Today's Musical Selection: "Chariots of Fire" by Vangelis
Hello, everyone! Today I'm going to write about the Olympics, largely because everyone else is. It's one of those big conversation topics, you know? Unfortunately, there's a little problem for me in writing about the Olympics. Specifically, I haven't watched a minute of them. I haven't watched a significant portion of the Olympics in over 10 years. Since this qualifies me as, at minimum, a weirdo, and at maximum un-American, perhaps I'd better explain why.
As you might expect, I'm a fan of obscure sports like curling and handball, so you might think my anti-Olympic viewing stance has to do with NBC's obsession with the major sports (basketball, gymnastics, swimming, figure skating, etc.). And that might be true, except that I don't watch the sports I like either (such as hockey and basketball). And like Oliver Willis, I don't care for NBC's Olympic coverage, particularly the noxiously syrupy soft-focus features. But it's more than that. Part of it, perhaps, has to do with the fact that I'm too young to appreciate the Cold War America-against-the-world aspect of it. I certainly never felt jingoistic enough to feel any special thrill when the Americans one. If anything, I think I wound up rooting against the Americans more often than not. (My contrarian streak at work.)
And I did watch the Olympics once upon a time. I enjoyed the Olympics at Calgary and Seoul. I wrote about Albertville for my school paper (no, I didn't go there). But the wheels came off after that. Why? It has to do with something that happened at the '92 Summer Olympics in Barcelona.
My romance with the Olympics was already fading by the time Barcelona rolled around. I was tired of NBC's crappy coverage, tired of American arrogance, tired of being force-fed the same tired selection of events. But one evening during Barcelona, I went bike riding with my dad. There's a nice trail on an old railroad right-of-way that runs behind the house, and we took advantage of the long summer evening to get in a few miles before dark. On the way back, the sun was sinking low and my energy was ebbing. I pressed on, trying to beat the setting sun and my dad back home. And I felt a kinship with the Olympic athletes, pushing myself to the limit, seeing what I was capable of. I said to myself, "When I get home, I'm going to watch the Olympics." I felt my romance starting to rekindle. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!
So when I got home, I immediately turned on NBC. As it happens, men's volleyball was on. The Americans were playing (of course). And the entire team had shaved their heads. Why? I assumed this was some sort of team solidarity gesture and/or superstitious ritual, and I was down with that. About five minutes later, though, I found out the real reason: In the previous game, the Americans lost due to what they felt was a bad call by the officials. In protest, they respond by shaving their heads. And that was it. I clicked off the TV, and the Barcelona Olympics, permanently. (When I later read about the American basketball players covering up the Reebok logo on their jackets because they had deals with Nike, my non-viewing policy was confirmed.)
After that, I watched a little bit of the '94 Winter Olympics in Lillehammer, but the media-commercial orgy surrounding the '96 Summer Games in Atlanta so turned me off that I didn't watch a minute. Nor did I watch Nagano in '98, Sydney in 2000, or Salt Lake City in '02. And I haven't watched a minute of the Games in Athens.
And I don't regret it. I may be a bit less water-cooler-conversant for my no-Olympics policy, but I don't miss it. I still hate the syrupy profiles. American manners haven't improved. And I still can't stand to watch figure skating. All the headlines any more are about scandals, doping and judging, and if the actual events matter it's due to the failures of high-profile American athletes (see also: the Creamed Team).
So what would get me interested in the Olympics again? Well, I suppose that axing the soft-focus features, showing the minor events and not being so Americo-centric would help. But truth be told, my best shot for rekindling the dead flame has already come and gone. It came, probably unsurprisingly, in the form of a woman.
In high school, I was friends with a terrific long-distance runner named Jackie Kerr. Jackie and I met in middle school, and we rode the same bus in high school. In addition to being a great runner, Jackie was upbeat, likeable and funny. We were good friends, but we never dated. Never, that is, until prom came around. It just seemed natural to ask Jackie; neither of us was seeing anyone, and we felt comfortable with each other. So I asked, and she said yes.
Was it magic? Not particularly. We did the prom thing, danced and ate and took pictures, but we didn't have any great romantic moments. Nor did it lead to anything afterward; I went to UVA, she went to William and Mary, then transferred to Stanford. We haven't spoken in some time.
But for a while, she had legitimate Olympic potential. She was the state mile champion in high school. (I was, surprisingly, a pretty good runner myself; she kept trying to get me to go out for the team, and I kept demurring. Then I got fat and lazy.) She was legendary for a while; people said she had Olympic potential, and they meant it. But injuries got in the way; she kept getting hurt, and the injuries wound up derailing her running career. She wound up graduating from Stanford with a degree in Slavic studies, I hear through the grapevine. I'm sure she's doing great in whatever she's up to now; she was always very bright.
Call me selfish and parochial if you want. But if Jackie -- my Jackie -- had been running in Sydney or Athens, you can damn well better believe I'd have been tuning in. Without her, though, I'd just as soon skip it. (I'll show you how parochial I am: there's a runner from my home town who's in the Olympics this year, and I barely care. I didn't know him.)
For more on the Olympics, I highly recommend this exchange of letters between ESPN's Bill Simmons and pop-culture writer Chuck Klosterman. They bring a quirky, offbeat take on Olympic basketball and American culture that I really like. Check it out.
And that's all for today. Something else tomorrow!
Posted by Fred at August 17, 2004 05:18 PMYou wrote:
About five minutes later, though, I found out the real reason: In the previous game, the Americans lost due to what they felt was a bad call by the officials.
Thats not what happened. In the previous match Japan was ahead of the US in their 3rd set. An American player, who was bald, received his 2nd yellow card which should have been an automatic red card and he should have been removed from the game. The officials did not remember he already had a yellow card so he stayed. The US came from behind and won that set. They then continued to win the next set (or possibly the next 2) and won the match. At that point Japan protested the mistake. They claim that had the player been removed they would have won the set and the match.
The rules of International Volleyball require that a protest be filed at the time of the incident, not after the fact. Japan arrogantly figured that they were about to win so they didn't follow procedure. It was brought before the Volleyball Federation and they decided to put their own rules aside and ordered the match replayed. I don't remember if it was the entire match or starting from the set in question.
Since the incident centered around a single US player, who was bald, his teammates decided to shave their heads to show that there were no hard feelings and to show that they supported him.
Unfortunetly this was a bad move. They were not able to tell each other apart as easily as they could before (at least 1 had a very distingushable hair style) and they ended up losing.
While I don't expect this to change your mind about watching the Olympics in the future, you should at least know what happened.
Posted by: Ross at September 28, 2004 01:10 PM