London 2012 as Masterpiece
Over the last fifteen days, I've fallen victim to the Olympics' siren call again and again and again. Much has rendered me sheepish -- maybe even ashamed. I've stayed up `till 3 (maybe, in all honesty, 4) in the morning, intent on becoming armchair proficient at every curve and every hill on the BMX track. I've decided that all must be right with the world now that Gabby Douglas and Missy Franklin have become America's official sweethearts; that Misty May Treanor and Carrie Walsh Jennings our official, ass-kicking best friends; that Claressa Shields is our new definition of fierce. I've concluded that the world is unjust because Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte have gotten so much air time, and all at the expense of Nathan Adrian's megawatt smile. I've cringed at every one of Aliya Mustafina's missteps; reveled in the great, speedy glories that are Allyson Felix and Carmelita Jeter; wished I were Grenadian so that the level of emotion I feel about Kirani James could be defensible; and padded around, crestfallen, after hearing that Mariel Zagunis had fallen to Olga Kharlan. As a bonus, after an accidental series of experiments which would make Pavlov (and Visa) proud, I now start bawling every time I hear Morgan Freeman's voice.
This happens whenever the Olympic Games, summer or winter, come around. Or, really, when any sporting event I remotely care about begins to air. My years on earth have convinced me that this love for sports spectatorship -- and for the Olympics and Wimbledon, in particular -- must be some Lo family phenotype. Lakers, Clippers, Kings and Dodgers paraphernelia were nowhere to be found in our house. Even the work of the Raiders and then the Rams went unacknowledged among us. What else but genetic material could describe the synchronicity with which my and my parents' love for Pete Sampras soon turned to mild worship of Roger Federer? And, sure, it might have been all too predictable that we would convert from Kristi Yamaguchi to Michelle Kwan once the former retired. But our undying reverence to Paul Wylie, lasting long into his undergraduate years at Harvard and then through his MBA at Harvard Business School? That was devotion. (Louisa Thomas's excellent "A Case of Olympism" is sure proof that there are other families with similarly coded chromosomes.)
A month and a half after the Atlanta games, our family's relationship to these greats began to change as we started devoting a large proportion of our energies to a sport we had only caught snippets of that summer. I was just going into ninth grade, and my high school was starting a girl's water polo team. I was one of a few other incoming 9th-grade girl swimmers who thought that it might be an interesting way to get out of swimming countless laps. I ended up getting the best pass a checked-out swimmer could get: they put me in the goal. It was a fluke, of course. I was (and still am) 5'3", with my growth spurt well behind me. During practice one day, the coaches realized they didn't have someone to mind the net for the JV players, so I poked my head in, and instantly fell in love. After getting my first piece of that whirlygig ball, my hands itched for the feeling again. And as weeks of practice became months and then years, a few tricks started falling into place. I surprised myself during one scrimmage when, after a teammate had cut loose for a breakaway, I made a pass all the way down to the other end of the pool and it landed perfectly in the catch of her stroke. I grew more and more comfortable being a second pair of eyes for my teammates and an in-pool messenger for our coach. I even derived a sick sort of pleasure from eggbeater-ing up and down the pool while lifting five- and ten-pound weights out of the pool, doing the first third of the length with with our hands out of the water, the second third with our elbows up, and the final stretch with our shoulders well above the water's rippled surface. It's quite possible that I now do yoga in order to relive the feeling of rising out of the water and stretching towards the upper corners of the goal...
I was never good enough to be scouted, and this made my loyalty to my teammates even stronger: our defense had to work as a highly practiced, scarily efficient machine. Everyone knew that my short wingspan made for a less-than-ideal situation, so whenever we were down a girl my teammates in the field covered the near-sides of the goal by shooting up their hands and lifting their shoulders and torsos well above the waterline. They worked small miracles -- kicking, grabbing, and scratching up our opponents -- to steal the ball as frequently as they did. We doled out numerous high-fives to each other, immediately gave props for sweet goals and sweeter assists, huddled ear-guard to ear-guard, pumped each other up with the requisite pre-game "Eye of the Tiger," consoled one another with tight squeezes after our losses, and fostered general good will even though we came from all different precincts of our high school's social landscape.
In their way, my parents followed suit. Up until I started goaltending, our family had marveled at the greatness of lone, individual athletes. But the fact that I would never be one of our team's marquee players didn't prevent my mom and dad from bringing to our matches the same fervor with which they had cheered for Greg Louganis at Seoul. They'd learned early on that they weren't just cheering for me; they were cheering for all the Wolverine girls, in the pool and on the bench. Behind my mask of embarrassment, even I knew it was fantastic.
