had time to get to the track, root for my fellow Front Runners, and ogle the range of participants, a happy change from the cloistered knitting world.



Saturday's contest end came quickly, but I still had a good sleep the night before, my finished sweater gently folded near the bed. Many of the others who showed up were haggard; more did not bother to attend. My predictions and hopes had come true. Lars did not go to the Ludwig, and Crystal missed the Richter window. Giles and Pietro were pouting in the corner with their respective contingents and fuming at losing the bonus. Unashamedly Allison set out her hat and purse of felted wool which the judges--noses in the air--walked right past. I had made it to the podium at last.



Though against the rules, Olaf was modeling the ample product of Lars' week long industry. While of truly remarable proportions, it was less so in design--it looked like Lars would take home the bronze.



Crystal's work was impeccable and startling beautiful. She was canny to have created a muted rainbow of deft Fair Isle bands and saw teeth. Though Richter might have been what they wanted, the judges surely could not ignore the Judy Garland fans (pretty much everyone, by the way) who were rooting for this upstart.



I was rehearsing my "it's not the color of the medal; it's the privilege of competing..." speech for the media when the Irish judge came to my work and screeched, "Oh my God, I love Yeats. This is perfect." Then the German judge murmured, "I am so fooking tired of rainbows all week." The Portuguese judge (male of course and very fey), picked up and fingered a sleeve of Crystal's exquisite sweater, glanced at her unabashedly feminine figure, and flung the sleeve away like a particularly nasty fly.



So I got my gold medal. The thrill of victory, though, was tempered by the knowledge that it came by dint of nationalism, petulance, and misogyny. In fact the crowd's fury at Crystal's slight finally forced GAY FUKC to reconsider its rules and regulations. It seems there will be more transparency and variety at Cleveland. Hm, maybe I can knit the lyrics for "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" on another sweater in memory of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.