Thursday evening, I probably reached the pinnacle of my personal 2010 Winter Olympics fever. I mean, so many stories wowed me by then: speed skater Shani Davis winning gold—if you didn’t know this before, he is the first African American to win Winter Olympics gold, which he did first in 1,000-meter race in Turin, Italy –or -Canadian mogul skier Alexandre Bilodeau winning his medal, cheered on by his older brother, Frédéric Bilodeau, who has cerebral palsy, Lindsey Vonn’s incredible win on injured leg, essentially raced toward the end on her good leg alone, and Shaun White soaring and twisting his way to half-pipe gold. Dude! Cue air guitar during the National Anthem (a moment that will make me smile, I’m betting, for years).
Give me a few more minutes and I’ll start sounding breathlessly overeager about all the awesome achievements and personal dramas until you can’t tell me apart from skater-turned-commentator (and—touching personal story here—this Olympic champion’s a cancer survivor and dad) Scott Hamilton.
I didn’t go into the Games feeling thusly.
For the first few days, I resisted—save for being glued to the pairs skating—no surprise there (if you know me, you know I adore watching figure skating). The night of the Opening Ceremonies, I just couldn’t bear to turn the television on. I was having one of those starving-children-in-Africa moments: how, when our country is waging two wars and is in a deep recession, can we splash out like this in Olympic fantasyland? It’s not that our tax dollars are paying for our participation, but even the corporate excess turned me off. Talk about a fantasy and reality disconnect, and all you need to do is read about hunger in America then flick to all those hearty, strong athletes (and chirpy commentators) and endless MacDonald’s commercials (as if Chicken McNuggets will propel future Olympians—particularly those either obese or hungry or both—to the gold). Between glitz and endless commercialization and NBC’s too-nearly myopic American athlete-focus fervor, I found myself struggling to get “into it.”
Adding insult to injury, my eyes moistened at this commercial: little girl puts on black ice hockey skates, helmet and all and skates out to her game while mom narrates that she’ll be saving for the next pair of skates, the coaching… in other words, she’s behind her little girl’s big ice hockey dreams. What’s for sale? Wal-Mart. Slay me: that’s Wal-Mart of don’t-pay-your-workers and lock ‘em in the store fame. I’ve never even set foot inside a Wal-Mart, let alone been sucked into a Wal-Mart commercial (easier to snub on television when there was that insane dancing smiley face, huh?).
My skier eleven year-old (a kid who can find a warm place for many televised sports events, actually), had to see some skiing, though. Some skating, too; what’s more he knew—as if by osmosis, but really through watching and the conversations at school and the good old Internet—lots about the athletes and the contests (even curling). So, I hung out with him and his younger brother, and was pulled in on Wednesday evening.
Now, part of why the Winter Olympics always captivates my attention more fully than the summer games is the plethora of amazing athletes whose independent spirits seem unflappable (think, Apolo Ohno). There’s the dude attitude from the extreme sports, sure (those garish but oddly loveable plaid half-pipe uniforms), all the hair (sometimes red, sometimes long, very often shaggy), and there’s the sunshiny equanimity of someone like Lindsey Vonn (such grit, such charm, such a Mary Tyler Moore smile).
When the men took the ice for their long programs, it was one of those events that those who love the artistry of the sport dream of seeing, because there was so much talent and more so, not all the talent was channeled solely into quadruple jumps.
Sure, there were some jumpers. Russian skater and Olympic Champion Yevgeny Plushenko returned to competition this year after a three-year hiatus. He’s of the quadruples-plus-loads-of-triple-jumps-equals-victory school. His skating is rather soulless, though; he’s stiff, almost wooden, without lyricism or expressiveness, or even accomplished spins. Although the scoring rules theoretically do not reward jumps only, it would sometimes seem jumps receive (to my mind) undue attention—and too many points.
