The Snow and the Flurry

I have always loved the Winter Olympic Games. They give me an excuse to hum the John Williams theme music and they provide endless hours of televised entertainment (as long as they're not airing long-course speed skating). During Lillehammer (`94) and the early days of the internet, I looked up the United States Luge Association on the web and sent them an SASE for a USLA decal. I believed that upon sticking the decal on the family car I would become the fastest, most aerodynamic female luger the world had ever seen. But I never did put the bumper sticker on my mom's Volvo. So, letting bygones be bygones, I have since watched powdery Olympic glory from afar, usually wrapped in a wool blanket with a cup of hot cocoa. As it turns out, this has been a quite satisfactory situation.

The Olympics are the only time when I get to see Bob Costas's sportscaster's glow, and it couldn't be more welcome. This time around, Costas has had plenty of news to report: Michelle Kwan withdrawing, possibly hinting at retirement (i.e. "skating will always be in my heart"); the adorable, loveable 19 year-old Shaun White asking Sasha Cohen out on a date during his post-gold medal press conference; the so-close efforts of Tony Benshoof; and Apolo Ohno's heartbreaking fall. All this (and more) has been covered quite well by both the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times. Other things that have been charming about the games: Neve and Gliz; the uninteresting interesting debate between calling the city "Torino" or "Turin"; re-learning what the sport Skeleton is; and the low hopes for this being America's dream Winter Olympic team. It's also been awesome that NBC can superimpose downhill skiing runs on top of one another. Oh, the wonders of technology!

My personal experience of the Olympics is always embarassingly emotional. I'll basically cry at any profile provided that there are either cute baby photos or personal obstacles overcome -- and the NBC producers never fail to add these into every spotlight segment. Then, additionally, I'll shed a tear whenever an American sheds a tear while standing at the podium and singing "The Star-Spangled Banner." This, I claim, is evidence of my patriotism, not necessarily my emotional susceptbility. And, with these games so far--even though Michelle Kwan seemed to have secured her spot on the figure skating team in a sneaky sort of way--I even teared up during shots of her farewell conference.

Kwan's withdrawal marks the end of an era -- the era of my sad attempts to imitate her camel spins (indeed, my parents can attest to my incapacity for such grace). But beyond that, I have always felt a kinship toward Kwan, she being an Asian-American from Southern California with a flat nose, born in the early `80s. And I always hoped to be as humble and good-spirited, driven and determined as she. It now feels strange that an ambassadorial someone from my generation has become 'too old' for that in which she excels. Sports, acting, and rock and roll -- and sometimes even art and literature-- are almost inherently, by virtue of contemporary currents and next-big-thing-itis, agist. And sports, above all, test the mortality of their practitioners and the spring-iness of their tendons. But seeing Kwan in her black cowl-neck almost seemed to signal a shroud of mortality. It made me pause for a second... twenty, more like. I suppose our most innocent days are behind us. Then came Bode Miller on the downhill slopes...

Later, I let Bob Costas ease me back in to Apolo's short-course semi-final. I caught a glimpse at the slopes beyond French flag-colored wigs and the seas of Italian flags. And I reacclimated to my giddy anticipation of the 20th Winter Olympics. I think that's what Neve and Gliz want from me. And I suppose, for now, I'll think of it as something like a return to innocence.