The Randy Mossification of Olympic sprinting

At 60 meters into the race, already strides ahead, Usain Bolt exploded. Of course, everyone in the Olympic 100 meter final was exploding with speed, it’s what these men do for a living, but the 6’5” Jamaican double exploded. Or perhaps Sulu hit warp speed in Bolt’s ass and he blasted into the stars. Whatever metaphor you choose, Bolt ran the race in 9.69 seconds, breaking his own world record by three hundredths of a second.

 

That he started celebrating with 20 meters to go — raising his arms and thumping his chest — and left us wondering by just how much he could have smashed the record is a shame, but it also leaves a delicious mystery: how fast can this freak go?

 

Talking about freaks, we should have seen it coming, those of us who ever saw Randy Moss lope past defenders as he ran under a bomb for a touchdown. It was bound to happen: some bean pole with good fast-twitch muscle fibers that allowed him to pump his legs at the same rate as us smaller folk while maintaining his longer stride would glide by all the muscled fullback types that have dominated sprinting for decades.

 

It’s happening in all sports: the tall are taking over. In my time, it started with Magic Johnson, a man blessed with a forward’s body and a point guard’s reflexes and imagination. Now you see it in all sports. Football players are goliaths, of course. Where these beasts come from I have no idea. You can’t be a quarterback in the NFL if you’re not at least 6’1” or 6’2”, otherwise you couldn’t throw over the defensive line. But hell, even tennis pros are getting taller and stronger. Double hell, some say it’s happening in golf.

 

But I don’t mind. At 5’11” I’m no shorty, so why should I complain? Besides, the fabulous thing about Bolt, beyond the sheer insanity of his talent and potential, is the fact that no one thought such a tall guy could compete at this level. Even his coach held him back until less than a year ago. No one his height could get out of the blocks quick enough. Everyone knew that.

 

Which is why I forgive Bolt his dumb little mid-race celebration: I love it when people do what others said was impossible. It’s why I’d love to see a Michelle Wie win a men’s PGA tournament. It’s why I’d smile to see an African-American as president (though to vote for one simply because he’s not white and therefore would bring a “new point of view” to the office is sheer stupidity).

 

I love having my view of what the world is and can be obliterated. So litter the sprinting field with giraffes and slice a few more tenths of a second off the already ridiculously low 100 meter world record. Rewrite the Book of Possibilities and tell every little boy with a running dream that he can’t be an Olympic sprinter unless he’s 6’2” or taller. I’ll just sit back and wait for that tiny fireplug to come along afterward and take the gold. You know he’ll come.

Bloodless machines

They’re toddlers in tights, these female Chinese gymnasts. They should be playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, not sticking the dismount off the vault for a gold. And what about the little girl lip synching a song during the opening ceremony because the real singer wasn’t cute enough? And the digitally-enhanced fireworks? They even faked the camera jiggle on that one.

 

Chinese leaders take the cake, and I’m not even going to start on Tibet, Tiananmen Square or any of that. These guys give government a bad name. And God knows our government has done its share of stupid things. Cheney put the screws on the CIA before the Iraq war to give him the intelligence he wanted to justify an invasion, so they gave it to him, with qualifications he ignored. Then Bush’s little venture soured. He couldn’t find the nukes, so he blamed George Tenet, the president giving the camera that I’m-just-folks Texas grin.

 

We must remember it’s only the government, it’s not the people. I remember the Cold War, and there was nothing human about the Russian people, not in our minds. Those weren’t humans on the other side of the ice from our boys in the 1980 Olympic hockey semifinals. Those were bloodless Soviet machines. They went from goal to monotonous goal with little more than a handshake for each other. They probably felt so much pressure to win that there was no room for fun, but who took the time to think about that? In any case, God stepped in for the Forces of Good and said, Let there be Right. And the Americans won a miraculous gold medal, and it was good.

 

It’s bullshit is what it is, the way we discount the humanity of our so-called enemies. We can’t let that happen again. The stakes are too high. Our government might end up in conflict with China or even Russia, and frankly, it will probably be their fault, the chips on their shoulders as big as Everest, although it might be our fault, too. (Why Bush can’t understand Russia’s problem with a missile shield in Poland I have no idea. He’d have a problem with a Russian shield in Cuba, I can tell you that.)

 

But we must remember that their people are probably just as ashamed of their bumbling leaders as we are of ours. Or maybe not ashamed enough, like some of us. Maybe remembering our shared fears, hopes, sufferings and triumphs will keep our governments from doing something too awfully stupid.

 

In the meantime, we’ll forgive them their tiny gymnasts.

 

The spirit of the Olympics: flags, Nike swooshes, and maybe a little more

What I like least about the Olympics is all the flag-waving, winning athletes draping themselves in flags, crushed under the weight of hundreds and hundreds of flags. The fine-tuned body of the winning sprinter is crushed into the red-earth track by tons of patriotic fabric. Nobody cares. Crank up the anthem and cut to commercial.

 

What about the individuals? What about the incredible stories? A girl from some backwoods Siberian village, let’s say — mother a hunchback, father a drunk, born with a deformed left foot — sticks the landing off the pummel horse for a gold. Isn’t that amazing? But she’s not American so who cares? Who needs a story? That doesn’t sell ad time. And as for amazing, I have four words for you: U.S. Fricking A. These colors don’t run, or bleed, or whatever.

 

But, before I get too self-righteous, let me admit this: I spent way too much time yesterday watching female beach volleyball, and mostly to gaze at all the scantily-clad butts. I like volleyball, but come on, how old am I?

 

It gets worse. My dream job is to help shake out those tiny bikini bottoms for the young women between points. So much sand gets up there, you couldn’t imagine. I tug at the tight fabric, shake it and snap it back into place. It makes a “thwack!” sound that I like. The women don’t say thank you; in fact, they treat me with mild disdain. But that’s okay; the job has its compensations.

 

(I noticed that Nike added a swoosh on the back of the bikini bottoms. Good placement. Nike was the goddess of victory, and nothing says triumph like a nice, taut volleyball butt.)

 

So, is its worse to wave a flag than to wave, well, whatever it is I waved? I’ll let you decide.

 

In any case, I think the Olympics can offer a certain majesty. There’s a haze over the events this year, true. Literally it’s the Beijing pollution. Metaphorically it’s the lack of Chinese human rights or maybe the Georgian dirt kicked up by invading Russian boots. But I think it’s more than that. I think all the great athletes from the past are floating in on the breeze, ghosts both living and dead: Cassius Clay, Jesse Owens, Nadia Comaneci. They want to hear the chanting of the crowds again, the pulse of the fans, to feel the center of it all, like an expanding sun, clutched in their upraised fists. No flags can survive that light, not even the summer lust I feel watching volleyball. Even that is washed clean.

 

There’s a spirit that permeates every Olympics, but it’s not in the voice of the bored sports anchor or the chanting of “U.S.A.” or even in the shining medals. It’s the smiles and the cries of anguish and the pressed lips of courageous resignation you see on the athletes’ lips before the camera zips away. It’s the people, each one wearing their humanity tied to a gold ribbon around their necks. And all of us in the stands, waving the same flag and chanting the same tune. Something by Bach, I imagine.

 

And then the fire goes out, and everyone goes home. But the voices keep singing.