London Olympics: Hearts of Gold

I've been watching the Olympics rather religiously. It was a tradition of sorts in my family, and it seems that the ritual has stuck. After all, who cannot appreciate the world's finest athletes competing, sacrificing, and fighting for gold. There is no lack of drama, back story, media hype, and suspense. Perfectly sculpted bodies, with laser-like focus, disciplined, and meticulously trained keep us on the edge of our seats as they run, flip, fly, dive, kick, paddle, reposte, fling, spike and shoot.

The margin for error at this level of competition can be a hair off center, a splash, an extra hop, a perry, a point, or hundredths of a second. The majesty and poetry of what their bodies are capable of doing is inspiring, jaw-dropping, and often downright unbelievable. With steeled nerves, icy veins, and expressions that indicate their minds are on parallel planes, they take their positions...gravity is defied, time slowed, and sometimes for only mere seconds, they captivate millions. On this stage, heroes are made, naysayers quieted, nations shocked, hopes shattered, careers forged, and dreams fulfilled.

The true magnitude of what these athletes can accomplish boggles my mind. Some show such resilience and perseverance, while others succumb to pressure and scrutiny. While we all love to see our respective countries victorious, I think we allow ourselves to be consumed by whether or not a medal is won. Such seductions are inevitable, easy even. However, my attention is often stolen by an athlete who is simply grateful and humbled by the opportunity to compete, tasked with carrying not only their own aspirations, but those of an entire country.

A couple of nights ago, I was watching men's gymnastics and saw an unlikely competitor, an underdog from Ireland that had overcome amazing adversity. The announcers mentioned the sacrifices this young man had made simply to make it to the games in London. They alluded to the support from his family, all the bake sales and car washes, scrounging together enough funds to compete in various events. But that isn't all. He overcame countless injuries, a botched leg surgery that left him with extensive nerve damage and doctors that told him he would never walk again. Later, he suffered a brain injury that threatened his gymnastic hopes again.This too he overcame. With such a display of tenacity, resolve, and sheer will, who could not wish him the best? Who among us could not root for him?

I don't want to take away from any other athlete's success, plight, or their similarly daunting obstacles. Please revel in the dominance of the USA's women's beach volleyball tandem of Misty May-Treanor and Kerry Walsh. Cheer for the Michael Phelps's, the Dana Vollmers, and the Ryan Lochtes. I certainly did, but don't forget that the hope of some countries rests upon the shoulders of young men with torn rotator cuffs, on surgically repaired legs, and damaged brains...upon the dreams of boys so brave that they defied doctors and science, simply refusing to give up.

In my mind these are the true champions. Not the privileged with unfettered access to facilities, unlimited resources, or those endowed with impressive frames or inherent physical prowess, but those who were laughed at, ridiculed, and told no. Kieran Behan did not win a medal in this Olympics, but he won something more grand than gold: not only was his dream of reaching the Olympic stage realized, but he walked away with our hearts and knowing that he has set an example for everyone who will ever face adversity, or have to hear the unsavory echo and seemingly insurmountable weight of the word no. It is this aspect of the human soul that makes me truly awestruck and fraught with compassion. Winning an Olympic medal is undoubtedly an impressive feat, but sometimes just getting there is in a class all its own.

Bloodshed at the 1984 Olympic Trials

Because my little sister and I were closest in age, we generally were forced to entertain each other against our will. From time to time, boredom would overcome our desires to push each other off of a cliff and we would be civil enough to play a game or two, but usually our loathing was too much to suppress and we'd end up fighting, me armed with superior intellect, and her with sharp teeth.

One day my best friend Robert and his little brother David came over to play. Our driveway was at an impressive incline, which made for perfect high-speed descents in my flashy new wagon. After a while, my little sister wanted in on the action. She was obviously unaware that girls are not allowed on all men, Olympic training bobsled teams and I was certainly not budging on a hundred year old policy. In an act of misplaced female activism and defiance, my little sister marched to the pole near the bottom of the driveway and in silent protest, blocked the wagon's path. 

I issued multiple warnings as Robert and I prepared for our next run, but little sis held fast in her sacrificial stance. I figured that once she saw the wagon speeding towards her, that she would naturally move out of the way, but I truly underestimated her resolve and passion for bobsledding. True to my word, Robert and I pushed off and quickly jumped in the wagon, hunching down to maximize acceleration. Fatefully, I was at the helm, steering the red bullet as it raced down the slope, all the while expecting the deviant holding on to the pole to bale on her useless tirade at any second. Before I knew it, the handle flew from my hand and the wagon, seemingly possessed, careened towards my sister as it picked up speed. 

I fumbled to regain control, but the handle fell forward and away from my grasp, and was now shooting straight out like a spear, and a split second prior to impact, I was made aware of its target...my sister's hand. This wagon was not made from plastic, but of rugged, unrelenting iron, and it pierced through her pudgy, 4 year old flesh and sinew like butter. Before we knew the reality of what had transpired, shrieks of murder ringed in our ears and the sight of a thumb hanging on for life by a sole strand of tissue, was indelibly seared into memory for eternity. Our mother, well versed in first aid, immediately came to the rescue. Unfazed by the sight of blood, or the dangling digit, scooped up the wounded bystander, wrapping her hand in ice and towels, and rushed to the hospital.  

My initial response was, "I told you so", but after the bloodshed and horror, I was truly remorseful and upset. The whole time she was gone, I hoped that her thumb could be reattached and that the Olympic trials would eventually resume without any more hiccups. I now know the answer to the question posed by many physics teachers, "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?" In the end, the little brat returned bandaged and well, and so began a deep seeded hatred that gave birth to years of my little sister's vengeful wrath, and eventually another story of when she had to be rushed to the hospital after another one of my brilliant ideas.