Kids are a distant prospect for me, but if there's any Olympics I'll tell my sons or daughters about first, it'll be the one that's wrapping up in London right now. Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt will surely get their due, but the minutes I'll spend on them will be brief. What I can't wait to describe is not just the dominance of Team USA's women, but, more importantly, how effective, how unstoppable our ladies' teamwork has proved to be. For good reason, everyone's favorite example is the phenomenal beach volleyball duo, May Treanor and Walsh Jennings. Their mind-meld is the stuff of psychics' dreams. And, as Eleanor Barkhorn observes, this is not mysticism incarnate. Having played together for years, they've developed a combined "physical toughness and mental agility [that] is a salvo against the whole history of assumptions that women have inadequate bodies and brains." On and off the sand, they strike "a unique balance between humility and confidence." And when things weren't gelling in the months leading up to the games, they sought out a sports psychologist. All this shared intelligence is evident in the quick encouragement they give to one another between points, whether it comes in the form of a hug, a high-five, a pat on the shoulder, a pat on the butt, or a decisive fist-bump. It doesn't matter if they've won the point, they reinforce each other's mettle and renew their collective fortitude. It's awesome.
And what's even more awesome is how abundant this fellow feeling has been, how's it coursed through all the American women's teams that are bringing home gold. Cue the world record-breaking Smiley Group -- consisting of Missy Franklin, Dana Vollmer, Shannon Vreeland, and Allison Schmitt -- who eclipsed the rest of the field in the 4x200 relay. Stand in awe at the superhuman Fabulous Five. Consider Carmelita Jeter giving props to her relayers, Tianna Madison, Allyson Felix, and Bianca Knight, whom she knew would be "run[ning] their hearts out" as they smashed the 4x100 world record. There was Hope Solo, telling Bob Costas that this is the first real team, from subs to starters, that she felt really worked as a team. And then, when it came to my beloved women's water polo team, their coach Adam Krikorian was the first to stress that it wasn't all breakout Maggie Steffens -- "there's no way we do this without everyone else" -- and 4-time Olympian Brenda Villa confirmed: "It's nice to know that it pays off to really invest in something and be vulnerable and come together as a team." It's been an absolute love-fest among American women in London. And it's been a privilege to watch -- a privilege matched only by the pleasure of seeing that Samuel L. Jackson feels the same way.
The day after tomorrow, I will suffer the consequences of my outsize obsession. On my desktop wait an incomplete dissertation chapter, a backlog of meetings needing to be set, and dozens of emails that have been left without replies. There's also half a season's worth of "Project Runway" episodes that have been wasting away on On Demand. But these are burdens I'm willing to bear. For, despite the fact that Team USA is a convenient fiction, every two years, it provides me with something that little in our postmodern world can: a universally-acceptable license to let loose the corniest, most earnest, least ironic and--dare I say it?--most patriotic parts of myself. And this time, it has beyond exceeded my expectations. We've been witness to so much camaraderie, such goodness, such grace. Words seem inadequate to the task of describing the magnitude of these days of plenty. But, as with most things, Beyoncé has always known what's up. When she asks, "Who run the world?" The clear answer -- the only answer -- is "Girls."
* * *
This happens whenever the Olympic Games, summer or winter, come around. Or, really, when any sporting event I remotely care about begins to air. My years on earth have convinced me that this love for sports spectatorship -- and for the Olympics and Wimbledon, in particular -- must be some Lo family phenotype. Lakers, Clippers, Kings and Dodgers paraphernelia were nowhere to be found in our house. Even the work of the Raiders and then the Rams went unacknowledged among us. What else but genetic material could describe the synchronicity with which my and my parents' love for Pete Sampras soon turned to mild worship of Roger Federer? And, sure, it might have been all too predictable that we would convert from Kristi Yamaguchi to Michelle Kwan once the former retired. But our undying reverence to Paul Wylie, lasting long into his undergraduate years at Harvard and then through his MBA at Harvard Business School? That was devotion. (Louisa Thomas's excellent "A Case of Olympism" is sure proof that there are other families with similarly coded chromosomes.)
A month and a half after the Atlanta games, our family's relationship to these greats began to change as we started devoting a large proportion of our energies to a sport we had only caught snippets of that summer. I was just going into ninth grade, and my high school was starting a girl's water polo team. I was one of a few other incoming 9th-grade girl swimmers who thought that it might be an interesting way to get out of swimming countless laps. I ended up getting the best pass a checked-out swimmer could get: they put me in the goal. It was a fluke, of course. I was (and still am) 5'3", with my growth spurt well behind me. During practice one day, the coaches realized they didn't have someone to mind the net for the JV players, so I poked my head in, and instantly fell in love. After getting my first piece of that whirlygig ball, my hands itched for the feeling again. And as weeks of practice became months and then years, a few tricks started falling into place. I surprised myself during one scrimmage when, after a teammate had cut loose for a breakaway, I made a pass all the way down to the other end of the pool and it landed perfectly in the catch of her stroke. I grew more and more comfortable being a second pair of eyes for my teammates and an in-pool messenger for our coach. I even derived a sick sort of pleasure from eggbeater-ing up and down the pool while lifting five- and ten-pound weights out of the pool, doing the first third of the length with with our hands out of the water, the second third with our elbows up, and the final stretch with our shoulders well above the water's rippled surface. It's quite possible that I now do yoga in order to relive the feeling of rising out of the water and stretching towards the upper corners of the goal...
