The Thrill of Victory

1 Aug

Once every four years:

I decide that I probably could have been an Olympic swimmer.  Maybe for some landlocked country where the men are “eh”-looking and the women can crack walnuts under their arms.  But then I heard a horrible rumor that swimmers have to do sit-ups.

I watch Women’s Gymnastics while spouse goes on and on about how Women’s Gymnastics is a misnomer: because the athletes have no hips.  (I’ll never understand why those girls have to do a floor routine set to music but I figure that Burt Bacharach (or his cousin- Stavros Bacharach XIVIIM) was at the first Games.)

My neighbor Cory will say something like: “You know, if they put that balance beam on the ground instead of in the air, I bet anyone could do it.  It’s the height that gets you.”

I go to the Village Pool and try some wacky new cannonball off the board- a Grande Fromage or a one-and-a-half Lewis (named for beloved actor Jerry Lewis) and I am humbled.

And once every four years is enough of that.

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