Along with millions of people around the world, I have been watching the Summer Olympics, cheering on competitors as they excel in a variety of disciplines.
We all have our favourite categories, but this year in particular, I’ve been glued to the television, no matter what’s on. Some nail-biting races so far, and still plenty of events to go.
From a personal perspective, I have never been what you might call the perfect athletic specimen. In fact, I would go so far as to say I am absolutely lousy at sports. Always have been, since I was a child. I remember when I used to watch gymnastics, and marvel at the way they seemed to effortlessly tumble and spring across the floor. Now, I watch in awe as they effortlessly stand from a seated position, never mind half-piking all over the place. At this age and weight, I’m happy just to execute a clean dismount off the bed.
It would have been nice to be better at running, jumping and throwing in school, rather than coming dead last in everything. No exaggeration. Dead. Last. 100 metres, high jump, discus … and let’s not get into the netball conversation.
Things were bad enough, then the hurdles came to town. On the first day our Phys. Ed. teacher set them up, I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“There’s no way I’ll be able to clear those,” I told her. Best to be honest up front.
“Once you see the method, I’m sure you’ll manage it,” she replied, clearly suffering from short- and long-term memory loss.
The approach and jump positioning was explained, then we all lined up and my classmates – one by one – ran and soared above the three obstacles before them. Soon enough, it was my turn. I sprinted as quickly as I could, then lifted my leg to get over the first hurdle. What should have been a sail-over, converted into an awkward hop mid-flight. Some part of my other leg rebelled against the angle that was being required of it, and it whacked into the wooden stand, sending me hurtling forward. It was lucky that the next hurdle was a good number of feet away, or I might have ended up the only 15-year-old with a full set of dentures. My Olympic dreams were dashed once again.
Things did not improve as I got older. I wasn’t a ‘late bloomer’. All through high school, I was the one left standing after team captains had chosen their players. The teacher had to put me somewhere, a decision that was always greeted with muffled groans from that group of girls. I was ever eager to try and do my best, but my skills never caught up with my enthusiasm. Every term, my PE report card would give me an ‘A’ for effort and a ‘3’ for aptitude. Frankly, I would have preferred a ‘C’ instead, so it didn’t look as though I’d given it my all, only to get a middling result.
Hey, even if I had been blessed with the gift of being sporty, I highly doubt I would have had the drive and discipline that these athletes have. I’ve heard tales of swimmers having to get up at sunrise to do their training before school, which means coaches and parents up at the crack of dawn. It takes a village, as they say. Those super-early mornings would have been enough to put me off from the git-go, let alone finding the energy to do anything physical beyond lifting a spoon.
Gymnasts, sailors, track-and-field athletes … they have to make a choice at a young age to sacrifice a good bit of their play time and social lives in order to reach their goals. It is not a path for the uncommitted. And when they compete on the world stage, they carry with them the hopes and dreams of their countries and communities who are rooting for them at home.
I didn’t realise how invested I truly was, until I was in Toronto earlier this week, trying to get our Uber driver to speed back to the hotel so we could watch Jordan Crooks in the semi-finals of the 100m free. As we hit traffic, it was clear we weren’t going to make it in time. There was my BFF Lynne and I in the back of a Toyota sedan, pushing our WiFi hotspot to its very limits as we frantically Googled ways to watch the race live.
Then, there he was, flying down the lanes, with the Cayman Islands flag hovering above him as the commentators noted his impressive positioning. Totally thrilling.
We know he didn’t advance to the final for that race, but for us, it was the excitement of seeing him out in front of his fellow competitors at one stage. “Go, Jordan – go!” we yelled in the back of the car.
No, I’ll never participate in world sporting events, unless The Great Couch Potato Contest becomes reality, but that’s okay. I’m happy to cheer on those who do. I may not have any muscles to speak of, but as anyone who has been privy to it will tell you, I’ve got the loudest voice in the stadium.
Related Videos