I was never good enough to be scouted, and this made my loyalty to my teammates even stronger: our defense had to work as a highly practiced, scarily efficient machine. Everyone knew that my short wingspan made for a less-than-ideal situation, so whenever we were down a girl my teammates in the field covered the near-sides of the goal by shooting up their hands and lifting their shoulders and torsos well above the waterline. They worked small miracles -- kicking, grabbing, and scratching up our opponents -- to steal the ball as frequently as they did. We doled out numerous high-fives to each other, immediately gave props for sweet goals and sweeter assists, huddled ear-guard to ear-guard, pumped each other up with the requisite pre-game "Eye of the Tiger," consoled one another with tight squeezes after our losses, and fostered general good will even though we came from all different precincts of our high school's social landscape.
In their way, my parents followed suit. Up until I started goaltending, our family had marveled at the greatness of lone, individual athletes. But the fact that I would never be one of our team's marquee players didn't prevent my mom and dad from bringing to our matches the same fervor with which they had cheered for Greg Louganis at Seoul. They'd learned early on that they weren't just cheering for me; they were cheering for all the Wolverine girls, in the pool and on the bench. Behind my mask of embarrassment, even I knew it was fantastic.
* * *
Kids are a distant prospect for me, but if there's any Olympics I'll tell my sons or daughters about first, it'll be the one that's wrapping up in London right now. Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt will surely get their due, but the minutes I'll spend on them will be brief. What I can't wait to describe is not just the dominance of Team USA's women, but, more importantly, how effective, how unstoppable our ladies' teamwork has proved to be. For good reason, everyone's favorite example is the phenomenal beach volleyball duo, May Treanor and Walsh Jennings. Their mind-meld is the stuff of psychics' dreams. And, as Eleanor Barkhorn observes, this is not mysticism incarnate. Having played together for years, they've developed a combined "physical toughness and mental agility [that] is a salvo against the whole history of assumptions that women have inadequate bodies and brains." On and off the sand, they strike "a unique balance between humility and confidence." And when things weren't gelling in the months leading up to the games, they sought out a sports psychologist. All this shared intelligence is evident in the quick encouragement they give to one another between points, whether it comes in the form of a hug, a high-five, a pat on the shoulder, a pat on the butt, or a decisive fist-bump. It doesn't matter if they've won the point, they reinforce each other's mettle and renew their collective fortitude. It's awesome.
And what's even more awesome is how abundant this fellow feeling has been, how's it coursed through all the American women's teams that are bringing home gold. Cue the world record-breaking Smiley Group -- consisting of Missy Franklin, Dana Vollmer, Shannon Vreeland, and Allison Schmitt -- who eclipsed the rest of the field in the 4x200 relay. Stand in awe at the superhuman Fabulous Five. Consider Carmelita Jeter giving props to her relayers, Tianna Madison, Allyson Felix, and Bianca Knight, whom she knew would be "run[ning] their hearts out" as they smashed the 4x100 world record. There was Hope Solo, telling Bob Costas that this is the first real team, from subs to starters, that she felt really worked as a team. And then, when it came to my beloved women's water polo team, their coach Adam Krikorian was the first to stress that it wasn't all breakout Maggie Steffens -- "there's no way we do this without everyone else" -- and 4-time Olympian Brenda Villa confirmed: "It's nice to know that it pays off to really invest in something and be vulnerable and come together as a team." It's been an absolute love-fest among American women in London. And it's been a privilege to watch -- a privilege matched only by the pleasure of seeing that Samuel L. Jackson feels the same way.
* * *
The day after tomorrow, I will suffer the consequences of my outsize obsession. On my desktop wait an incomplete dissertation chapter, a backlog of meetings needing to be set, and dozens of emails that have been left without replies. There's also half a season's worth of "Project Runway" episodes that have been wasting away on On Demand. But these are burdens I'm willing to bear. For, despite the fact that Team USA is a convenient fiction, every two years, it provides me with something that little in our postmodern world can: a universally-acceptable license to let loose the corniest, most earnest, least ironic and--dare I say it?--most patriotic parts of myself. And this time, it has beyond exceeded my expectations. We've been witness to so much camaraderie, such goodness, such grace. Words seem inadequate to the task of describing the magnitude of these days of plenty. But, as with most things, Beyoncé has always known what's up. When she asks, "Who run the world?" The clear answer -- the only answer -- is "Girls."
posted by Melissa at 3:39 AM
3 Comments:
Great writing, excellent perspective. Well done!
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Thanks, Mom!
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