As I sit here in the early hours of the day, watching pirated video streams of the 2012 Olympics, I’m reminded of doing the same thing as a child, minus the internet part.
My family had been in America for a few years, but already my dad had learned how to get bootleg cable TV, tentative first steps on the road to the American Dream.
I was intrigued by the pageantry and gala, the purpose and seriousness of it all. Every four years, more frequent counting the Winter Olympics, I’ve consciously and unconsciously followed the trials and tribulations of the Olympians. I’ve watched with youthful exuberance, pathos, indifference, and sweet nostalgia.
Who are these demi-gods that descend upon the realm of mortals from Olympus, possessing of unearthly strength and endurance, brandishing impossible poise and Centaurian thighs? I’ve watched their nimble cavortings on TV, the internet, and at wee hours.
The Olympians can accomplish all manner of epic feats as long as the Olympic torch burns. When the flames are extinguished, these gods-among-men ascend once again into the world of myth and legend. But as long as we keep the Olympic torch burning in our hearts, every four years the Olympians shall once again stride the world Collosus-like, as we sit on our couches and revel in their greatness.