My friends can tell you that though I am borderline obsessive about going to the Rec and working out, I know absolutely nothing about sports. They’re just not my passion. And it’s not as if I won’t play a game of X in the Sunken Garden or on Yates Field; I just don’t find any interest in watching sports on TV or online. But every four years I am struck with what I like to call Olympic Fever.
Whether swimming, fencing, archery, gymnastics, rowing or badminton, if it is the Olympics then I’m all about it. I found myself sitting on the couch two nights ago with a bowl of grapes cringing and cursing under my breath about women’s volleyball. “Why did you do that?” I shouted. “You’re in her way—move, move, mooooove!” And Michael Phelps—what happened to you? Why don’t the gods favor you anymore?
About an hour ago, I was erging at Crunch and I was watching a bit of women’s swimming on one of the TVs that hang from the ceiling. I nearly shouted when Germany took the lead, followed by China. But Italy’s Federica Pellegrini came in first in the end. Take that.
I was even shouting during the opening ceremonies. Did anyone see all of the Lord of the Ring allusions in the beginning? And how creepy was the giga-baby? During the Parade of Nations I felt like I was watching the hunger games and that everyone was submitting themselves to the jaws of Queen Elizabeth II. But the parade made me wish that I too could strut into that arena, decked out in Ralph Lauren’s GI Joe-esque uniform. I texted a friend of mine, “Why couldn’t I have been an athlete? I want to be there.” He replied, “Good question.”
Even if I’m not an Olympian, what’s wrong with being the American mascot? I can just march with the land of the free’s team every four years while waving and dancing and throwing around American stars, or something. Very much like a Paris of Troy kind of show. And every year the broadcasters will ask each other, “And what sport does Justin compete in, again?”
I’ll just keep shouting from this side of the pond for now.