From: buckland@ucs.ubc.ca (Tony Buckland)
Subject: Olympics musings
Organization: University of B.C. Computing Services
Distribution: na
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 1992 04:31:15 GMT

One last time, until 1996.  What is it, despite
commercialism, cynicism and far less than perfect coverage
by the media, that made those two weeks of watching
worthwhile and moved me, sometimes to tears?

Well, there was the spectacle of nations gathered in the
modern version of the Olympic truce, the one in which, while
the current conflicts carry on, the combatants' athletic
delegates at least improve the atmosphere and support hope
by competing in a more appropriate way.  And, really, how
few conflicts there are now, and how many nations marched
that have become free in the season of miracles since 1988.
It just went on and on, from a multiracial South African
team marching past Nelson Mandela, to Russians from St
Petersburg waving their pre-Revolutionary flag.

But after the parade came the competitions, and I thought
for a time that the one word for what I saw there in all the
best moments was "grace".

Grace in action, aplenty.  Even in the jaunty dignity of
Guillaume Leblanc at the finish of the 20-kilometre walk.

But also grace under pressure - which was Hemingway's
definition of courage.  As in Silken Laumann's bronze medal
performance after a shattering injury that had made her use
a cane to limp to practice, that had made her elect not to
parade with her team because she would hold everyone else
back.  As in Sylvie Frechette, producing beauty despite
shock and grief.  As in Matt Scoggin, wiping out in a
platform dive and suffering an impact of which he said, "I
can't describe how big the pain was," then going back up and
making his three remaining dives even though the only place
he could still achieve was tenth out of twelve.  As in Derek
Redmond, hopping on his one remaining good foot to finish
his 400 metres, though he would achieve no place in the
record book at all because he finished with assistance,
leaning on his father.  As in Magic Johnson, beaming on
under a death sentence from AIDS (he could have been acting
out an answer to the question, "What can you do when you
know you're going to die?" with the words of Angolan
basketball coach Victorio Cunha: "We can play.  We can
play").

And there was grace in behavior, as in Frechette hit once
more, with human error compounded by official stupidity.
As, again, in Johnson.  And as in South Africa's Elana Meyer
congratulating Ethiopia's Derartu Tulu and then grabbing an
Olympic flag to run behind her, with her, the two smiling
back and forth, in a joint victory lap that was a marvel of
symbolism.

Yes, I thought the word was "grace".  Although that didn't
quite convey, for instance, what Hassiba Bolmerka achieved
in winning the women's 1500 metre run (she kept pointing to
her chest afterwards, and I thought she was showing that
she, a woman, had won; but I turned up the sound, and she
was excitedly chanting "Algeria!" - so much for the
fundamentalists in her country who despise her because she
runs without covering her legs).

But then came the last event, the men's marathon, and as
Hwang Young-Cho threw his arms up in triumph at the finish I
saw again the anonymous Athenian messenger who made the
first such run, the one from Marathon itself, and I realized
that his reported words were the truly right ones for all
those who actions had so moved me:

  -  in the face of agony

  -  in the face of tragedy

  -  in the fight against oppression, be it political,
     sexual or racial

  -  in the struggle against all limits seemingly set by
     distance, time and gravity, and by past performances
     which appeared unsurpassable

  -  in the face of the unfairness of fate and human
     foolishness

  -  even in the face of death

  "Rejoice!  We conquer!"
Newsgroups: can.general