The Burrow

We've been watching, on and off, for the last two weeks.  TBG catches glimpses during the afternoon, and is able to guide our prime time viewing accordingly.  There are only so many hours I can devote to watching people go downhill, on skis, snowboards, or bobsleds the size of refrigerators.  That was the description the commentator gave as we watched the competitors hulking over their equipment in the waiting shed. It gave me a moment's pause. ***** In the beginning, all I could talk about was Bob Costas's eye infection. When he returned, he apologized for becoming part of the story he was there to report. It was a touching bit of humility from the guy we've all come to associate with the NBC's Olympic Coverage. It was also remarkable - an on-air personality apologizing for hogging the spotlight. There are many reasons to love Bob Costas; this is just one of them. ***** There were some great names. The announcers had a fine time with Yulia and Julia.  I lik...

There won't be another Olympics post until next week, because I'm off to BlogHer'12 in NYC and I can't imagine I'll have a moment to spare for television.  If TBG's not around, I rarely turn it on.  So, for those of you relying on me for water-cooler-sports-patter, stock up here for the rest of the week. ***** TBG and I agree that those single, double, quad and eight person sleek craft on the water should compete in a sport called Scullduggery .  It's very pretty to watch, especially the overhead shot of the oars piercing the surface at the same moment and angle.  I'm enjoying the videography as much as the competition. ***** Beach volleyball didn't hold TBG's attention, so he left me on Douglas while he showered and put away some laundry.  I muted the volume, played WordDrop on my Kindle, and screamed aloud as the Americans came back from a 3 point deficit to trounce the Czech Republic. I will admit to a more than usual amount of fist pu...

I'm watching it all on tv.  Big Cuter thinks we are hopelessly 20th century, sticking to the big screen in our living room. He watches in real time, on his telephone.  Honestly, even if I had more than a stupid phone (which I don't) I don't think I'd watch that way.  I just don't care that much. What I like are the stories and the spectacle and the momentary hush before the bell rings and the event begins.  I like the preparation coming down to that one instant for everyone, all at the same time.  The athletes, the time keepers, the bell ringers, the basket-ladies, the groundskeepers, the maintenance crews - it's all been about this moment in time.  They are all in it together, and I, sitting at home on Douglas, am there with them, too... and with the billion other people who watched the Opening Ceremonies last week.  Danny Boyd made a movie for the modern age, and he did it with style.  There was no over-the-top extravag...

Watching the Olympic Trials with Little Cuter is a trip down memory lane. She's as happy as a clam right now, snuggled on Benito-the-couch beneath a soft and gooshy blanket, fondling Thomas-the-wonder-dog's ear and smiling with delight. SIR is curled up next to her, the only one of us who has to go to work on Monday morning. He may go to bed earlier than we because my little girl and I are going to watch every flip and turn and stroke until NBC stops showing them. In elementary school, Little Cuter was obsessed with Dominique Moceaneau. She read the autobiography, which opened on its own to the photos in the center. She studied the scoring and her commentary was every bit as cogent and informative as the televised talking heads. Look at that.. did you see how she.... oh, too bad... that will be a deduction... I was as impressed with her performance as I was with the gymnasts themselves. And now, two decades later, with many of the same faces at the judges...

Thursday   Tugba Karademir skated again tonight.  Scott Hamilton, special as always, had to tease her with : "Usually you say she's the national champion of... but Turkey has no no national  championship - she's it. "    I will not miss him when this Olympics ends. ***** If you listen instead of gasp when the ski jumpers strut their stuff,  you can hear the whine of their skis as the jump levels out before the edge.

The Olympic Curlers (not hair rollers, but athletes who play shuffleboard on ice, kinda/sorta) have no professional organization because there are no professional curlers.  They all have full-time jobs, and some of them are mothers who have full-time jobs outside the home, too.

Poor Nance.  Poor Amster.  They have no cable.  Without rabbit ears, NBC and the Olympics are a mere whisper in the ether.... a packet of pixels without a resting spot in their abodes.  And so, for them, faithful denizens of the Burrow that they are, I continue my Olympic prattling. I was feeling somewhat unfair to Canada in yesterday's post, so I didn't include this tidbit.  But here it is on the little yellow legal pad which sat by my side during the Opening Ceremony and here is that random post picture... and it all will soon make sense so I suppose it's meant to be told. 

And let's stop right here for our first digression.  Mnemosyne (whose name translates as Memory) was the mother of the Muses.  Though the Big Cuter decries it, the touchy-feely, personal histories which accompany the events themselves are part and parcel of the Olympic Games.  I can understand his desire to see the best and only the best,  but the Games are so much more than that.  They are a quadrennial gathering of like-minded enthusiasts, whose posses include orange clad fans in ridiculous headgear    (thanks to olympics2006.ajas.net for the photo).  as well as proudly beaming parental units, who are finally able to reap the rewards of years of schlepping little Shani or Lindsey or Hannah to 5am practises.