there are no more superlatives

Michael Phelps. 8 gold medals in one Olympic games. A truly spectacular achievement. Something for the ages — that we all got the privilege to witness. Wow.

I mean, there’s really nothing else but WOW. Forgive me for saying this, but it was basically sports on an orgasmic level.

On top of that — on top of feeling proud and breathless that “our guy” did that — I feel proud of him as a person, a young man, because of the way he’s comported himself throughout this competition. Maybe that makes me sound like a shriveled gammie; I don’t care. I loved how, when the various relays were won, he would always point to the greatness of his fellow swimmers, to the team effort of it all. When asked by Bob Costas about former Aussie Olympian Ian Thorpe’s comments that “he couldn’t do it; it was unlikely,” etc., I love how he said, “I welcome all comments. They all motivate me.” I loved how he always found his mom and sister in the stands after his awards ceremonies and gave them his flowers. I loved how he and his teammates always huddled after winning, their heads down, long arms around each other, murmuring words of praise. I loved how he fought — graciously — against he crazed juggernaut of his own rapturous press. I loved how, last night, in his final gold medal ceremony, you could finally see the glimmer of tears in his eyes. He didn’t need to hold back anymore; the task was done. He rejoiced almost modestly when he won individual races, but celebrated wildly when he won relays with his team. He’s just impressed the heck out of me, in every possible way. For me, the word “champion” doesn’t mean a lot unless there’s some sort of depth behind the achievement, some kind of grounded inner core, some sense of humility even in the face of your own external greatness. Michael Phelps has that. He’s got it all.

Congratulations, again, to a champion in every way.