Sport Narratives

Jim Denison
University of Waikato

Recently there has been a call for alternative styles of representation within the social
sciences. This includes using fiction, poetry, and drama to convey people’s lived experi-
ences. Whereas many social scientists continue to theorize about experimenting with

writing and research and to argue the benefits, few have provided examples of how this
might look. With this article, the author attempts to fill that void by presenting three
short stories that reflect his understanding of the sports retirement experiences of 12 New
Zealand athletes. The men and women interviewed had all competed in either an Olympic
Games or a world championship in their sports, and the transition out of sports required
a serious adjustment for all of them. The three stories in this article explore the various

stages of their adjustment.

One central question defines this project: How is retirement from highly
competitive sports lived into existence and experienced?’ Although brief, this
question indicates a great deal. First, it identifies the problem under investi-3
gation, sports retirementand the group studied, highly competitive athletes.
Second, it reflects, as all research questions do, something about the re-
searcher.4Therefore, with this project I have attempted to work outward from
my own biography to study the world of experience that surrounds athletes’
retirement from sports.

WRITING LIVES

Although bidding farewell to the rigors of training and the extreme

restrictions that every elite athlete must abide by is certainly a cause for
celebration 5 for many athletes sports retirement is a death of sorts.6 As my
subjects expressed to me, the loss of participation, camaraderie, competition,
excitement, and identity associated with the athletic role requires a serious
adjustment. In this article I plan to demonstrate how this loss is experienced.
Author’s Note: Address all correspondence to Jim Denison, Department of Leisure
Studies, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand; telephone: 64-07-8384500;
fax: 64-07-8384555; e-mail: jdenison@waikato.ac.nz.

Qualitahve Inquiry, Volume 2 Number 3,1996 351-362

© 1996 Sage Publicahons, Inc
351
352

To accomplish this, I decided, upon completing my interviews and sifting

through my transcripts and field notes, to write three short stories about
sports retirement. I chose to represent my subjects’ experiences through
stories because I did not want to write about sports retirement in a way that
centered on theory, where my subjects’ voices would be buried beneath layers
of analysis. Therefore, I decided to &dquo;transgress the boundaries of social science
writing genres&dquo; (Richardson, 1994, p. 520) and experiment with fiction. With
fiction I felt that I could write about sports retirement in a more evocative way,
employing such devices as flashback, alternative points of view, and dialogue
to open up the dimension of mystery that surrounds athletes’ retirement
experiences. Furthermore, with fiction I could avoid closure, enabling the
reader to see that interpretation is never finished. Moreover, I believe that
writing stories addresses many of the current criticisms surrounding the
production of traditional realist texts.7 To begin, stories show instead of tell;
they are less author-centered; they allow the reader to interpret and make
meaning, thus recognizing that the text has no universal or general claim to
authority; and, most important, they effectively communicate what has been
learned 8 Three short stories concerning sports retirement follow.9

SPIRIT

After the 14 finalists for the men’s national 5,000 meters championship
were spread along the curved white line on the back straight of the Christ-
church Athletics Stadium, the starter began to recite his instructions.
&dquo;Gentlemen,&dquo; the old official said in a gruff voice, &dquo;take two steps back
from the line.&dquo;
In almost perfect unison, all 14 runners stepped back, among them Steve
McDermott. This was Steve’s fifth national championship final and he knew
the rest of the starter’s instructions, the way a criminal knows his rights, so
his mind wandered. He remembered how optimistic he was at the beginning
of the season, how he was convinced that this was going to be his year. &dquo;This
is it,&dquo; he told himself every day, &dquo;this is the year I win nationals.&dquo; He even
wrote his goal on a scrap of paper and folded it up and carried it in his wallet.
But lately Steve didn’t fancy his chances. For some reason, toward the end of
races, when it got tough and began to hurt, he would slow down and start to
think about places he’d rather be: drinking with Martin and Andy, seeing a
movie with Bridget, anywhere else.
This wasn’t Steve’s first slump. There was the time back in high school,
and again when he was at university-then he couldn’t even finish his
workouts. But things were different now. He was 26, questions ran through
his head: &dquo;Am I getting too old? How much longer can I keep running? What
else can I do?&dquo;10
 353