Rest assured, jumps didn’t define the entire evening. There was more. By all means, there were sequins—lots and lots of sequins—a couple of faux tuxedo costumes, a marionette and a country boy, too. There was drama: Japan’s Nobunari Oda’s lace broke toward the end of his sweet, young, slow and somewhat awkward performance, requiring him to tell the judges of his predicament, then race to the sidelines to add some lace and retie before the time limit for such emergencies ran out. While he was fixing the skate with support from his coaches, the crowd began to clap for him. He had their enthusiastic support as he resumed his program exactly where he’d had to leave off and then received rousing applause when he finished. That was the overcome misfortune moment of the evening. It was also a moment when you remembered how an audience could really support an athlete, a zeitgeist phenomenon easily neglected when focused upon the ice as if the ice wasn’t surrounded by thousands of fans in the arena’s seats.
Amongst the skaters, some actually made their programs feel like works of art in motion. Bronze medalist Daisuke Takahashi of Japan is a skater to watch; he just sailed across the ice. His hands and arms had a delicacy, like fluttering branches or sails but planned and placed, not happenstance. He is also quite young and fresh-faced and wore an open smile, as did Canadian Patrick Chan. Then, there was Evan Lysacek, whose face revealed a steely determination, a sense of seriousness that comes from knowing the exact requirements to succeed at the task ahead. His beautiful performance—no quadruple, rather a series of well-executed triples—seemed one of complete and admirable effort, a mountain climbed with perfect precision (not a casual hill, an Everest). Lysacek skates with care for all of his program’s elements, not solely jumps, so his spins and his body positions, his transitions and his complex footwork all contribute to delivering a memorable performance. And so it was entirely thrilling to see him—quoting Scott Hamilton here—“nail it.” It was even more satisfying that he was rewarded with the gold.
But his wasn’t my favorite performance (or skater): my deepest affections go to Johnny Weir. This flamboyant (you can read that any way you like) personality has buckled down and practices harder than ever and the reward is that he skated so lustrously on Thursday. His jumps seem like he catches an air current and sails above the ice only to drop down delicately, like milkweed. Everything about his skating is captivating, from his beautiful, specific, fast and centered spins to his expressive spine and dancer’s hands and legs and feet. His relation to the music isn’t about keeping to it it’s about communing with the music. All this amazes me. What’s more he’s beautiful, as in beautiful, with his pretty boy china skin face and ice blue eyes. He exudes dainty and dramatic and wily all at once (toss in dramatic). That he trains with Russian coach Galina Zmievskaya is no surprise; for all his drama queen style and attitude, he’s really a classic—even pure—skater. However the numbers were crunched, it’s hard to feel he wasn’t robbed a better score and higher finish, because what he offered means more to the sport than a single competition; he elevates the entire enterprise.
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While there are many things that one could criticize about the Olympics or the coverage of the Olympics, from Wal-Mart waterworks inducement programming on out, I guess it’s also true that I am, and not so much as a sports enthusiast, a believer in the power of sports.
Look at how Title IX has affected girls’ and women’s lives. In 1972, Title IX required schools and colleges receiving federal money to provide the same opportunities for girls as they did for boys. Using a complex analysis, economist Dr. Betsey Stevenson showed that increasing girls’ sports participation had a direct effect on women’s education and employment. She’s quoted in the New York Times: “It’s not just that the people who are going to do well in life play sports, but that sports help people do better in life,” she said, adding, “While I only show this for girls, it’s reasonable to believe it’s true for boys as well.” The same article cited the work of economist Robert Kaestner; he “compared rates of obesity and physical activity of women who had been in high school in the 1970s — as Title IX was taking effect — with similar women from earlier years. Controlling the results for other influences, like age and changing diets, Dr. Kaestner was able to tease out the effects Title IX had on women’s health… He found that the increase in girls’ athletic participation caused by Title IX was associated with a 7 percent lower risk of obesity 20 to 25 years later, when women were in their late 30s and early 40s.”
So, moving is good. Dreaming big is good, too (MacDonald’s, not so much). What about staying up late rooting for your guy to get the gold only to see him win it? It really is as they advertise: priceless.
