The Sun
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Oh! The pain of Olympic withdrawal

By Ingrid McCleary

OK, I admit it, I wasn't burning the midnight oil on another edit of my novel. I was slumming. In front of the television set. Watching the winter Olympics. Normally, television can't hold my attention for long, and even then it's because it allows me to relax with my hubby. Other than my addiction to one soap opera, I simply don't watch television by myself. But the Olympics are a different matter.

The chance to experience 72 nations converging for a united goal is hard to resist. Sacrifice, hard work and determination result in rewards beyond gold, silver and bronze. It is witnessing the cross-country gold medalist waiting at the finish line to congratulate the last-place finisher. It is watching visiting families communicate with host families not with words, but with gestures and smiles. It is a crowd of 50,000 using their energy and desire to lift a long-jump skier beyond his own capabilities and propel him and his teammates to the gold. I know the names of these athletes, but really their names aren't as important as what they, as human beings, can achieve. Triumph by one is felt by all, however vicariously.

To me, the Olympics are synonymous with unity, which may seem a contradiction, since the athletes compete against each other. Yet allegiance, race, gender, religion, and past war enemies are all secondary to their shared enthusiasm for the sport. The Olympics portray the world as one unit, without boundaries, and that's intoxicating. Not only was I tuned into the three hours of prime time coverage daily, but I taped four more hours during the day, which I watched when I should have been in the office writing.

If I was lucky, I zipped through the tape in 2 1/2 hours, bypassing commercials and the few winter sports that didn't intrigue me as much.

It wasn't the results that spurred my interest, though I confess to shouting louder when an American was on center stage. No, it was the pithy stories of the athletes that caught my throat and put the pang in my heart.

The "Tales of the Rings" brought home the realization that it's not solely the athlete who's unique but the entire family behind him or her. This final, visible result is but a reflection of what the family did to get them there.

Parents moving near the practice rinks, then commuting four hours to/from work each day. Parents selling homes to live in a one-room cabin to minimize living expenses. Parents both working seven days a week for 10 years to create the path for their son's dream.

It humbles me. It makes me reconsider some of my tenets. In my pursuit of raising "golden" children, I hold back from giving them as many material things as I can. "We'll give you everything you need but not everything you want."

A good rule, but it pales when compared to the sacrifices these Olympic parents made for their children.

Could I, would I, do the same for one of my children? Knowing that giving one child the means to pursue an Olympic dream would mean shortchanging the other two?

Granted, not all athletes sacrifice or train the same way. Not all parents devote the same amount of time and money. Still, I always come away from the Olympics with respect for these competitors and their families.

The Olympics draw me in, and I'm caught in the spiraling upward path to victory. It holds me in thrall for two weeks, then releases me, and I fall from the clouds and hit the earth with a thump. Not painful really, but there's a twinge of sorrow as I return to my own, more modest, existence.

Maybe I could weave an Olympic plot into my next novel. Then the tale can continue for months instead of a scant two weeks. Plus, I could call it research, a far nobler sport than slumming.

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This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, March 4, 1998.
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