As I think we’ve established, I’m an Olympics junkie. They bring me joy. I like the hugeness of them, the possibility of transcendence that’s always lurking around the corner of the next event. But I like the smallness of them, too; the little personal gestures fraught with meaning.
Michael Phelps had one of those last night, after the 4×100 freestyle relay. The US had won, smashing the world record by 3.99 seconds. Our team was just crazed with joy. Jubilant to the point that I thought their bodies simply could not contain it, that their spirits would burst out and start jumping around the deck with them. In the midst of this, the French team in the next lane was absolutely silent. The smack-talking giant, Alain Bernard, was still in the pool, facing the starting block, not moving, stunned or pouting or something. Michael Phelps momentarily stopped his celebration and walked over to the French lane. Bernard did not look up. Phelps tapped him lightly a couple of times on the head, open palm. Finally, Bernard looked up and Phelps offered his hand, which Bernard seemed to take reluctantly. And they shook hands. I was so proud of Michael Phelps. How he forgot himself, remembered the other guy, did the right thing, reached out with grace.
Small gesture, huge meaning.
That is so fantastic. I’m sorry I didn’t see that happen–good thing we have the Expert Couch Commentator to fill us in! I’ve had a crush on him since forever. (I think that’s the only sports crush I have.)
Huh, I didn’t see that, and I watched every second, every replay, all of it. I wish I’d seen it. I was probably still reeling from seeing all of his upper body muscles go all taut and amazing. I mean, some of those arm muscles don’t even exist. It’s like God put them only on Michael Phelps.
Isn’t that what everybody on the Sistine Chapel looks like?
You know — I happened to catch it this morning before I was out the door. Totally random.
And yeah, you guys, those muscles, uhm, definitely give a girl palpitations.