The flag was lowered and the flame, lit seventeen days previously by one of boxing's living legends, expired. So ended the Centennial Olympic Games in Atlanta, Georgia. I had looked forward with enormous anticipation to the Twenty-Sixth Olympiad. The opening ceremony had certainly been "something to see," with its five colorful "Olympic Spirits" moving in time to the dramatic music which filled the stadium; to say nothing of the creative depiction (in silhouette form with the aid of spotlights and a white sheet of immense proportions) of the figures found on ancient Greek pottery. How majestic they were captured in those sporting poses...the discus thrower, the javelineer and the archer. This was an excellent and innovative beginning. My hopes were high for these Games.
After the pre-recorded showing of events from Barcelona in 1992 and Seoul in 1988, necessitated by the time difference between the United States and those venues, and the fact that to televise them live would have meant expecting audiences to tune-in at odd and inconvenient hours (thereby reducing the revenues to be gleaned from prospective advertisers no doubt), I relished the notion of being able to see many of the quests for gold as they actually happened. True, to an ardent Olympic fan like myself, it's not the same as being there, but it IS the next best thing! However, it had been predetermined that I was to be denied this small pleasure. Just punishment perhaps, ordained by the omnipotent Gods of old Mount Olympus as retribution for the fact that I was living only a hop, skip and jump away (as the crow flies--or as the triple jump athlete leaps) and had nevertheless opted not to attend. If only they had realized, in their infinite wisdom, that this decision had not been made by choice but lack of necessary funds, maybe they would have favored me with sympathetic kindness!
For reasons I cannot begin to fathom, the network chose to tape most of the major events and then air the footage at a later time. Case in point: the final of the womens' gymnastics competition for the team gold. During a station break, at a rather crucial point, when it was questionable whether the young American woman who had just suffered an ankle injury on her first vault would be able to attempt a second, I speedily changed television channels. I can't explain why. I had no intention of watching anything other than the Olympics that evening. Perhaps I'd already seen the intervening commercial several times within the course of an hour; perhaps I was overcome with an abrupt case of "itchy trigger finger" or suddenly afflicted with the limited attention span of the average gerbil--who knows? The fact remains that I gripped the remote control in my hot little hand and rapidly fired its arrow keys.
Highly-prized and coveted gold medals hung precariously in the balance. America had the opportunity to bask in the glory of seven petite but deceptively strong and athletic "little girls" if only the injured gymnast could execute the vault and "stick" the landing. What a cliff-hanger! It was one that could have equalled the escapades of Pearl White herself and the suspense was tantamount to that found in a Hitchcock thriller. It was the stuff of which dreams (and Kodak moments) are made.
Imagine then, my consternation and dismay (not to mention confusion) when in my haste to return to this gripping drama, I happened on a certain "all sports" station. There, before my disbelieving eyes, the aforementioned "Team USA" (did anyone else get sick to death of that catchphrase, or was it just me?) of female athletes descending from the top step of the podium, clutching winners' bouquets and each sporting (if you'll excuse the expression) a bright and shiny gold medal.
"When did THIS happen?" I asked myself, skipping frantically backward, screen-by-screen, until I arrived just in time to see the courageous action that secured the number one position; however, the moment was spoiled. Since I had just seen the gymnasts in possession of their treasured gold, then it was obvious that the vault had been performed with excellence and the gutsy kid had come through for her country, herself and her teammates like the trouper that she was.
From that point on, I doubted everyone and everything. I still watched the Games, of course. After all, had I not waited four years for this? But each heat was regarded with skepticism; each final viewed with distrust; and each event became questionable. I was suspicious almost to the point of paranoia: "Is it real, or is it Memorex?" I'm sure that at least SOME of the action came across the airways "in living color," but which...and when? As far as I'm aware, with the exception of the Opening and Closing Ceremonies, the public at large could never be certain if they were witnessing events as they actually took place, or merely viewing edited footage whose obscure origin lurked in some undetermined timeframe of the previous 24 hours.
Since I appear to be "on a roll," let me add yet another gripe (is it apparent yet that I was thoroughly disenchanted?). Was it really necessary to compare the achievement of almost every "foreign" athlete to that of the American competitor who happened to be in the same event? I fully understand that coverage of the Games held in a certain country cannot help but be geared toward that country's viewing masses--it's only natural--but, it would have been nice to see some of the other countries' heroes receive their hard-earned awards.
Perhaps I'm being unfair. As a British native, I was looking forward to seeing some of the "Bulldog Breed" put their best foot forward. As it stands, even now, I'm not sure how many medals "we" won. It's true "our" pickings are usually on the slim side, but it would have been nice to know, one way or the other.
Frankly, and in summation, I found the Centennial Games to be a disappointment. I was dissatisfied with the coverage and often found it way too biased. I knew which swimmers, for instance, were from the United States. The announcer had made a point to tell me many times before the race had even begun, and I was fully aware of which lane the American swimmers occupied (having probably also been given that piece of information more times than you could shake a stick at--or a relay-runner's baton, come to that). I really didn't need the visual aid of an arrow positioned atop the bathing cap (which, incidentally, bore the American flag on it anyway) in order to keep track.
I do hope I'm not being totally unjust with these comments. I certainly wanted to see the American athletes, they are among the finest in the world, but I wanted to see British athletes too. Basically, I wanted to see a good selection of athletes from every country which was participating, or at least as many as were feasible. This was, after all, the Olympic Games...not the USA versus the Rest of the World.
The Centennial Games have now become part and parcel of Olympic history. There were high points and there were low points--much like every other Olympiad, I suppose. What is most important is that the champions had their moment to shine and the memory of being in attendance will last a lifetime to both participants and spectators alike. But, for those of us who watched courtesy of (and at the mercy of) television, we were sadly deprived of witnessing highlights and achievements as they occurred.
However, with an optimism which, much like the true meaning of the Olympic spirit, refuses to wane or become discouraged, I now look forward with great anticipation to the First Olympiad of the New Millennium to be held in Sydney, Australia (just can't keep a good Olympic fan down, I guess). My congratulations, admiration, respect and esteem go out to the world's athletes who took part in the Centennial Games...to both medal-winners and non-medal-winners. I refuse to use the word "losers" since there are none on such a prestigious occasion.
So, having said my piece and stood upon the soapbox far too long than is probably good for me, I'll bid a final farewell to Atlanta. The next time the Olympic Flag is displayed, it will be in Australia--land of kangaroos, koala bears and Crocodile Dundee. The coverage, I know, will still not be live (that pesky time difference strikes again), but at least this time I'll know that from the start and, like those trusty boy-scouts, will be prepared.
All in all, Georgia didn't turn out to be all she was cracked up to be; hopefully a waltz with Matilda will prove infinitely more satisfying.