The Olympic Games - A Personal Journey

My first memory of the Olympics is actually the “Moscow, Moscow” song from the 1980 Games. I was only four or five at the time so its stretching the memory bank quite a bit but that song has remained with me my whole life. As has the images of the funny dancing dudes kicking their legs into the air with their hands on the ground behind them.

Next came Los Angeles in 1984 and my main memory of those Games is the guy wearing the jet pack and ‘flying’ around the stadium during the Opening Ceremony. To a nine-year old watching a lot of Star Wars and Buck Rogers at the time it seemed like science fiction was becoming science reality. I wanted a jet pack myself and couldn’t understand why Mum and Dad wouldn’t relent. I do remember Jon Sieben’s heroics in the pool though, in taking down The Albatross, Michael Gross, from West Germany. My father was a keen swimmer himself so we watched a lot of the open air swimming pool and we loved the story of our David beating the world’s Goliath.

By the time the Seoul Games rolled around in 1988, I had an absolute love for the Olympics and was now old enough to stay up and watch them. I was in awe of everything about them and was thoroughly enamoured with what I believed were the ideals of the Olympic movement and the notion of bringing the world together and all that. I think I even did a few school projects over the years on the Olympics and knew all the history from the Ancient Greeks to Pierre de Coubertin to Jesse Owens and to Munich.

I guess I was pretty impressionable at the time, as all kids are in that age bracket. But the Olympics and the athletes seemed like gods to me and the competition and pursuit of excellence seemed so pure, so authentic. That changed in an instant though. Just as my sense of the Olympics was at its highest level.

I had watched in awe as Ben Johnson smashed the world record in the 100m and loved the fact he was quietly spoken in contrast to the loud mouth American Carl Lewis. For a few days, Ben Johnson was my hero. The embodiment of the Olympic ideal. From the slums of Falmouth, Jamaica he’d conquered the world. But it all came crashing down soon after. Everyone knows the history. Johnson failed a dope test after the race and was caught taking steroids. And then swiftly sent home while the Games continued around all the controversy.

I was guttered. I was hurt. I was just plain lost in trying to comprehend it all. To this day, I can still remember watching the coverage of Johnson being escorted through Seoul Airport on his way to a flight back to Canada. But most of all I remember the confusion. I just couldn’t understand it. The why and the how.

It might sound a bit dramatic, but a little part of me died that day. The part of me that was so in love with sport and the ‘pure’ notion of competition. The part of me that was in love with the Olympic movement and what I thought it stood for. My beliefs and feelings most definitely changed that day. From its highest point, it’s been in decline ever since.

The decision in 1990 to award the 1996 Games to Atlanta over Melbourne and Athens certainly didn’t help. As a teenager with little experience in the ways of the corporate world, I heard plenty of talk about commercialisation winning out in the end. The International Olympic Committee had merely chased the most money rather than choosing the best bid. The fact Atlanta housed the headquarters of the Olympics sponsor, Coca Cola, being the most obvious point.

Then came the taking of a Sociology of Sport subject during my uni days. To this day, I am thankful for taking that course, as it made me question all sorts of ideals that we hold about sport, especially in Australia, and showed me the power of myth-making and the notion of so-called ‘common sense’. Of course, the IOC and the Olympics were a major part of those studies and a spotlight was put on all the corruption, commercialisation and corporatisation that is involved.

The Sydney Games, however, evened my thoughts out a little. After being so high in my childhood, my feelings had turned to cynicism and distrust through my early adult years. But the “Best Games Ever” changed that a little and I thoroughly enjoyed those two weeks, albeit from the other side of the world in the United States. Finding any information about Australians and their results was tough, but I was still able to watch the ‘Mean Machine’ and their air guitars as well as The Race won by Cathy Freeman.

Since then, the Olympics have probably been a bit of a sideshow for me really. Perhaps it’s just getting a bit older and having more ‘serious’ responsibilities such as kids and mortgages and co, but the last couple of Games have just come and gone for me. I’ve certainly sat down and watched plenty of the events while they’re on and it’s been good to have a break from the endless procession of reality TV on our screens (or are the Olympics the ultimate in reality TV?).

The media hype and the resultant nationalism/jingoism does annoy the hell out of me though and makes me cringe at times. As does having to watch and listen to commentators who obviously know very little about their designated sport or the competitors. Overall, I probably ‘witness’ the Games rather than ‘enjoy’ them, but at the same time still take pleasure in the spectacle of athletes competing and some of the great stories that do arise. Especially those ‘surprises’ involving athletes from non-mainstream sports.

