A Pure Spectator's Look Back at Les Jeux Olympiques d'Hiver

I love the winter, but only in theory these days.  Having lived in winterless climes for the past umteen years, I realize that my tropicalization is nearly complete and I would probably hate the winter if I had to experience it for more than a day or two.  Full disclosure: I can't even feel my fingers and toes when the A/C is on full blast at work.  But, I grew up with winter, albeit a fairly mild version of winter of Long Island tempered by proximity to the Atlantic's warm waters.  It was winter nonetheless. The bay would freeze over and we would go ice skating.  The snow would fall and snowmen would arise in the yard.  Untold hours were spent outside making and throwing (and hopefully pegging someone else in the face with) snowballs, wearing too large snowpants and too small duck boots and knit mittens that within minutes were not only soaked but frozen stiff the wear of which seemed preferable to making snowballs with no barrier between fingers and snow.  No one wanted to come back inside until all the fun that was possible was soaked out of the day, because once you went in the warm crackle of the fire burning inside the lapis blue enamel coated cast iron fireplace guarded by the two stern hessian soldiers drew you in with its warm arms and wouldn't let you go.

There was that memorable childhood ski trip  to Vermont.  Velamints from the vending machine that accepted pennies and free hot cocoa at the lodge, lessons for the older girls from a (as legend has it) fantastically handsome college student named Rob who was equally and uniquely in love with each girl who remembers the story, lessons from some lesser human for the youngsters.  Thermal long johns, James Taylor, Carly Simon, and the Everly brothers as accompanied by John and sung in three part harmony by the ladies, with (loudest and longest) countermelody by dad and conducted by the perfect pitch having, knower of all harmonies, muth.

I even went to College in Colorado and had more than my fair share of ski trips to the various resorts of the region.  I just never got very good at the snow sports.  I think I was always scared of breaking something and thereby losing my place on the swim team, which was basically unimaginable as it was pretty much the only thing that kept me sane during my tenure at the Colorado Drinking College of the Rockies.  (If Yiotula is reading this: I remember when we went ice skating at the hockey rink...I thought I was so cool because a: seniors were hanging out with my lowly freshman butt, and b: I'm pretty sure that adorable blond firstie with the tats on his leg helped me up one time when I fell.)

So the Winter Olympics have a special whimsy to them in my sight.  I have memories, mostly good (although ask me about that snowstorm the night before my graduation, sometime, it's a doozy), of my times in snowy places to which I am always taken back whenever I see these games.  I was never a winter athlete so I have no delusions that make me want to become the oldest ski jumper at the next Olympics.  Just the right mix of memory, magic, fantasy, and snow to make them seem ethereal and otherworldly.  But these are sporting events, and there's no containing my rabid fan status of all things athletic, and there is no quelling my enthusiasm for #Murica.  So, here I have sat for the past 16 evenings, watching and screaming at the TV, hoping for these events to place the red white and blue at the top of the podium.

First of all.  Russia.  Not a huge fan.  Especially because I was constantly creeped out by Putin creepily popping up here and there with his creepy old man lurker face.  Plus, the venues with the ubiquitous "Hot. Cool. Yours." What are they Belks? "Modern. Southern. Style."  Free word non-association.  Words that don't go together in anyway whatsoever?

Bob Costas threatened to derail (said darryl) these games right from the start.  I guess, in his defense, perhaps he had never had that good Russian Vodka straight from the source before these games.  And maybe a few of the local Russian extras on set were daring him to go shot for shot, or sip for sip as they would think of it, with them.  Bob, note for next time: never get in a land war in asia, never go in against a sicilian when death is on the line...oh and only slightly less well known than those two - never try to drink Vodka (Russian slang for water) at the same rate as the fellas from Sochi. The drunkenness, aka Bob's eye infection (wink) made Bob even less interesting and more annoying than usual.  And believe me when I say Bob is nigh unto my least favorite TV personality.  They hilariously put him on the fast track detox program and we got a more than slightly mockish Matt Lauer as his replacement for a few days.  Talk about your travelling mercies!

