With apologies to the Dalai Lama

The games of the 29th Olympiad began on August 8th, in Beijing, China, and boy did they start with a bang. The Opening Ceremonies were a stunning amalgamation of technology and human precision that amazed, shocked, and even scared. A 500 x 70 meter LED display merged seamlessly with an enormous piece of canvas painted by the flowing movements of 5 dancers. A pyrotechnics display worthy of 10 Independence Days -- but hey, the Chinese did invent fireworks -- was overlayed by even more digital fireworks; the media had to inform us 4 days later that we had all been tricked. 2008 martial arts experts performed synchronized Tai Chi. 2008 drummers performed flawlessly synchronized... well, drumming. The list went on... and on... to the point that each performer performed only once; hundreds of thousands of performers, each performing once. This was art by an army. If this is how China opens a sporting competition, God help us if they decide to invade someone.


But China isn't invading anyone; we'll leave that to Russia. The Russian and Georgian medalist, in pistol, even, did stand peacefully next to each other on the medal podium, but 3600 miles away in Tbilisi, it's a different story. China, on the other hand, has been putting their best political face forward, something NBC's been calling the "Charm Offensive". The host nation has been open and welcoming (as long as your camera stays pointed in the right direction), and the people seem to be expressing some degree of personal freedom. That's not to say, however, that the gymnasts don't appear to fear beheading as a penalty for winning less than gold.


But they are winning gold. So are the divers. In fact, China seems to be excelling in every sport based on subjective scoring. If you have to be the first to touch the pad, look to Phelps. If it's about a ball going through a hoop or over a net, Team USA can make it happen. But, put a "judge" in the mix... well, let's say that the American uniform seems to have an adverse effect of an athlete's form. Perhaps all those stars and stripes are confusing to the eye.

I hate to be sour, and I try to be objective. I'm not the most patriotic person in this country, and often cheer on the Canadians, the Irish, the Russians, or any team that happened to catch me in a certain way. I like the Olympics for the spirit of competition, and to watch records being broken; I'm not effected by whether it's the Americans or the Ukrainians doing it. But what I've seem of the judging this year's competition bothers me. Men's gymnastics bothered me. I know China was the favourite, but that's all that seemed to matter. When the US men performed vaults of difficulty beyond any other team, their scores still couldn't touch the marks awarded to China for "adequate" performances.

Diving is a sport I understand much better. I have experience in it, I've coached it, and I understand exactly how it's judged. What I don't understand is how a dive with crossed legs, over-arched back, and over-rotation gets a 10.0. Well? Australian judge? Care to comment? OK, I won't jump to any conclusions about the character of anyone I don't personally know, but I will point out that bribes were handed out back when Salt Lake was petitioning to be a host city. Those who accepted said bribes have been discharged, so... everything has to be on the up-and-up now... right?

Speaking of money -- and while we're at it, speaking of not speaking -- let's discuss our friends at NBC. Nothing like critical journalism. Every once in a blue moon you'll hear a statement that sounds like it might want to be a dissent, but then it tapers off into "... and this is a pretty good dive, and it has a high degree of difficulty, so we should see scores in the 80's". We should see scores in the 80's because we've been instructed we will see those scores, the judges have been instructed give give those scores, and the broadcasters have been instructed to give those scores. Remember, this is still a totalitarian state.

If you missed Chinese totalitarianism, it was covered in the 1,000 year gap in the history lesson they gave us in the Opening Ceremonies. 250,000 BC: China invents fire. 2000 BC: Dynastic China begins. 1045 AD: China invents movable type. 1912 to 2006: Nothing happened. Then China got the Olympics, and China found freedom. It's akin to a German history book missing the pages from 1933 to 1945. And the media has bought into it. Once, just once, I caught an interpreter slip up, and render "I'm very happy to have won, and in front of all of China, and the Chairman is here." In every other occurrence the translation "President" seems to be preferred.

And President does sound better. It fits the image we're being handed of happy Chinese people, running little acrobatics studios out of their homes, and eating scorpion-on-a-stick at local stands. The puff pieces have been wonderful. Former pro tennis player Mary Carillo wanders around China, sampling the Government-sanctioned culture -- at one point one of her interviewees stated "entrepreneur" wasn't an appropriate term, likely because she wasn't entitled to actually make any money from her home business -- while Bob Costas (who made remarks on the China Team's possible drug use during both the 1992 Barcelona and 1996 Atlanta Olympics) instead repeatedly interviews Béla Károlyi, who's complete failure of the English languages provides us with great insight like "they must stay on the apparatus [pronounced ah-pah-rah-toose]".

Occasionally, though, there are some watchable Olympic events. Michael Phelps continues to build on his world record for the most world records, now the winningest human in Olympic History with (at the time of this writing) 11 Gold Medals. By closing ceremonies, he is expected to hold a world and Olympic record in each event he swims, a Gold Medal for each, more Gold Medals than any other Olympic athlete, and the most Gold Medals ever awarded to a single person in a single Olympiad. His mantra has been amended from "Eat, Sleep, Swim" to "Eat, Sleep, Swim, Get Medal, Get Drug Tested". Luckily, the urine, blood, hair, stool, and marrow samples he's given will prevent any questioning of his performance, and at least in this one event, there are no judges to somehow steal medals from the fastest man on Earth in water.

