I won’t be back til 2012. Welcome back to your real life.
It seems like we wait so long for the Olympics to start (and by “we” I mean me, and NBC, and about ten thousand impossibly ripped and dedicated Americans who didn’t avoid going to the gym tonight by whingeing about missing headphones) and now, in a blur of 27-hour days, about a million lengths of the Water Cube, endless vitriolic arguments about the Code of Points (SHE LANDED ON HER KNEES), and 30 minutes of nail-biting overtime, the end is here.
Now all the gold medals have been handed out, most of them to the Chinese. Michael Phelps has achieved a feat many (including myself) thought no human being could achieve, with Natalie Coughlin quietly pulling off a similar, yet unheralded, accomplishment, and the American softball dynasty has come to an end. Three young women swept the sabre medals, and one of them went directly from the podium to freshman orientation (and if that isn’t the best way to introduce yourself during the Name Game, I don’t know what is. “Hi, I’m , and I’m the third best in the world with this big old sword.”). Soccer goalie Hope Solo has been redeemed, Misty and Kerri are ready to go get knocked up, and a flock of freakishly talented people born in 1987 blazed to unexpected medals and records (seriously, look at that marathon finish!).
I was listening to “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me” a couple of days ago, as I do, and my dearest love Peter Sagal called the Olympics an entirely irony-free zone, a temporary cure for our increasing feelings of national impotence. I think that’s why I like watching the Olympics so much, even though I’ve been moaning to everyone who will listen how sleepy I am and how I wish MSNBC wouldn’t show, like, handball all day, and why the hell is rhythmic gymnastics a sport? It’s just stretching with props. Consuming as much media as I do means I also take in more snark, studied nonchalance, and thinly veiled—largely unmotivated—rage than any person really needs. The Olympics, despite the IOC’s propensity toward corruption and spinelessness (okay, if the gymnastics inquiry turns out to validate what we’ve all been saying for the past three weeks, I take it all back), are an oasis from all that. NBC’s coverage has been literally flag-waving (who is handing those flags to the runners to wrap themselves in? Their moms? The camera operators?) and jingoistic, but it’s also been refreshingly old-fashioned.
Where else can you find people so well-intentioned, clear-eyed, and optimistic? Obviously the pursuit of Olympic-level greatness is usually a solitary pursuit, one most often motivated by a yearning for personal glory, financial reward (why else would Shawn Johnson’s parents have mortgaged their house twice?), and the satisfaction of being the World’s Greatest, at least at this one obscure, inapplicable-to-real-life thing. Of course, most athletes, even most Olympians, won’t be the best and won’t get rich, but I have to assume no ten-year-old picks up an épée and says “I’m going to do this for America.” Nationalistic pride isn’t something we, as Americans, trade in so loudly anymore except at this one time, and while I think most of the competitors are motivated by those three things, most of them have mentioned how honored and pleased they feel to represent the United States, and honestly that’s kind of a difficult thing to say these days, even if you are wearing a uniform.
So these two weeks have been a glorious mental vacation of sorts. It’s been nice to ignore the presidential race, the tanking economy, the wars, and, frankly, everything else I find unpleasant: The Hills, the Yankees, the aftermath of the writers’ strike, doing dishes. I was palpably angry when Obama’s VP announcement broke into Friday night’s decathlon coverage, because it was not time to worry about that yet. I have thoroughly enjoyed losing myself in endless hours of volleyball, diving, and soccer; you just try and concentrate on off-shore drilling when Kerri Walsh hurls that impossibly long body of hers up in the air and shoves a spike down some poor Chinese girl’s throat.
And now that we’ve seen Coach K transform, at least temporarily, a pack of marginally cooperative millionaires into a free throw–shooting, teammate-supporting gang of stars and stripes–clad solid citizens, and seen Zhang Yimou blow our minds all over again, with a little assist from David Beckham at the closing ceremony, it is all over. The inflatable Fuwa are packed away (or hopefully mass-produced; I want a stuffed Jingjing), the women’s gymnastics teams returned to third-period geometry, and the London organizing committee sweating bullets. NBC will secure Bob Costas in his cryogenic chamber until Vancouver; a professional mediation team will forcibly separate Tiki and Jenna before there can be any more bloodshed; and my new favorite anchor, Jim Lampley, will hopefully get some sleep. And we’ll all be back to crass, callous media where there isn’t a pair of gawky young men from Baltimore or Jamaica moving faster than anyone has before, where no impeccable pommel horse routine can snatch a bronze medal for a team of backups and also-rans, where the closest thing to BMX is watching delivery guys try not to get sideswiped by the M23.
In other words, we’ll have to watch the DNC. Ugh. I can’t wait for football season.
