In 1988 I was a real Canadian. I was glued to the Olympics, and was as ecstatic as every other Canuck when darling Elizabeth Manley unexpectedly walked away with the silver in women’s figure skating. To me it was even more dazzling than Ben Johnson’s medal that same year, especially since Manley’s gold has lasted so much longer.

Despite being enamoured with Manley, though, I have never been able to become emotionally invested in the Olympics. I just find it too tense. My stomach twists in knots when figure skating comes on, even though my daughter is positively addicted to it. What if they fall? Imagine, you've worked your entire life for this three minute program, and then you topple. Or maybe it’s skiing, and you lose by a fraction of a second. The world of amateur sport seems spectacularly cruel. These people have tried so hard, and yet they fail to secure a medal simply because they’re having a bad day.

I think my problem is that I don’t understand sport. After all, I’m the one who used to exacerbate my asthma to escape high school gym, so my ability to put myself in the shoes of a world-class athlete is rather severely limited.

Perhaps they're mature about it and they're just happy to be there, whether or not they win the medal. Perhaps being at the Olympics is enough to satisfy their quest for success, but being the competitive soul that I am, I find that hard to believe. I do not like losing consistently at cards, and if I play euchre too many times in a row without ever being dealt a Jack, my perspective on life dims considerably. I hate to think what I’d be like if I had dedicated my whole life to being the best in my field. But then, maybe that’s why I’m not the best!

At the Olympics, though, we’re supposed to celebrate the best, being in awe of others’ athletic prowess as we leave dents in our couches and empty bags of chips while watching their displays of physical glory. And occasionally I have overcome my fear of seeing people lose and I have turned on that television set.

In 1998 I tuned in to watch Elvis. I loved Elvis, even more than his namesake, because there was a man who redefined skating, making it more athletic, fun, and, dare I say it, masculine. I decided that my reticence to watch skating was silly, and if the skaters could take the stress, certainly I could, too. But Elvis lost the gold because he had suffered a groin injury and had been battling the flu. What an amazing performance anyway, but again, it shows that the Olympics doesn’t necessarily measure skill as much as it does luck—who’s lucky enough to escape illness, or family emergencies, or personal problems. As I’m writing this, skater Joannie Rochette has just learned that her mother died suddenly, two days before Joannie is set to compete. How absolutely horrendous, and I wish her all the best.

Sometimes all the training and all the preparation and all the work can’t compensate for the curve balls life throws you at the worst possible times.

I’m a horrible fuddy-duddy, and by the time you read this, perhaps Joannie will have already graced the medal podium. Of course, Canada will be proud of her no matter what she does, because she has already proven herself an amazing skater and a formidable competitor. I am proud and happy she represents our country, and I will proudly and happily allow my youngest daughter to stay up late to watch her and cheer her on. I just hope she doesn’t expect me to watch with her. I don’t think I can take that kind of stress.

Labels: columns, sports