I first paid attention to the Olympics in 1988. The only thing I remember was that Ben Johnson cheated and Linford Christie was the first black guy with a British accent I had ever heard. That blew my mind – the accent, not the cheating. Then in 1992, my family moved back to Ohio and we had no cable. In fact, the only channel we had was NBC right at the start of the Barcelona games…and it nearly broke me.
Boxing? Love it, until an American gets robbed. This happens a lot. Track and field? 100m, yes, but try watching a/the/who cares what preposition steeplechase or a hairy pitted Eastern European chick pole vault. No thanks to synchronized swimming – what in the hell is that, anyway? Of course if the U.S. wins, I’m all about it. Go America!
What nearly did me in, though, was a sportscaster by the name of Bob Costas. For those that don’t watch, Mr. Costas has to do a human interest/pity party story before EVERY SINGLE FUCKING EVENT!!! Example: “When Sergei was running through the golden fields outside Kiev, he dreamed of running for a different gold. Olympic gold. Then his mother got an infected hemmorhoid and it all changed. Sergei had to lance it, each night, the needle symbolizing the stabbing pain of knowing his dream was lost…” Fast forward, blah blah blah, it all turns around. I don’t know if you lance a hemmorhoid, but that’s not the point. Honestly, after 57 stories like that, you just don’t give a shit anymore. Plus when Sergei chokes and you do care, then your day is ruined. Poor bastard, back to the ass lancing! That’s why I watch just for the blind patriotism – run it up, Dream Team 7 or whatever number it is by now! Take that, French Guyana! Suck our capitalism!