So its all over, bar the closing
party, and what a fortnight it has been. Yep, I’ve been completely swept up by Olympic fever.
Right up to the opening ceremony the British media were more
cynical than enthusiastic about the games. The last minute problems over
security, the Zil lanes in the capital reserved for games traffic, ticketing
issues, the commercialism of the big sponsors, and the plain old British
propensity for whingeing meant that enthusiasm certainly seemed restrained.
But then the success of the opening ceremony (which I have yet to see) suddenly
swept that cynicism away, and as the gold rush began for Team GB we have become
intoxicated with sport.
I am not as hostile to football as many of my friends
imagine. It is a beautiful game. Watching the way Spain won the Euros at the
beginning of this amazing summer of sport was sublime. It is footballs
oafishness and self-regard and hegemony that I object to. In these Olympics it
has been so refreshing to be plunged into a greater sporting world. The
contrast between the demeanour of Olympic athletes with professional
footballers has been stark. (An interview with the 19 year-old Kirani James,
winner of the 400m was a standout for me. Such maturity, such grace.) Often it
has been the minority sports that have captured the imagination – we are all
taekwondo and BMX fans now; and handball (surely one of the revelations of the games)
is at least the equal of football in terms of what the ideal team sport should
be.
I went to London on Tuesday and all the much stated
superlatives were true. The police, very present, but very friendly. The
terrific support of the military, which rather than being oppressive somehow
added to the British-ness and colour of it all. And the incredible army of
“games makers”. Never has London worked so well, looked so good, or been so
happy. British people were talking to strangers on the Tube! The transport
system worked! Everyone wanted to help!
We had tickets for the beach volleyball. This wouldn’t have
been my first choice of event, but we were given them, and so could not refuse.
Beach volleyball is fluff and flim-flam, but you know what? It was great! Horse
Guards Parade was a simply stunning venue, the entertainment was fun, and – no
doubt about it – the players themselves were unarguably athletes.
Thursday we went to Weymouth, for the Dorset end of the
Olympics. Even though this was the one day that sailing was cancelled because
of lack of wind this was again a terrific day. Weymouth looked superb, and
watching other sports on big screens on the beach was a treat.
What a fortnight it has been.
I’m listening to the radio now, as things gear up for the
closing ceremony and the question being asked is “Why has it been so good?”
There are the obvious answers: Some very clever people have worked very hard
and pulled off an unfeasibly complex logistical operation with incredible
aplomb. But over and above that, I think the fundamental reason is that the
Olympics have revealed what should also be very obvious: We were made to worship.
We human beings want something bigger and grander than
ourselves to delight in. We want to be part of something that pulls us into
relationship with crowds of other applauding, cheering, crying human beings. We
want to celebrate and we want things to work just as they might in heaven.
Weeks ago when the Olympic Torch relay began I tweeted about
how I love the Olympics but hate Olympic pseudo-religion. And I really do. But
the innate human need for the religious has been made very plain in these games
– a need that transcends the icky religiosity of the Olympic hymn. We want to
worship.
Whatever sporting legacy these Olympics leave in the UK the
euphoria of a triumphantly staged games will quickly fade. When the sun is no longer shining and the back pages are again dominated by the tantrums of overpaid footballers and the British transport system again grinds to a halt our need to worship
will remain.
Without worship, we are nothing.