Steve heard the starter’s last words-&dquo;Good luck, gentlemen&dquo; just before
the gun sounded. Quickly he scrambled for position and settled into fifth
place, 10 meters off the lead. With 7 of the 12 laps completed, Steve and two
other runners broke away from the field. The announcer pronounced it &dquo;a
definitive move.&dquo; Steve knew the national champion would come out of this
pack. To maintain contact with the two runners in front of him, Steve imag-
ined that a thick blue beam of light connected him to them, a powerful force
towing him around and around the red tartan track. With 3 laps remaining,
Steve contemplated taking the lead, but he hesitated, believing it might be
too early
As the three leaders swept past the packed grandstand for the penultimate
time, the noise from the crowd was deafening. All along the edge of the track
people were hollering and clapping their hands. Many of them were scream-
ing Steve’s name, urging him on. Behind them the sun was setting below the
Canterbury foothills, and Steve glanced up for a moment to admire the
burning red and orange horizon. The fiery sky, he thought, was a striking
backdrop to the dusty, brown foothills. When Steve looked down again, the
blue beam that had connected him with the runners in front of him had
disappeared. Suddenly he felt himself drifting back, losing contact. In des-
peration he began to pump his arms madly, like a drowning man reaching for
an imaginary lifeline. Then, with a lap to go, the aroma of grilled sausages
and onions cooking over by the concession stand reminded Steve of how
hungry he was-he had only had tea and toast for breakfast and lunch. &dquo;I’m
looking forward to some fish and chips and a few beers tonight,&dquo; he thought
to himself. Then he remembered, &dquo;All I gotta do first is finish this damn race.&dquo;

SCARED

Sarah left her watch at home. It was a watch especially designed to take
split times to the hundredth of a second and to store them in its memory But
it didn’t matter now how long she took to ride around the lake.
Just as she had done thousands of other mornings, Sarah turned left onto
Bank Street once she was out of town and headed down the hill toward the
bike path that traced the perimeter of Manoa Lake. As she freewheeled past
the cars parked along Bank Street, Sarah checked her form in their windows.
She flattened her back, tucked her elbows in closer to her body, all for
efficiency’s sake. When it dawned on her how meticulous she was being, she
laughed. Old habits die hard, she realized. Then she wondered, &dquo;What do
other people think about during their rides?&dquo;
Thirty minutes into her ride Sarah still felt the early morning chill. She
checked the zipper on her fleece pullover to see that it was all the way up. A
few minutes later she checked it again. After her first lap around the lake,
354

Sarah wished that she was back in bed-warm, lying next to Peter. &dquo;I’m retired.
I don’t have to be out here. It doesn’t matter anymore if I skip my morning
workout,&dquo; she thought to herself. Old habits die hard, she realized again.
&dquo;How was your ride?&dquo; Peter asked Sarah when she returned.
&dquo;It sucked!&dquo; Sarah said, slamming the door behind her, and stomping into
the kitchen.
The noise from the hard plastic on the bottom of her shoes hitting the
linoleum floor sounded like an off-beat tap dancer exiting stage left. Sarah
slumped against the pantry door, her feet out from underneath her, her eyes
cast down. Beads of sweat tumbled down her cheeks, and the hair above her
temples was matted against her skin. Peter offered her a cup of coffee. She
accepted it with both hands and held it in front of her chest. The way her
fingers were wrapped around the cup, she appeared to be strangling it. Her
face just inches above the rising steam made her look like a little girl being
treated for the croup.
From where he stood across the kitchen floor from her, Peter could see the
heat radiating off Sarah’s body He thought she looked lost in a fog. When
Sarah blew on her coffee to cool it, Peter’s attention turned to the cup. He
remembered buying it outside the Olympic Village in Barcelona, along with
a pin of Kobi, the Olympic mascot, and a Chicago Bulls cap. The cup had the