And so here we are on the day of the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 London Olympic Games. The Games are obviously front and centre all over our media and we’ve had weeks and months of hype around the organisation, the venues, the security and the transport. It’s like a broken record though. We get this in the weeks and months before every Games. Although with Athens it was probably a little justified.

My point is, that even the “Best Games Ever” were shrouded in controversy for years before and it rose to an absolute crescendo in the weeks before they commenced. I guess when you have thousands of journalists in town with nothing to report on yet, everything gets blown up and magnified far too much. Come the first race, the first game, the first match, it’ll all blow over and the athletes will be the main focus once again just as they should be. I’ve got no doubt these Games in London will be the same.

The controversies around commercialisation and branding are another matter. For me anyway. We’ve already seen stories about butchers and bakers having to cease having displays in their shops and even a London cafe having to drop the O in its name for the two weeks to call itself Cafe Lympic. Not too mention the exclusion zone around the Olympic Precinct where ‘Branding Police’ will be out in force stopping anyone from wearing certain clothing and certain brands. It’s all so bloody ridiculous and my cynicism and disgust rises again just as I’m starting to look forward to the actual event being on and the actual athletes being on show.

I guess that’s the story of my Olympic experience and my Olympic 'journey'. It’s a love-hate thing. It excites me at times, but annoys me at others. I put my faith in it at times, just for it to deflate me at others.

But will I be watching the Opening Ceremony early tomorrow morning and then hours and hours of it over the next two weeks? You bet I will. After all, it is the Olympics.

EDM.

The Watcher Series

Some of you might have noticed my output in relation to political posts has decreased dramatically. Well, there is a reason for that. Mostly around my current employment situation.

It's not for want of inspiration however. The goings-on in Queensland at the moment are providing plenty of inspiration with hypocrisy alerts going off on a daily basis and resultant levels of anger and disgust. But as I said, I just don't feel comfortable writing and posting my musings on it all. The risks are too great.

Someone, or some people, have no such qualms though and are taking all sorts of risks in producing The Watcher series of articles in The Brisbane Times. Trust me, some of the info and insights can only come from someone on the inside so there's some very brave person(s) deciding enough is enough and are trying to cut through the spin coming out of the Government.

Anyway, I'll let you guys decide on the legitimacy of The Watcher articles by allowing you to read them yourself. I'm not saying you have to fully take on board what is being said, but just open your mind to the fact not everything is what it seems from the Government side as they ramp up quite the media strategy to push their agenda. And to think Queenslanders voted the last Government out because they were sick of 'spin'.

Enough of the editorial though. Here's the link to The Watcher series. And here's one to yesterday's most recent article.

Decide for yourself then folks,

EDM.

AFL ROUND 17 - MELB V PORT

Via The Footy Almanac - http://footyalmanac.com.au/

================

It can be lonely being a Melbourne supporter. We’re not the club with the biggest membership nor do we regularly appear in the footy primetime. But as I entered the public bar of Queensland’s most famous pub, The Breakfast Creek, just before kick-off of a Super Rugby finals match involving the Reds, well, it doesn’t get much lonelier for a Queensland AFL fan. Let alone one that is a Melbourne supporter.

So it wasn’t quite like an old western where everyone in the bar turns and looks at the gringo walking through the bar, but I definitely felt a little out of place. Maybe if it was a Lions game I was there to watch it would be OK. But Melbourne vs Port Adelaide? From Darwin? “Not in here mate. Its the Reds on everywhere. Try the private bar.”

And like a mirage, there it was. In a dingy corner outside the toilets was one small television with the Dees-Port game on. I quickly sat down in front and checked the score. It was now 20 minutes into the game and the Dees had kicked five straight. Unheard of this year. If only my three-year old had gone to bed on time.

By the end of the first quarter, the scores sat at Melbourne 5.0.30 to Port’s 2.5.17. The Power’s inaccurate kicking obviously made the score look a little rosier than it truly was. Nonetheless, Brad Green was presenting well on the lead and the likes of Nathan Jones and Colin Sylvia were working well in close. That first beer tasted real nice and I actually looked forward to the next two hours. More than I could say for the natives in the public bar as loud groans and moans told the story of the Reds being two tries down already.

It seemed like God rebalanced things in the second quarter though as Port started winning the stoppages with ease and were moving it from coast to coast out of the Melbourne forward line. The likes of Green and our reluctant key forward Jared Rivers were still presenting but the kicking inside 50 was abysmal and the Port backs were having a field day intercepting and switching it down the other wing.

