olympics

The Olympics are on and I could care less. It’s cynicism—been there, seen that. (Of course, I haven’t really been there.) Personal bests against the best in the world should be the measure of any athlete’s effort, but all too often only medals count. Medal counts and nation ranking have no place in my Olympic hierarchy.

My first awareness of the Olympics is Abebe Bikila winning the marathon in Rome in 1960. I’m nine years old, just able to grasp the significance of running 26 miles. More than that, he runs barefoot because that is how he trains and the sponsor’s shoes do not fit. He is a last minute inclusion in the Ethiopian team, the first to win an event. He wins again in Tokyo.

A rare few performances in my lifetime capture the imagination: Keiran Perkins’s 1996 win from lane eight after qualifying for the final by 0.24 seconds; Bob Beamon’s 1968 bolt from the blue bettering the old long jump record by 55 cms; and Ralph Doubell winning the 800 metres at the same Games. No Australian has run the 800 faster in 44 years since.

Athletes’ bodies are beautiful; a shame they don’t compete naked as in ancient Greece. I’m happy to leave weightlifters out of that.

There are sports that don’t sit right at the Olympics: tennis, beach volleyball, synchronised swimming and diving, anything on horses. Swimming is dead boring and always has been. Gymnasts flouncing around with hoops and ribbons and clubs are nice, but is it sport?

Cricket and netball are played only by former British colonies, so no Olympic guernsey. European handball is only played in Europe, so … ? BMX bikes? Next time we’ll see freestyle skateboarding, fencing with light-sabres, silly walks, though it would be hard to compete with the real thing.

My final reason not to care is the crass television coverage from the free-to-air rights holder. I do watch a small amount on Foxtel: nine dedicated channels, no ads during events, and occasionally no commentary. What a joy!

Rock on.