We don’t have a TV at home, so we’ve missed the much-drubbed NBC Olympics coverage. So when a little friend of my son’s said she’d been watching, I asked her if any of the events had inspired her to want to be an Olympic athlete when she grew older.
“Yeah!” she raved. “Just wait! I’m gonna be a rock star and I’ll ride onto the field with my helmet on my head and my crossbow on my back and I’m gonna have a band and six backup singers, and then when they light the torch, all the soldiers I’ve been saving in my disk drive are gonna burst onto the screen and do a dance and then there’ll be fireworks, fireworks, fireworks, boom, boom, kaBOOM! Like you’ve never seen before!”
Flushed from such imaginative exertions, this dangerous little person ran off with my precious son, she humming a tune by Britney Spears, he shouting a song by the Backstreet Boys. (It was a perfect fugue, by the way. Has anyone else noticed that Britney is just Lance hung upside down and played backwards?)
Each culture develops its own sense of sport, I suppose. When I travel, I confess I make up for the deprivation at home by watching a lot of hotel-room television. I am always fascinated to see the kinds of competitive sports that people will sit up late for in other parts of the world. I’ve been to Edinburgh during sheepherding finals (sort of a par course for sheepdogs grafted onto a running of the bulls, except with large shaggy rams. Like Babe, but vicious). I’ve spent time with friends in Minnesota where ice fishing–which is, I assure you, one of the slower sports known to mankind–took up Real Time in dinner party conversation.
Once I spent five days in a small German town in a university dormitory built on the site of what had been a Nazi bank vault. This being truly the belly of the beast, I was not at all surprised when the heat went out the moment I got there. Within hours, I fell sick with a raging fever, my body temperature rising with each degree the room temperature fell. As I lay shivering beneath the thin cotton blanket, I used my last ounce of strength to flick through the channels on the steel television set (which was bolted to a fixed rod hanging from the ceiling, like the ones in hospitals or prisons). Aside from the ubiquitous CNN, all the available stations were displaying the same sporting event–in German, Swiss German, Farsi, Turkish and Basque. The event in question appeared to be a particularly formal version of Austrian dressage: horses with knotted manes and beribboned tails prancing rigidly through backbreakingly unnatural placements and postures, two-stepping, then waltzing to martial music. The riders, who wore high hats and polished boots, put the animals through their paces with the reins tightened so as to hold the horses’ necks upright, the bits so tight the horses looked as though they were leering. The riders were tense and ferocious. The horses were precise, wild-eyed, slobbering with foam.