A couple of goals put Port in front as they controlled the footy but their goal kicking yips continued to get to 5.10 40 at the half. In contrast, the Dees would have been happy with having the yips that quarter as they didn’t even trouble the scorers until the very last minute. And yep, it was a point so they sat at 5.1.31. So despite the ineptness and horrible decision-making of the last 25 minutes, the Dees were only nine points down. Who’d have thought it?

The second half began where the first left off with the likes of Travis Boak and Dominic Cassisi winning the clearances and this Dees supporter gulping his beer down way to quick as the Melbourne midfielders continued to not man them up. All of a sudden a cheer erupted nearby and I knew at least the Reds at scored. Another gulp. But this time in celebration.

As the quarter progressed, the Dees actually started to win some ball and it was spending a lot of time in our forward line. The bad decision-making continued though and the game was turning into a real match of aerial ping-pong as each side’s defence was dominating and sending it back down opposing wings. Troy Chaplin and Alipate Carlile doing the damage for Port, and Jack Grimes and Tom McDonald doing it for Melbourne.

The big moment in the third quarter was that man Jeremy Howe again taking his weekly speccie. It came out of nowhere as it looked like just another long bomb into the forward 50 but Howe rose magnificently and used Stefan Martin as a stepladder to get even higher than his famous one at the SCG earlier in the year. A better mark for mine therefore, particularly as it was amongst a pack and required so much more to get the ball. Sammy Blease also chipped in with what is becoming his weekly left foot snap from an impossible angle. Sammy seems to be a one-trick pony at the moment, but oh what a trick it is.

Melbourne kept on creating the big moments but unfortunately not all were good. Colin Garland was having an indifferent night chasing Brett Ebert around but towards the end of the quarter he did something that made me stand up from my stool and swear loudly. Lucky no-one else was nearby so security didn’t turn up nor did the barman refuse me further service.

The incident in question? Garland, standing a few metres from his own goal line decided to kick the ball off the ground rather than pick it up and kick long down the line. He miskicked it though and ball landed safely on the chest of Port’s Paul Stewart who looked as surprised as everyone else to be lining up for goal for what would be his fourth goal for the night.

In the end, neither side would be proud of their third quarters despite those few highlights with skill errors and fatigue turning the game into a mistake-fest. The US Marines that turned up in the crowd on a little R&R must have been thinking the ball was coated in oil or something. “Those crazy Ooozies” you could imagine them saying. So the third quarter scoreline read 7.5.47 to Melbourne and 8.10.58 to Port. The Dees were still in it and once again I had some foolish expectation that just maybe we’d put in a decent last quarter after a number of late fadeouts over the course of the season.

And Melbourne started the quarter really well with Sylvia willing himself to every contest and Grimes showing some real polish off the half backline. The ball was getting to our forward 50 due to some great effort and tackling pressure but once again the lack of precision in our skills and the taking of the wrong option meant the Dees just couldn’t convert. And then the inevitable. Port finally got it past the centre line and bang, they kicked a goal against the run of play. I knew it was on the cards but it was hugely deflating nonetheless. Just like the other punters around the pub as I caught a quick glimpse of the rugby. The Reds had lost. 30-17. Ouch.

Melbourne were still in striking distance though and were attacking once again after the next centre clearance. But once again after a few minutes of us peppering our forward line, Port got it out and went coast to coast to kick another goal. And then another. And then another. It was drowning sorrows time now as the bar began to empty further. The only flicker of life when yours truly yelled another obscenity at the tele after Boak was again left unmanned at a crucial stoppage.

But really, I’d known it pretty much all night. Alas, it was now confirmed. All the brave tackling (doubling Port’s tackles) and hard-at-it contested footy just wasn’t enough. In the end you need to run and to spread and to carry and to hit targets with your foot and with your hand. Port weren’t precision-central either but they had it when it mattered and ended up being deserved winners when the siren finally sounded. Final score being 8.8.56 to the Dees and 12.12.84 to the Power. And the votes going to Boak (3), Grimes (2) and Stewart (1).

So after kicking five goals in the first quarter, Melbourne could only manage three for the rest of the game. As I trundled outdoors into the cool Brisbane night, I couldn’t help thinking that only the Dees could manage that. And just maybe that’s why it feels so lonely to support them sometimes.

EDM.

Gettin' Beardy

The great wise one, Wikipedia, tells me a beard is the collection of hair that grows on the chin, upper lip, cheeks and neck of human beings. Funny, I could have sworn I’ve seen beards on non-human beings. Some monkeys and gorillas have kick-ass ones. Goats though? They just have goaties. Boom tish.