Olympic rings on it and Peter tried to recall their significance. &dquo;Why five?
Why blue, black, red, yellow, and green?&dquo;
Sarah continued to blow on her coffee. Tiny ripples crashed against the
inside of her cup like the sea against a stone jetty on a stormy day The only
noise in the kitchen came from the quiet hum of the refrigerator. After her first
sip, Sarah glanced at the clock hanging above the stove, then she looked at
Peter and said, &dquo;I only know one way to ride, Peter, and that’s to ride hard.
That ride did nothing for me. It was a waste of time.&dquo;
Peter didn’t say a word. He was thinking about the office and what he
needed to get done today
&dquo;I don’t know what to do,&dquo; Sarah continued, placing her coffee on the floor
while bending to remove her cleats. &dquo;For 15 years I rode to be the best. That
was why But that’s over. I’ve done it. So now what do I do?&dquo;11
Peter moved toward Sarah. He picked up her cleats and took them into
the laundry room. He placed them down on two sheets of newspaper.
&dquo;I’m scared, Peter!&dquo; Sarah yelled after him. &dquo;I thought I loved to ride. But
this morning I hated it.&dquo;
When Peter returned to the kitchen he picked up Sarah’s coffee cup from
the floor. He emptied it into the sink. Sarah was accustomed to Peter’s
obsessive tidiness, and said nothing. Peter turned on the tap and rinsed
Sarah’s cup, then he spoke.
&dquo;Do you want to come out of retirement?&dquo; he suggested, not sure what
else to say
 355

A moment passed, and while Peter’s question hung in the air, Sarah moved
toward the kitchen table. She pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. She
rested her chin in her hands and stared out the kitchen window. A thin layer
of dust sat on the windowsill, and spots dotted each window pane. There was
more time for cleaning now, but Sarah couldn’t seem to get going. Looking

up, she said, &dquo;I don’t understand it. I got more things done around the house
when I was training full time.&dquo;
While another moment passed, Sarah stared into the sugar bowl in the
middle of the kitchen table. Then she burst out, &dquo;Look at this!&dquo; She was talking
more to herself than to Peter. Her right hand was on her stomach. She was

pinching her shirt. &dquo;I’m getting fat. Look, I’m getting fat. I’ve never been fat
in my life.&dquo;
&dquo;Don’t be silly,&dquo; Peter said. &dquo;You’re not fat.&dquo;
&dquo;Yes I am. I’m fat,&dquo; Sarah said again. &dquo;I’m turning into a blob. I’m disgusting.&dquo;
Peter looked toward the sky, contemplating what to say He wanted to be
supportive, but his patience was wearing thin. Finally, he said, &dquo;If you’re so
unhappy all the time maybe you should start riding again?&dquo;
&dquo;Maybe I will,&dquo; Sarah shot back. &dquo;Nothing better has come along, and let’s
face it, what I do best is ride a bike.&dquo;
After pausing to pick a scab on her shin, Sarah stood up from the kitchen
table and began to pace back and forth, in her socks now, silent. Peter stepped
out of her way
&dquo;At least if I started to ride again,&dquo; she said, &dquo;I’d have something worth-
while to do.&dquo;
&dquo;What about coaching?&dquo; Peter suggested. &dquo;Have you considered that?&dquo;
&dquo;Yeah, I’ve thought about it. I just think I’m too demanding. My standards
are too high. I couldn’t work with someone who wasn’t giving it his all every

day, the way I did. Kids today aren’t like that, though. They’re spoiled. You
need to promise them a trip, or give them a flash suit, otherwise they’ll quit.&dquo;
Sarah stopped pacing. &dquo;I’m hungry,&dquo; she said, and walked over to the refrig-
erator. When she opened the door and looked inside she remembered that she
hadn’t got around to shopping this week. &dquo;Shit!&dquo; she said, slamming the door.
&dquo;I give up.&dquo;