The agony of defeat was really the theme for me, personally, as I watched USA set me up with Gold Medal hopes and then BOOM!  The flying tomato posts a score that would have won the gold by quite an impressive margin during the qualifying rounds and then doesn't even medal for trying so hard to put the most epic halfpipe run of all time down.  Bode Miller, my Winter Olympic love of my life, fellow old person, wearer of scruffily handsome facial hair, has the most impressive training runs, far outperforming the field, and doesn't land on the podium once the actual event arrives. Oh! Canada! Dealing our hockey boys and girls defeat after defeat.  Those two days were excruciating: all the effort of live streaming those games straight into my classroom in an attempt to educate these children of the south about a little cold weather culture, all the struggling not to screech at the players things that at are unseemly to say in front of ninth graders at a Christian school, all of the breath holding and high hoping.

In the midst of my disappointment at these games I was struck by the different kind of attitude the Winter athlete brings to sport.  I suppose it would be called the "slacker" mentality, but you see i've put that in quotes, because the sheer level of work and effort and hours these people put into their sports is decidedly UN-slacker-ish.  Oh yeah that is a real word.  I was amazed at the way that the contestants were all truly thrilled for the winners.  Instead of the downcast, dejected spirit you would expect to see from a first loser, or 10th placer, or DNFer, each participant in these games seemed to truly thrill and glow at the best performance of anyone, even if it wasn't their own, or even someone's from their own country.  Hugs were held, tackles were made, real genuine smiles were plastered all over all the faces at the bottom of mountains.  Perhaps the winter sports elite are such a small tight knit community that they all really and truly love one another.  Perhaps the fact that they spend their days in the cold causes their hearts to be so warm.  Or maybe these people are just terrific sports.  Whatever it is, it was a sight to behold. It didn't lessen my own disappointment, but it did bring a nice other perspective to the party and it encouraged me to be a little bit less of a negative nellie.

As ever, there was Mary Carillo, who is Bob Costas' antithesis, she is everything he isn't.  You love her for all the reasons you don't love Bob.  She is perhaps the nicest human being on earth.  I love all the spots that she did.  I love the enthusiastic way she embraces every experience.  I love the way she loves each person she encounters and presents the behind the scenes stories of the home country to us every time we watch these games.  She inspires me to be a better person and to get out there and do something new.

There were wins, to be sure: Ladies' snowboarding of all kinds, slopestyle skiing, awesome dogpile celebration, Bode getting that bronze (despite an epic interview fail on the part of the reporter, which he was both heartbreakingly sweet during and remarkably gentlemanly about after), Ligety getting his gold, TJ Oshie taking it to all of Russia, that baby girl Mikaela Shiffrin bringin' it in the slalom, the silence and chills inducing twizzle perfection of Davis and White.  We had a fashion wins as well, those sweaters in the opening ceremonies were almost enough to redeem the relative let down you felt watching these ceremonies in comparison to the London ones and the sad fifth ring refusing to open.  The Hollie Hobby throwback patchwork snowboard American uniforms that were almost entirely obscured by those gaudy Shochi bibs.

I love walking in the Winter Wonderland of the Olympics.  It reminds me of being young and freezing, in an awesome way.  It humbles (but in the actual sense of the word humble) me as I know I have no talent for any of these things, not even remotely.  It thrills and exults me as I watch victories, both expected and surprise.  It depresses me and sends me into hibernation because every time I fall in love with these strangers who represent this country and I cannot take it when I invest an abnormal amount of emotion in them and they suffer defeat.

But as for me (and my house), I am ready for summer.  I am ready to do a few extra squats and sit-ups, don a bikini, get my kids to the beach, build some sandcastles and body surf the ocean waves.  Because winter and I only get along for so long, then I need to get right back to my endless summer that is life in Florida.

PS...The Star Spangled Banner is the shizz as far as national anthems go.  Having heard a lot of the others, I miss even a bad rendition of our own.