Yes, today’s post is all about the big issues. The humble beard is back apparently. Not sure where it’s been but its back and even yours truly is sporting one. My particular story is that I thoroughly enjoyed not having to shave every day when on long service leave up the coast so it grew on me, quite literally, and I’ve still got it a number of months after our return.

So I read with even greater interest on Wikipedia that over the course of history, men with facial hair have been ascribed with various attributes such as wisdom, sexual virility, masculinity and higher status. Yeah, that sounds about right I reckon. For me anyway. I just won’t mention the next sentence – "beards have also been perceived to be associated with a lack of general cleanliness and a loss of refinement".

Wikipedia continues with a rather scientific take on the evolution of the beard. Apparently even Charles Darwin, awesome beard man himself, said there’s a evolutionary aspect to the beard in that sexual selection many have led to beards as “females in the past found them more attractive than mates without beards”. Wow. It’s confirmed then. Chicks dig beards. Darwin says so.

Myself? I'm not really sporting my beard for any evolutionary purpose. I’m just finding it a lot easier having a beard than doing the daily routine in the mirror and scraping the hell out of my face every morning. I’m down to a twice-weekly trim with my beard trimmer (every man should have one) and sometimes even forget to do that.

No bother. The difference of going a few more days without trimming/shaving is nothing really so I’ve sometimes gone a whole week before pulling the trimmer out again. And my beard's not even that massive. I won't be joining ZZ Top that's for sure. So imagine how long those guys can go without a trim. Could be measured in years I reckon.

I must admit there are a few times when the beard is little inconvenient mind you. I have sported the occasional frothy moustache from time to time after the first sip of my morning flat white and subjected myself to some odd looks as I walk down the street. Brushing my teeth also leaves me with a rather white chin that makes me recoil in horror for a split second thinking I’ve gone grey in a few short moments. The horror.

Overall though, I’m liking it and even the wife is liking it. Must be that masculinity and virility thing. And I think the son wouldn’t even recognise me without a beard now. “Mum, whose the new Daddy?” and all that. My mother-in-law is a different story though. I used to get a little chastised for a mere three-day growth so I can only imagine what she’s been thinking for the last ten months. But she’s been pretty polite about it so far and hasn’t written me out of the will just yet. Not that I’m aware of anyway.

The future? I don’t know to be honest. I certainly won’t be sporting my beard for ever and a day so it will come off at some stage. When that moment is I don’t know. Although the Eyeline swim every year at the Noosa Tri might be a catalyst for change. I could lose valuable seconds if I’m not appropriately streamlined.

But it might even come off before in. Who knows. I’ll probably wake up with an inclination to shave and the beard will be gone before I even realise. The son asking about the new daddy might be the first clue as to what I’ve done. The winter months certainly lend themselves to the beard though so it won't be any time soon.

Anyway, I’ll close this very profound and insightful blog post with the greatest band in the world right now, The Beards, whose songs include “If Your Dad Doesn’t Have A Beard, You’ve Got Two Mums” and “You Should Consider Having Sex With A Bearded Man”. If nothing else, it’ll bring a smile to your dial. Or maybe even a hair or two to your chin.

Yours in pondering looks while stroking mine (my chin that is),

EDM.

 

A Day At The Footy

I parked the car in a no-name suburban street and as I walked quickly towards the Chermside Bus Station, I realised this was the first moment I’d had to myself for the day. A moment to reflect then on what the next few hours might bring. The Brisbane Lions versus the Melbourne Demons at the Gabba.

And that reflective moment bought up a hint of expectation and a hint of optimism. Yes, we were missing our Great White Forward Hope in Mitch Clark but we’d won two out of our last three and had played some competitive footy over the last four weeks. Yes, Brisbane look to be on the improve having dispatched of both the Bulldogs and Eagles in recent weeks, but maybe the Dees have turned things around and just maybe we could pull off a win.

So I sat down on the bus and noticed I was the only Melbourne supporter on it. No big deal. I was wearing my jumper and scarf with pride (despite it being a 23 degree day) and happily continued with my reflections on the Dees’ chances. The bus then quickly moved through the brand spanking new Northern Busway and snaked its way through Brisbane’s northern suburbs so I pulled out my phone for any last minute message from my sisters and their husbands who I was going to be watching the game with.

