OK, I admit it; I
’ve gotten sucked into watching the Olympics. I do this every
four years despite my quadrennial vow to pay as little attention to
it as possible.
OK, I admit it; I’ve gotten sucked into watching the Olympics. I do this every four years despite my quadrennial vow to pay as little attention to it as possible. I mean, it’s all so commercial, and treacly: the heartwarming story after heartwarming story of athletes overcoming this and that adversity/tragedy/mild inconvenience to realize their Olympic dream, interspersed with big-budget ads starring those very athletes who you just know are getting serious coin for hawking cell phones or bottled water or Viagra.
But you know, those ancient Greeks were very canny businessdudes. I can just see the very first Olympic Organizing Committee back in 776 B.C. sitting around a conference table (undoubtedly marble) and realizing, “Hey, it’ll be August – the television audience will be sick to death of reruns, they’ll need a break from baseball, and it’s too hot to go to sleep early. A huge two-week sports event will be a natch; the sponsors will pay through the nose to get worldwide coverage. “And they were right.”
I’m having a little trouble though, with some of the events. I mean, it makes sense that Olympic sports are derived from the practical skills a Greek would need to defend his city-state, conquer some territory, or score points with the goddesses, so for example running would be a good thing to be good at so you could chase your enemy, or run from him if he was, like, way better at this combat thing than you. Likewise throwing a spear/javelin, tossing the shot/big rock, and hurling the hammer/slingshot would be useful as all getout, and boxing and wrestling speak for themselves as martial advantages.
But then you get to a category of alleged sports for which the lineage is as suspect as a Dick Cheney press conference. Just the other night I found myself watching something called synchronized diving. I mean, really, how does this relate?
It is 404 B.C., the darkest days of the Peloponnesian War for the weary Athenians. Driven to the very edge of the Aegean by the relentless Spartans, a watery doom appears the certain fate of the brave men of Athens, pillage and ruin for their sacred city, and miserable slavery for their women and children. Then, just as all hope was slipping beneath the wine-dark sea….
SPARTAN SOLDIER: “We have them! One more assault and they will be crushed! Order us to charge!
SPARTAN GENERAL: “Yes, they are trapped, now is our moment! Tell the troops to … but wait! Look up on yon three-meter cliff – two noble Athenians have stepped to the edge in perfect unison! And now they have jumped! Oh, great Zeus! A beautifully matched pair of two-and-a-half gainers with full twisting inner pentameters! And such small splashes! Oh, bitter is our fate, the Gods have forsaken us – look, the judges have given them a score of 92.37!
Hopeless is our situation in the face of such heroism; if only our best synchronized divers had not been suspended for doping, victory could have been ours. Well, tell the boys to pack it up, we’re going home. And when we get there, remember, we’re telling the wives we did great, OK? Our story is, we won; with a little luck history will tell it that way. I mean, this is embarrassing; what are we gonna tell our Olympic Committee?” Can’t wait for rhythmic gymnastics.
