I was grateful just to have a finals ticket, but something did seem fundamentally amiss that the two fans to my left and right, both family members of Olympic finalists (make that gold medalists), were seated so far from the action. One would think they’d have been closer to the pool—down in the illustrious Stingray seating that was nontemporary and unobstructed by sensual low-hanging ceilings—but most of those seats, especially the best and often empty ones, were corporate reserved. The sponsors owned and ran the show and would ensure that the £269 million cost of the London Aquatics Centre (originally projected at £73 million) would fall not on them but on the public, which is its own special corporate way of spreading the love. But what the hell, it makes good TV programming and the advertisers are happy, and granted, there may be a protest here and there, but that sort of collateral fallout can be carefully managed. The main thing is that politics stays out of sports, or rather a certain kind of politics: outpourings of national support during anthems are acceptable and encouraged. Just don’t lower your head and raise a black-gloved fist during the medal ceremony as did US sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics as a show of black solidarity, after which International Olympic Committee president Avery Brundage—the same fellow who as an Olympics official at the 1936 Berlin Games deemed the Nazi salute acceptable because it was a “national salute” rather than an individual one—forced their expulsion from the Games. The closest we got to color-coordinated medal ceremony apparel this time around, and just as telling of our times, was Ryan Lochte and Michael Phelps’s matching fluorescent lime-green shoes on the podium, a symbol of Nike power. But that didn’t ruffle any plumage: the essential thing is that the Games remain pure and unadulterated by ideology or profiteering, at least of the non-national, non-official-sponsors variety.
The audience roared as the announcer called out the 50 free finalists. The moments before the men’s 50 free Olympic final is about as loud as a swim meet gets, aside of course from a race’s final stretch and the relays, which are seen primarily as contests of national dignity. The crowd’s energy contrasted with the very clean, bright, and stark deck area. The scene was nothing like the US Olympic Trials, which involved pyrotechnics and sound and light displays that would rival any rave and fans pumping giant cardboard Ryan Lochte faces. The London Olympics were a more minimalist and dignified affair (think Wimbledon vs. US Open), with swimming and partying confined to their proper places, the pool and pub respectively.
The swimmers took their positions behind the blocks. Even after the official’s whistle, even after they’d stepped up, curling their toes into position and hunching over the edge of the block, waiting for the “Take Your Mark” command, people were still yelling and hooting. Ervin’s coach at the time, Dave Durden, later told me the announcer should have called down the athletes from the blocks and calmed the audience because of all the noise—or, as he put it, the “tons of energy just kind of swirling around.” Not that he was trying to excuse Ervin’s start, which Durden conceded was terrible; he just felt the eight finalists weren’t given the starting conditions they expected and deserved.
Aside from the usual stresses that come with rooting for a 50 free sprinter, with Ervin you have to contend with the additional anxiety that something gut-sinking might happen on his start. It’s not that you’re even hoping for a great start; you just want him to be in contention when he hits the water. You’re basically praying for no imminent disaster. Watching him crouch down for the start feels, on a less consequential scale, something like what the Russian roulette player must go through before pulling the trigger: Please, God, just no bullet. The 50 free is always something of a gamble, but with Ervin you feel like the gods also have to be on his side, at least for the first second.
Even from my height I could tell Ervin was unstable on the block. The announcer held the swimmers for a hair loss–inducing length of time after the “Take Your Mark” signal (about 1.8 seconds, actually). Ervin looked to be leaning forward precariously, then shifted his weight back as the buzzer went off. What happened next was pretty much how the broadcaster put it during the slow-motion replay on the Olympic Channel’s YouTube video of the race: “Ervin completely missed the start. Look at him come up with the black cap, four across. He was a mile behind.” He gained on them, but this time he was too far behind to catch the leaders. A longer pool, another ten or fifteen meters, and he would have been in it. But this was the 50 free, not the 65. He touched fifth.
The next day I was at the P&G US Family Home, a vast, many-leveled Procter & Gamble utopia where US athletes and their families could hang out to watch the Games, gorge on free buffet and beer, have American flags painted on their fingernails, launder clothes at the 24-hour Tide booth, change infants into Team USA diapers in the Pampers room, freshen up at a private sink in the Crest & Oral-B zone, get a makeover in the CoverGirl area, and score a shave from a hot, overly made-up hairdresser in a Gillette lounge unironically called the “man-cave.” Even their press release was a nugget of heartfelt commercialese: “P&G Family Home is ‘Home away from Home,’ Featuring Services from Leading Brands including Pampers®, Tide®, Pantene®, Crest®, Duracell®, and Gillette®.” The metal detectors and X-ray machines you first had to get through and the security guards stationed around the perimeter only added to the weirdly dystopian corporate Shangri-La feel of the place.
Inside the lavish embrace of the P&G womb, Ervin and I were huddled around a screen in one of the lounges along with other Team USA swimmers, watching the track-and-field 100-meter-dash final. As Usain Bolt pulled away from the pack, I turned to Ervin: “You and Usain look alike when you race. Except that he starts on par with the others and pulls away. You start from behind and catch up.” I meant it as a compliment. He just winced and nodded.
I climb out of the pool and walk, dripping, across the tiled floor. NBC and the other television media ignore me as I pass them. Just yesterday they were holding up microphones to me, starry-eyed to talk. But now they avert their eyes. They’re waiting for Florent Manaudou, the gold medalist, the one who matters now. Or one of the other two, who won the “lesser” medals. Those of us who didn’t medal move unseen, as if in a cloak of invisibility. Like some shame to be avoided.
The coffee I drank before my race, in combination with the lactic acid, has dried out my mouth and left me parched. My suit constricts me even more now that my body is swollen from all the blood pumping through it. I walk down the hallway under the stands where I pick up my clothes and belongings from a basket. I pass a logistics manager, who awkwardly murmurs, “Good job,” and looks away.
I soon get to the team prep area, where athletes mill about, getting ready for their races. I sense pity from all sides. Most of them gingerly keep their distance from me, either unsure of how to interact with me in my disappointment or lacking confidence that they’re close enough to me to approach me. A few offer a tentative congratulations but nothing sounds authentic. I deck change in a towel and sit by myself on a plastic chair. I don’t feel pitiful, but I’m conscious of the pity that others are projecting upon me.
I’m not alone for long. Natalie Coughlin comes over and sits next to me. Aside from greeting me, she says nothing. But she understands, she’s been in this position before. I don’t need words. What matters is that she’s here, fully here, not acting or tiptoeing around me as if I need to be avoided. It’s all I need.
Tomorrow the press won’t even mention my name. And to think that yesterday the Guardian referred to me online as “possibly the most interesting athlete in the entire Games.”
I don’t know how interesting I am. But it sure has been a strange ride.
_________________
2. Or to quote the architect’s (Zaha Hadid) Wikipedia entry: “Her buildings are distinctly neofuturistic, characterized by the ‘powerful, curving forms of her elongated structures’ with ‘multiple perspective points and fragmented geometry to evoke the chaos of modern life.’” Return to text
3. By 100 fly, I mean 100-meter butterfly. From this point forward I’ll use