BLIND SATISFACTION

I yelled to my son, &dquo;Come on, time to go.&dquo;

Naturally, he protested. &dquo;Can’t I stay a little longer?&dquo; he pleaded. &dquo;Five
more minutes, please?&dquo;

&dquo;No,&dquo; I said, rolling up my window, &dquo;get inside, your mother has tea
waiting.&dquo;12
Without saying a word, Brendan opened the passenger side door, flung his
sports bag into the back, pulled his door shut, and turned his head to watch
356

his friends. As we were about to exit the school parking lot, he rolled down
his window and screamed, &dquo;Way to go, Brian!&dquo;
&dquo;What happened?&dquo; I asked.
After he rolled his window up, turned around in his seat, and fastened his
safety belt, Brendan told me that Brian Hanson scored a tryl3 from midfield.
Brendan didn’t say another word after that. Even when I switched on the
national program to listen to the afternoon news he didn’t object or call me
&dquo;boring&dquo; and &dquo;old-fashioned.&dquo; Like most teenagers, Brendan preferred loud
music with indecipherable lyrics to plain, straight news. It didn’t seem to me
that he was sulking for having to stop playing and come home, though. It was
more like he had something serious on his mind. Sure enough, at a red light
in the middle of town he turned to me and said, &dquo;Dad, what was it like to play
for New Zealand?&dquo;
&dquo;What do you mean?&dquo; I said, reaching out to lower the volume on the radio.
He answered right away. &dquo;I mean, how did it feel to run onto the field with
the silver fernl4 on your chest, and to sing the national anthem in front of all
of those people?&dquo;
At first I didn’t know what to say Then I looked at myself in the rearview
mirror and for some reason remembered 1970, the year we came from behind
in the last 5 minutes to beat Australia in Sydney, and I wanted to tell Brendan
that playing rugby for New Zealand was the highlight of my life. Then the
light turned green and I shifted into first gear and remembered 1972, the year
I wrecked my knee in a scrum against England and spent 4 months on
crutches, and I wanted to warn Brendan that rugby is a brutal and dangerous
game. Ultimately, I told him that I was very proud to represent New Zealand.
&dquo;Do you think that I’ll ever be as good as you? Good enough to play for
New Zealand?&dquo;
The idea of Brendan battling the Springboks and the Wallabies sent
twinges of excitement through my body. &dquo;My son an All Black,&dquo; I thought to
myself, &dquo;that would be a dream come true.&dquo;15
After I pulled into our driveway I turned to Brendan to tell him to get
inside. But he was staring through the windshield, oblivious to his surround-
ings. I recognized the look; he was running onto the field wearing the silver
fern and singing the national anthem in front of a packed stadium himself.
That’s where it begins, I remembered, in your dreams. Finally I shook his
shoulder and said, &dquo;Hurry inside and wash up, son. Your tea is ready&dquo;
From the car I watched Brendan as he moved toward the front door. He
carried himself easily, skipping along the slate path and bouncing up the
porch steps two at a time. I put the volume up on the radio after he closed the
front door, hoping to hear the end of the news. As I sat listening to the market
report I began to think about some of the decisions I had made as a young
man. I thought back to 1969, when I was 19 and I had a job with a secure
future. I was the youngest ever assistant manager of Stockard’s Office Furni-
ture Store. I was sure to be manager one day, Mr. Stockard said so himself. I
 357

