Once every four years, we say old things in new ways and new things in old ways. After all, the Olympics don’t change that much. There is the buildup, the spending, the promise of gaiety and moral purpose, the scandals and finally, the confirmation that the latest is the greatest.
There are things that elicit the response, What? These are sports, and in the Olympic Games too?
Take breaking, for instance. Known as breakdancing and a hit at parties in the 80s (the decade, not the age), the surprise is that athletes have even heard of it.
Like most men above a certain age, I fantasise about running in the Olympics, rowing, or fencing. Not swimming since I have a thing about taking off my shirt in public. Fencing is ideal — it leaves me fully clothed, and I can outsource the job since the face is covered too.
I watch the Olympics and ask myself: Which event would I be good at? I could jump up and down the trampoline, I think, but equally, I might land in a judge’s lap — they don’t give you points for missing the trampoline altogether.
I can see myself twisting any number of times in the air, straight up, upside down, or sideways, but then I might end up in the handbag of the lady sitting in the sixth row.
No marathon swimming for me, thank you. Not even on TV, where it never ends. There’s no fun watching anonymous people go on and on. As Lennon nearly sang, life is what happens to you when you’re busy watching marathon swimming. What of BMX racing? I had to google it. Much like riding two-wheelers on some Indian roads, and where’s the fun in that?
The best part of the Games is the telecast. You watch random people do random things in random order before the ads take over. The U.S. wins basketball, the Cubans top in boxing and Eastern Europeans close out wrestling.
Gymnastics is fun, as are the athletics events, but dressage? Even horses watching TV look confused.
The modern pentathlon’s five events — walking the dog, putting out the garbage, fixing the fence, rearranging your books, and trying to get a plumber — have, I must admit, a unique charm.
The Olympics pump you with a false sense of self, although friends tell me the reverse is also true. The perfection in some of the attempts depresses them to no end. What is the point of living, they ask, if they can’t do the 400 metres in under 44 seconds?
After a period of intense watching, you are confronted with the closing ceremony. Just like the opening ceremony, only worse. For some time, you breakdance your way into the dining room, jump over the gate, or punch a wall like you saw men and women do on television.
The fantasies continue for a while. And are then kept in storage for four years more when even thinking about running causes a hamstring injury.
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