Olympics
Part of me wonders if I might have already blogged about this, back when I first witnessed it, but I don't feel like looking through the archive to find out. If it's a repeat, I apologize. But, regardless of whether or not you've heard it, it's a damn good story.
I was never really a big fan of the Olympics until I spent a summer living with my best friend at the time. We are no longer in touch, but at the time we were like brothers. Anyway, this friend had become infected with a palpable excitement for the Olympics like I had never seen in anyone before. Any time he was home he was watching whatever was being covered at that time, or looking up results of events he had missed on the internet.
I must admit, I was caught up in his fervor a bit, and watched more than my fair share that year. There was one event in particular. I will never forget it. Some of the specific details are a little fuzzy, but the spirit of the story still makes me misty-eyed to this day.
This was the moment when I became a fan of the Olympic games.
It was the men's 100-meter freestyle swim. There was a newcomer to the sport that year. A man from a very new country in Africa who entered the games very last minute. The country and his name escape me, but I remember his country was so poor and ill-equipped that he had trained in a pool much like what you or I might have in our backyard here in a America. He had never even seen an Olympic sized pool, let alone swam anything remotely close to the distance of 100 meters before, and was distinctly out-matched by his competitors.
The race began and they were all off like dolphins... all except our African friend. They had all hit the opposite end of the pool and were on their way back to the start when they passed him still on his way in the opposite direction. At this point the crowd in the stadium rumbled with laughter. I'm a little ashamed to admit, but I too laughed. I probably said something like "ha, look at that poor sap."
All the other racers finished and things were about to return to Olympic-business-as-usual... But then we all began to notice something, and by "we" I mean the thousands in the stadium of course, but also the millions of people watching at home. Something began to shift in all of us as we noticed the most remarkable thing...
He was not stopping.
Before he'd even reached the 50 meter mark of the other end of the pool everyone else was long done and out of the water.
He kept going.
He got to that wall, and turned around for the second leg.
I couldn't believe it. I don't think anybody could. He was barely moving through the water, his form was terrible and he was clearly struggling, but he would not stop. He continued plowing on, one little foot at a time. Before he was halfway back to the start the crowd began roaring it's support and so did I.
I was on my feet yelling at the TV "come on, come on!"
After what felt like hours he made it! His time was awful, of course, and he was so weak by the time he got to the end that he couldn't climb out of the water. His competitors had to lift him bodily out of the pool, which they proudly did. They all wanted to shake his hand, and pat him on the back. I think we all did.
I wept.
In my eyes, this man embodies the spirit of these games. He knew that he would not place against those men, and that he was really only swimming against himself, but he didn't seem to care about that. He stood up in front of the whole world and tackled a challenge he was clearly unprepared for, and finished it anyway! Medal or not, he is a true Olympic champion and his tenacity demands respect.
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