Oh no. Double ‘oh no’. The news coming through was not good. Disastrous in fact. Nathan Jones and Mark Jamar were late outs with calf strains. So along with the already missing Mitch Clark and Aaron Davey (who’d finally found some form in recent weeks), we were now missing the bloke who’d have to be leading our best and fairest so far and our All Australian ruckman, who while not having his best year, is so important to our ‘structure’ and always gives his all.

Checking the expectation meter then, it had dropped dramatically. In fact, it had quickly nosedived to almost ‘no expectation’ levels but did manage to hover over the ‘we’re still some chance, aren’t we?’ mark. Ahhh, the plight of the Melbourne supporter. You do get used to it.

So I arrived at the ground and can honestly say there was a carnival atmosphere. Radio broadcast tents, merchandise stalls and kids jumping castles had taken over the Main St park entrance and my mood was enlivened by the sight of other Melbourne supporters in and amongst the crowd. It came as a bit of shock actually when a lot of the time it feels like you’re the only one in this fair city. The sight of my sisters dressed up in their Dees gear certainly helped though.

Tickets were promptly handed out and we walked around the back of the stadium along Stanley St towards our Gate. Ticket machine beeps and bag checks for the girls, and then we found our seats just a few rows back from where the Dees would be running out. Up close and personal and all that.

Soon the siren was sounding and the game was on. We squinted into the sun trying to see what was happening but after a few minutes maybe the sun in our eyes was a blessing. The Lions kicked a couple of quick goals but then the biggest disappointment; Tom McDonald being assisted off, coughing up blood right in front of us, after going back with the flight of the ball and getting cleaned up by Daniel Merrett.

I noticed Sam Blease running around a few minutes later and realised the Sub had already been activated. Then the news that McDonald was being rushed to hospital came via a friend watching the game on TV at home. So after Clark, Davey, Jones and Jamar being out, we had now lost our Rising Star nomination from just last week and were now a man short on the bench after only 10 minutes. And this on a warm Brisbane afternoon that must have been very foreign to those used to Melbourne’s recent weather. The expectation meter was heading south.

In contrast though, the Dees seemed to steel themselves with the news and looked hungrier and more skilful for a period and kicked the next three goals. Alas, there was also a number of missed shots on goal in there and I couldn’t help feeling we should have been a goal or two in front rather than a few points behind.

And then the inevitable. With two minutes left in the quarter, and the coaching staff still reeling from the positional loss of McDonald, Jonathon Brown kicks two quick ones by manhandling Jack Watts in the contest. Not Watts fault mind you. He shouldn’t have been left one-on-one with Brown. Especially as Brown has been ‘manhandling’ defenders for 10 years or more who would have had 8-10 kilos on young Jack.

The end result is that the Lions are comfortably in front by the end of the quarter when it was actually us that had the better of it for mine. The expectation meter did go up though as I felt the same effort and some straight kicking could see us pull them in and be in front at the half.

But what was I thinking? When will I learn? Yep, more of the inevitable.

The Lions quickly banged through three goals while we spent the rest of the quarter failing to trouble the scorers. We were down by 34 at half-time and the signs from the players in front of us as they walked down the race was not good. They look buggered already. The warm Queensland winter sun was taking a toll and being one down on the bench certainly wasn’t helping. In contrast, the Lions ran off the ground and were all high-fives and bum-pats.

By the time the third quarter started, the sun had finally gone down behind the stadium walls and we could watch the game without hands raised in front of our face. But again, maybe a clear view wasn’t what we wanted. More goals rained down for the Lions as they moved it impressively out of our forward half and consistently hit targets and stuck tackles. We were getting the ball into our forward line but with two defenders playing as forwards, easy shots on goal were missed and Brisbane seemed to go coast to coast at will. Not surprising then, that my beer consumption went up a notch as the events unfolding were bringing this man to drink.

The final quarter began as the temperature noticeably dropped and the Dees managed a couple of quick goals. The game was over with us being down by 50 but I consoled myself that maybe we could get some cheap junktime goals and narrow it down to 25-30 odd. Not such a horrible loss on the road and considering all our outs. But of course the Dees were unable to manage even that and the Lions were putting on ‘globetrotter’ footy with impossible snaps from the boundary and long bombs from 60m out. When it’s not your day, it’s just not your day.

Final scores ended up with us losing by 61. Hardly a word had been spoken between our crew for the last hour. But I’d suggest we were all thinking the same thing.

There was no point hanging around though so I said a quick goodbye and rushed off for one of the many buses lining up on Vulture Street. Wanted to get home quickly and in time to see the son before he went down for bed.

After those last few hours and with initial expectations being so cruelly crushed, you just need a little something to look forward to.

EDM.