And so, all this said, I will continue to tune in, to watch all the events where medals are based on being the fastest, or scoring the most baskets, kills, or goals. Objectivity seems to be at a minimum at these games, but for those events where it still exists, I will watch...

with apologies to the Dalai Lama.

Allez, Allez, Allez, Allez (or Go Habs Go)

Archived MySpace blog
Current mood: jubilant
Category: Sports

In Montreal, after home wins, the whole crown sings that as a song. "Allez, allez, allez, allez! Allez! Allez!" It just means "go", but anyway. Last night, it was sung at Madison Square garden... only by me, and the fellow Canadiens fan who happened to have the seat next to us... but it was sung.

But perhaps it is best to start a story at the beginning (unless, of course, you're Quinton Tarantino).

3:05, Stuck in traffic. Should have picked up Jennilynne 10 minutes ago, train leaves in 15.

3:22, On the train. Bar Car. Yay!

5:30, Madison Avenue. "I think I want to get jeans. can we stop on the way?" "OK" "Oh, you have the tickets, right?"

Fuck!!! Utter shock. "They never got put in the bag, did they?" OK, will-call window should help us.

6:15, Will-call window. After a hectic sprint of jeans shopping, and new top to boot, and changing in the dressing room, we've made it to the Garden. Neat place. "We need check your bag." "Sure, just my flag, couple jerseys, change of clothes, my friend's bra..." "Go ahead." yes, of course the bra is on top. Isn't that always the way. I mean, I guess. I don't usually travel with a bra in my bag, but if I did... Anyway, at the will-call window. Short explanation. Wait for them to re-print the tickets. "Go habs!" yelled to one of the 8 people who, like myself, dare wear their Montreal jerseys into the Garden.

6:45, Re-printed bogus (?) tickets at Tower A. Guy scans ticket at the gate. Jenni pushes through the turnstile. Turnstile locks. Guy re-scans ticket. Big mistake. Tickets are scanned nowadays so the barcode cannot be copied. First ticket received with said barcode, good. Second, bogus. Dim-bulb scanned the ticket twice, invalidating our freshly printed tickets. "Go to Line 2 for validation."

6:58, Tower D. The guy in line 2 initials the back of our tickets, and sends us back to the gate. The guy at the gate says, the only one who can let us past the turnstyle is the Lobby Mangager, and asks "Who signed these?" "The guy at Line 2... the guy you just sent us to." Find the Lobby Manager. "Who signed these?" "The guy at Line 2... the guy the guy at the gate just sent us to." Back to line 2. "Valid. I just told them that." Back to the gate, Lobby Manager in tow. Wait, wrong gate? How was I supposed to know. "No, I've never been to the Garden before." Gesture to opposing team's jersey on my chest. "Who's that, Chicago?" Oh Lord. You'd think, but no. "Oh, I don't know anything about hockey. You'd think working here, but no." OK, whatever. Welcome to the gate at Tower D. Where we should have been all along. Where our tickets would have probably scanned correctly if the Gatekeeper bothered to look at them before he double-scanned them. Up the escalator. "Go Habs." to the 4th fan, who happens to be in the section next to us.

See Jennilynne's Blog for the game itself. She was nice enough to copy someone's highlights, and I don't feel the need to rub it in.

10:25, Broadway. I hesitate to say they were sore losers, but the pushing and shoving to get out of MSG was a bit ridiculous. We just want to get out, smoke a cigarette, and head for the train (or a bar, depending on how we coincide with the train schedule). Shoving... like you wouldn't believe. Jennilynne, the good sport that she is, is now wearing my spare Montreal jersey over her Rangers one. Not part of the bet, but a fun gesture. I'm holding the back of her jersey like the mother of a small child during the Christmas shopping rush, so we don't get separated. "What's going on over there?" Pushing and shoving left to receive our 'on-the-way-out' freebies of miniature Stanley Cups. Cool. Much better than the blue "thank You" mini-banners we got on the way in. I quipped to one fellow Habs fan, thinking they were 6" tote-bags, "If the game gets bad, we can always puke in them." Out on the street, humid and sweaty, behind a subway entrance become a changing station so we can lose our sweaty jerseys, and I of course have to break out the hair wax and comb rather than having hat-head for the rest of the night. Continuing uptown, looking newly fabulous. "W". Its a bar, "trendier than we are". We continue. "What time is... where's my phone?!?" No chance. I probably lost it in the pushing and the shoving. The last time I knew i had it was between the first and second periods. In essence, I effectively traded it for that mini- Stanley Cup. Not the best trade in the world. But still an awesome trip.

Oh yeah, MTL 4, NYR 3, Final, Overtime.

"Allez, allez, allez, allez! Allez! Allez!"