remembered how proud Cindy was when I told her that Mr. Stockard said I
could become manager. To her, our future seemed secure.
Some days I think quitting Stockard’s to devote more time to rugby was a
good decision, one I’d make again. The people I met and the places I visited
were worth it. But other
days, when all I can remember are the injuries and
the losses, the hassles with the press, and the financial sacrifices, I realize how
stupid I was to give up a good job just to play a silly game.
I haven’t had a decent job since. In fact, in the last 17 years I’ve had eight
different jobs, from owning my own dairy to driving a taxi. I figured someone
would set me up with a good company when I finished playing. Eight years
as an All Black, and all I have to show for it are a bum left knee and some
rusty
cups and bowls. That’s why Cindy’s always changing the subject whenever
Brendan asks me about my sporting days. She’s doesn’t want all of his
attention and energy going into sports. She expects him to finish school,
maybe even get a university degree. I suppose she’s right, but I still want to
see the boy play sports. He’s got so much talent, and he’ll learn a lot about
himself and other people, too. And there’s definitely no feeling better than
winning. He just needs to keep his head on straight and not lose perspective,
the way I did.16
The newscaster was giving the weekend forecast when I heard Brendan
yelling from the front porch. She was calling for mostly fine weather on
Saturday, followed by an 80% chance of showers on Sunday.
&dquo;Dad, what are you doing?&dquo; Brendan continued to scream. &dquo;Aren’t you
coming inside? Your stew’s getting cold.&dquo;
I rolled down my window to say that I’d be right there. Then I switched
off the radio and opened the car door, careful not to put too much weight on
my left leg as I stepped out.

EPILOGUE

I believe that the way in which I have moved from &dquo;the field to the text to
the reader&dquo; (Denzin, 1994, p. 501) in this study reflects the diversity of
interpretive styles available to qualitative researchers today My use of stories
to show how difficult it is for highly competitive athletes to retire from sports
and find some other way to feel good about themselves exemplifies the
freedom social scientists have to experiment with alternative forms of expres-
sion such as fiction.17 However, with new styles of representation must come
new standards of legitimation that take into account that &dquo;understandings
are shaped by genre, narrative,
stylistic, personal, cultural, and paradigmatic
conventions&dquo; (Denzin, 1994, p. 507). For example, to evaluate the authority
and determine the &dquo;truth&dquo; of the results in this study, I believe that the
standards used to judge fiction should be employed. To judge them in any
other way-for example, based on the traditional scientific views of validity,
358

reliability, and generalizability-would make little sense. As Riessman (1993)

explains, &dquo;these verification procedures rely on realist assumptions and con-
sequently are largely irrelevant to narrative studies. A narrative is not meant
to be an exact record of what happened nor is it a mirror of the world ’out
&dquo;
there’ (p. 64). In view of this, Sparkes (1995) adds, &dquo;the differences between
alternative forms of social science inquiry in terms of their process and pro-
ducts need to be acknowledged so that each can be judged using the criteria
that are consistent with their own internal meaning structures&dquo; (p. 181).
Therefore, I believe that it becomes important when judging the validity
of the stories in this article to ask, Do they contain &dquo;truthlike statements that
produce for readers the feeling that they have experienced, or could experi-
ence, the events being described?&dquo; (Denzin, 1989, p. 83). If so, then these
stories should be working to bring a previously hidden or submerged reality
to light. So conceived, the text then establishes its own verisimilitude and tells
the truth.
An indication of this text’s verisimilitude comes from the reactions of
various retired athletes around New Zealand who have read these stories. I
have received such comments as, &dquo;You got it right,&dquo; or, &dquo;That’s exactly how
I felt.&dquo; Richardson (1990) considers remarks such as these evidence of a well-
told &dquo;collective-story&dquo; (p. 25). She adds that collective stories, when working
at their best, offer individuals a pattern for a new life, &dquo;by emotionally binding
together people who have the same experiences ... thus creating a shared
consciousness and providing a sociological community where people can
interpret their problems and overcome the isolation and alienation of contem-
porary life&dquo; (p. 26). Therefore, for those who live within the boundaries of
these stories, they are true.
However, despite all the successes a narrative study may have, one ques-
tion still persists: Can a good story stand alone as social science scholarship?
This is a difficult question to answer. However, when it comes to addressing
issues within sports I agree with Eichberg (1994), who suggests that narratives
and other forms of representation that cross the borderline into fiction may
be best suited to explore the subjective nature of athletes’ experiences. Fur-
thermore, Verma (1991) emphasizes that some experiences can only find their
expression in some kinds of tales and not others. He adds that:
The choice of forms cannot be arbitrary; it is inherent in the nature of the
experience itself. It is not that the writer first has a certain experience and then
embodies it in a particular art form, rather it is the experience which chooses its
own form to make its presence felt. (p. 6)

