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Journalism of Courage
Once every four years, the perpetually warring Greek city-states threw down their spears and met in Olympia for the noble endeavour they called sport. The Olympic Games weren’t the only the only such competition in ancient Greece but were the most reputed and the most inspirational, for they obliged participating states to adhere to the Peace of Zeus. The rules were simple: any war taking place at the time the Olympics came along, had to stop. The Games took precedence.
It’s 2004 and the Olympic Games are going home, back to Greece for the first time since 1896. To those who value both sport and tradition, it is a sacred moment. Yet strife is not ready to be interrupted. Gunshots refuse to be silenced. Fallujah festers, Gaza growls, Sudan simmers, America is torn as rarely before, the whole world is in a tizzy.
So you do, but wait awhile and listen to the Olympic story. Britain, cradle of the Queensberry Rules, will be represented at Athens by just one boxer: Amir Khan, a 17-year-old of Pakistani origin. At the Village, Amir will probably meet Najah Ali, an Iraqi boxer trained by an American pest control inspector. There are two desis, genetically as Indian as you and me, in the United States’ gymnastics squad.
A lone woman, Nawal-el-Moutawakel, will be there at the sidelines, lobbying the IOC to bring the Games to the Muslim arc, to give her country, Morocco, the 2012 Olympics. The lady has a history; in 1984 she became the first Arab woman to win a gold beating, among others, PT Usha, in the 400 m hurdles race.
Usha’s 40 now, too old to run, too old for a generation that can’t even remember when Yuvraj and Kaif made their debut. Yet from the magical backwaters of Kerala, hope has found a new dreamboat to ride on.
Anju Bobby George may win nothing at these Olympics. She may return with only the memory of carrying the Indian flag at that opening ceremony on Friday, August 13. Nevertheless, won’t you be watching on another Friday, August 27, when she leaps? One jump could get her on that podium; one jump could be a quantum leap for Indian sport.
Anju’s husband Bobby say she wants nothing from India, only for her countrymen to clap and cheer her on. She’s spent one year touring the world, one waystation to another, living out of a suitcase in the jet-lagged, bread-and-breakfast existence that is an itinerant athlete’s lot, training for this moment. One year. For one moment.
Some Olympians train four years, eight years — and win zilch. There was once an all-American heroine called Mary Decker. She won every middle-distance race there was to win — but didn’t get that Olympic wreath, that eternal dream of a freckled, smiling girlhood wasted in preparation.
In 1980, she was ready; her president announced a boycott. She pushed at her body clock, waited for 1984, only to trip up, literally, in a horrible mix-up with a co-runner.
Yes the Olympics can be tough. Tough enough for Ian Thorpe, king of the pool in Sydney 2000, to be called an ‘‘old man’’ who’ll be swept away by the new kid in town, Michael Phelps, the Yank rookie who threatens to win seven golds.
The Games celebrate, commemorate, consecrate youth — not just as a physical exemplar but also as the repository of optimism, of fair play, of goodness, of global connect, of all that humankind holds dear. Or should.
Olympic winners are rare, Olympic heroes rarer still. In 1936, Jesse Owens was nervous, having problems at the long jump pit. As he readied for his final assault, a hand patted him on the shoulder: ‘‘You can do it.’’ It was Luz Long, his German rival, chosen by the Nazito annihilate the non-Aryan.
You remember the winner, Olympia remembers her hero. Over the next three weeks, the Olympic Games, mankind’s festival to itself, Diwali and Christmas, Id and Hanukkah rolled into one, will enrapture our spirit. Join us as we take you to the party.
