The world - and Eric - hold their breaths
By Lynne Truss
What have you done today to make you feel proud? That’s the slightly discomforting question they ask us every morning on the BBC Olympic coverage when a song by Tracey Chapman is played over a montage of valourous lump-in-throat moments from events unfolding on the other side of the world. What have you done today? she demands.
What have you done today? A show-jumper clears the pole to secure a silver medal for his team; a tousled British judo champion grins from his mat; a cool, pony-tailed archer shoots a perfect ten.
What have you done today? Finally, weakened by lack of sleep, you cave in and confess. "All right! All I’ve done is sit on my bottom in front of the telly! And I ate some leftover custard! Are you happy now?"
Those Sydney Olympic lump-in-throat moments are accumulating nicely, though. And day four added a terrific one in the form of the 100 metres freestyle heat featuring Eric Moussambani, of Equatorial Guinea. This was the chap who not only swam his race alone when the two other swimmers in his heat illegally jumped the gun, but got a standing ovation from the crowd for posting a time of nearly two minutes, when the time to beat was 50 seconds.
Eric was no swimmer, you see. He was more of an energetic drowner, who reached and reached, and kicked and kicked, but made no headway. So his race was compelling stuff, especially when viewed from beneath. After 75 metres, fatigue made Eric’s short stroke so frighteningly abbreviated that for a moment he threatened to travel backwards. But just when it looked like a good idea to alert the life guard, he made it. He made it! It was fab.
"Ah, that’s what the Olympics are all about," said the impressed BBC commentators, echoed by the presenters, and I don’t think they meant the Olympics were all about amateurs overcoming basic inability, otherwise we’d have had a lot more fun watching the archery.
"Sorry!" yells the person who’s never held a bow before and has fired wildly into the crowd. "Where do the feet go exactly?" asks the cheerful non-cyclist. "Hey, will you look at this wacky track, it’s not even flat!" A petite female weight lifter squares up to the 130kg. "You’re having a laugh," she flatly accuses. "That man keeps grabbing me by the lapels," complains the outraged apprentice judoka.
No, what they meant, I think, is that if there’s a chap in Equatorial Guinea who wants to swim in the Olympics, he should (up to a point) get his chance, just so long as he doesn’t enter the 4 x 200 metres relay all on his own as well.
Games are global. Human physical prowess and sporting determination link people worldwide, and the Olympics reserves the right to spring the surprise that the Cook Islanders have a tremendous flair for darts, the Icelanders are natural volleyballers, the Jamaicans adore figure skating, or whatever.
Which only makes it all the more mysterious, of course, that of the 200 countries who paraded at the opening ceremony, holding their camcorders up for us to admire, the usual suspects are dominating the medals. "Is that the national anthem of the Libyan Arab Jamahiryan I hear?" we ask wistfully, each day. But the answer is no, actually, it isn’t.
When the Olympics were first staged in ancient Greece, of course, the winning was all. There were no seconds and thirds as consolation prizes, and no records kept. The Greeks had competitions for everything, and were tough on losers. For example, had the Booker Prize been held in Ancient Greece, Beryl Bainbridge would have been exposed on a mountainside.
Modern sport is likewise triumphalist, and there’s no point watching the Olympics if you think Freddie Mercury got it all wrong. But I just keep finding I’m so tremendously impressed by the Brits who reach the last eight that I feel, with an emotional sniff, that maybe this is what the Olympics are all about: beating your best, competing alongside phenomenal talents, just being there. Like Eric, you see. Like Eric. Listen to old Pollyanna.
But take the archery, with Alison Williamson. Aiming at a target the size of a grapefruit at a distance of 70 metres (that is, beyond the range of the human eye), Alison Williamson can hit it nearly every time! The fact that standing next to her yesterday was a cool 17-year-old Korean in an attractive white cloche who never missed it (and broke all records) surely does not detract from the achievement?
Suddenly, millions of people know Alison Williamson can do this bizarre and almost impossible thing. We have seen the outlandish paraphernalia involved - of bow, of costume, of the modern technological quiver. We have also seen the look she casts towards the target - a look of disdain bordering on murderous hatred - and been jolly glad we weren’t on the receiving end of it.
So, having joked about it, wouldn’t it help every aspect of the Olympics if a few more Erics turned up, showing us how it’s almost done, and putting the achievements of the top-class competitors in an instructive context?
Anybody criticising the poor medal haul of the British swimmers so far should certainly take a look at Eric’s heroic non-locomotive doggy-paddle. If that doesn’t bring it home how difficult these events truly are, then I’m not a whiz on the parallel bars.