Thus what led me to become a writer willing to experiment more than

anything else was the sensitivity with which my subjects spoke about their
retirement from sports. Writing stories, I felt, would do them the most justice
and bring their experiences to life. I considered it especially important to
present a personal and inside look at athletes’ retirement experiences because
the previous research on sports retirement (see Notes 2, 5, and 6) has relied
 359

heavily on questionnaires and scales and given little voice to the athletes
themselves. It is difficult for the concerns of any group without a voice to be
recognized. Therefore, I ultimately believe this project and others like it can
be justified as social science scholarship because it is possible through writing
and sharing stories to touch others and serve their needs in ways that other
interpretive styles cannot. As Richardson (1990) points out, what is most
significant about using stories as a method of social science inquiry is the
transformative possibilities of the collective story. She goes on to say:
At the individual level, people make sense of their lives through the stories that
are available to them, and they attempt to fit their lives into the available stories.

People live by stories. If the available narrative is limiting, destructive, or at odds

with the actual life, people’s lives end up being limited and textually disenfran-
chised. Collective stories that deviate from standard cultural plots provide new
narratives; hearing them legitmates replotting one’s own life. New narratives
offer the patterns for new lives. The story of the transformed life, then, becomes
a part of the cultural heritage affecting future stories, future lives. (p. 26)

Therefore, by presenting these three stories about the difficulty New

Zealand athletes have adjusting to a life after sports, I hope to offer retired
athletes more accurate narratives about their experiences, but I also hope
coaches and sports administrators will begin to see that there is a need for
policies and programs to help these young men and women exit sports. For
as it stands, athletes are hastily disposed of when their use-by date expires
and the fans stop cheering. And this is a travesty, particularly in light of the
huge resources spent on helping athletes to climb the ladder of success.
Through new stories, though, change is possible. For narratives are the pri-
mary way through which we organize our experiences and come to under-
stand who we are (Polkinghome, 1988).
Finally, whether other qualitative researchers will accept my work as good
social science scholarship remains to be seen. I understand that change is slow.
In the meantime, I will continue to write others’ stories, for my goal of
studying &dquo;human experience from the point of view of the historically and
culturally situated individual&dquo; (Denzin, 1994, p. 512) hasn’t changed. All that
is new is that I have a different tool to complete my job.

NOTES

1. This article is the result of a study commissioned by the New Zealand minister
of sport to ascertain how former New Zealand international athletes perceived their
retirement from sports.
2. Researchers from psychology and sociology have portrayed sports retirement as
problematic (e.g., Ball, 1976; Haerle, 1975; Hill & Lowe, 1974; Mihovilovic, 1968;
Werthner & Orlick, 1986). Astudy by Mihovilovic (1968) of 44 former Yugoslavian soccer
players revealed that retiring from sports requires a difficult adjustment. In addition,
Hill and Lowe (1974) reported that retired athletes face an identity crisis, and that
360

retirement from sports has a negative connotation leading to a devaluation in status, a

