Posted on 02/24/2002 2:29:17 PM PST by Utah Girl
Little things that make up lasting Olympic memories
The Olympics are too big to put into one box, so we divide them into bite-size pieces.In the end, there is no way to remember complete events, the sequential results, even what day they occurred. The names get fuzzier with each memory stored on top of the next one.
For millions of people, the Olympics were what NBC brought to them. They were up close, sometimes in slow-motion, spliced into digestible nuggets with a backdrop of endless analysis. The lasting images may be of Sarah Hughes' squeal, or Apolo Ohno's fall, maybe Jimmy Shea's photograph of his grandfather. Maybe it's of Bob Costas in an easy chair.
I'm only assuming he was in an easy chair, probably near a fireplace. I never saw NBC's coverage. The one time I saw Bob Costas, he was eating kung pao in a restaurant. I did catch Matt Lauer in a beret once, but that might have been a bad dream.
My images rarely were the same ones everyone else saw. Friends and family would send e-mails, asking about controversies and events that I knew nothing about. I tried to explain that I was too close to the Olympics to have a clue what was going on.
But I know I was there.
I know because I saw the Mormon Tabernacle Choir joining the wave at
the Opening Ceremony. I heard helicopters buzzing overhead, impossible not to notice when the music and the cheering stopped. I remember swimming through a crowd of young girls outside the stadium, each in an oversize, fluffy costume and anxiously waiting her worldwide role as an extra in the ceremonies. It was like walking through a giant bag of cotton balls, except they all wanted to high-five.
I remember standing in a crowd of Polish fans, cheering Poland ski jumper and national hero Adam Malysz while getting cell-phone calls from a world away. I got shivers when the crowd erupted over Jonny Moseley's dinner roll -- twice. I got them again when the crowd gave a similar reception to a skier who face-planted among the moguls, hiked back up to retrieve his skis, and finished the race.
I heard tiny Bonnie Blair, standing on her toes to get a better view, rattling a cow bell for every speedskater that passed, American or not. I saw Chris Witty enter the interview room, and was surprised that an Olympic champion and world-record holder could look so much like a bookstore clerk. I saw teammate Jennifer Rodriguez answering questions about her bronze medal from the seat of an exercise bike she was riding.
I smelled countless sportswriters jammed onto slow-moving buses. I heard countless languages spoken at every turn. I saw the sun come up in the Wasatch Mountains, more times than was necessary to appreciate. I tasted too many hot dogs, some of them too many times.
I heard Swiss curling fans burst into quick, incomprehensible chants. I saw Lech Walesa sitting in the warm sunshine, cheering a countryman. I saw one of the Games' greatest champions cry into his hands at the mention of his dead father. I saw an unknown luger fall short of a medal and embrace a dying father.
I saw one women's hockey team cry as the other threw its equipment in the air, one stick landing several rows into the crowd. I heard a goalie from Belarus nearly apologize for his team beating Sweden in men's hockey. I felt the noise when the Americans beat the Russians.
I saw a man from Nepal and a man from Cameroon embrace at the cross-country finish line. I saw a luger cry because he just watched his son compete in the same race he had. I heard Kenyan skier Philip Boit politely asking for the cell phone number of his hero, Norwegian cross-country legend Ole Einar Bjoerndalen. And I heard Daehle give it back.
I saw people with no chance of winning basking in the moment. And I was one of them.
Yes that was nice ...
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