reduction in income, and a need for new skills and new roles.
3. To complete this study I conducted in-depth interviews, lasting
approximately
3 hours, with 12 retired New Zealand athletes (5 men and 7 women). Each athlete had
either competed in an Olympic Games or a World Championship in her/his sport. The
sports they represented were: basketball, cricket, cycling, field hockey, netball, squash,
swimming, and track and field.
4. For 7 years I moved in and out of the world of competitive running. Although
my career had many exciting moments, the frustration I felt from failing to achieve my
goals, running a sub-4-minute mile (my best time is 4:01.56), and qualifying for the U.S.
Olympic Trials in the 1500-meter run (in 1988 I missed the qualifying standard by 1.2
seconds) made it difficult for me to leave sports behind and move forward with my life.
I have discussed these issues in greater detail elsewhere (Denison, 1994).
5. Lately, some researchers have questioned the problematic nature of sports
retirement (Adler & Adler, 1991; Allison & Meyer, 1988; Coakley, 1983; Greendorfer &
Blinde, 1985). These theorists believe that sports retirement is more of a rebirth that
provides athletes an opportunity to develop other interests.
6. Concepts from thanatology and gerontology have been used to design counsel-
ing strategies to help athletes cope with their retirement from sports (Lerch, 1984;
Rosenberg, 1984). In addition, Pearson and Petipas (1990) and Swain (1991) applied
concepts from developmental psychology, specifically Schlossberg’s (1981) model of
adult transitions, to understand the "dysfunctional response to transitions associated
with athletic careers" (Pearson & Petitpas, 1990, p. 7).
7. Sparkes (1995) comments that in a realist tale "the author’s interpretation is
advanced by the use of abstract definitions, axioms, and theorems that work logically
to provide explanation" (p. 163). Furthermore, Van Maanen (1988) points out that the
realist tale only offers one reading and derives its facts with care to support that reading,
thereby "dosing off or nailing down an interpretation without allowing alternative
views to creep into view" (p. 53), the result being that "the researcher constructs and
positions him/herself as a conduit through which an other culture is seemingly sym-
metrically decoded and recoded" (Cole, 1991, p. 39).
8. In the course I teach, Behavioral Aspects of Sport and Exercise, I often use short
fiction and excerpts from novels to discuss such issues as aggression and anxiety in
sports, or the problems associated with athletic injuries and eating disorders. My
students report that these readings are engaging and educative, and lead to a better
understanding of the course’s topics than do traditional research articles.
9. In writing these stories I was greatly influenced by the work of Raymond Carver
(1989a, 1989b, 1992). His stories depict people’s experiences in a precise and honest way,
and mirror the language of the everyday with the simple goal of describing and
revealing the world as the author sees it, while maintaining a sense of each character’s
singularity and dignity. Carver accomplishes this "through the use of clear and specific
language, language used so as to bring to life the details that will light up the story for
the reader" (Carver, 1989a, p. 27), resulting in "newly discovered meanings about an
experience to the reader" (Denzin, 1994, p. 505).
10. Athletes often interpret their retirement from sports as a turning point, one that
provokes a radical redefinition of the self. Such a period in one’s life has been classified
by Denzin (1989) as an epiphanic moment. More specifically, I classify sports retirement
as a cumulative epiphany. For most athletes, retirement is a
gradual process precipitated
by a series of crises, such as a slump, an injury, or a devastating defeat.
 361

11. According to Denzin (1989), epiphanies are difficult and painful times because
we are between interpretive worlds and have no script to follow to make sense of the
experience. This is certainly true for retired athletes who are at an age where they should
be establishing themselves, not reinventing themselves.
12. New Zealanders refer to dinner as tea.
13. A try in rugby is roughly equivalent to a touchdown in American football.
14. The silver fern is a native New Zealand plant. All international sporting repre-
sentatives wear a replica of it on their uniforms.
15. The Springboks, Wallabies, and All Blacks are the national rugby teams of South
Africa, Australia, and New Zealand, respectively.
16. Denzin (1989) also recognizes that "epiphanies occur within the historical and
institutional arenas of modem day life" (p. 16). Thus an athlete’s retirement experience
is affected by the cultural practices and processes in which sports take place. Within
New Zealand these include the amateur status of most sports; the pressure the public
and the media place on sports performers; and the ideology and philosophy behind
such organizations as the New Zealand Olympic and Commonwealth Games Associa-
tion, which expects individuals to compete for their country without any compensation
or assistance in moving forward into the next phase of their lives after their athletic
careers end.
17. For other examples of social scientists who have experimented with fiction, see
Ellis (1995) and Gerla (1995).

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Jim Denison is a lecturer in the department of leisure studies at the University

of Waikato, New Zealand. He completed his Ph.D. in 1994 at the University
of Illinois, Urbana, within the department of kinesiology.