The Olympic Games are an easy target.
Picking on the Olympics is like mocking the over-confident but horribly tone-deaf contestant on a TV singing contest. Shooting fish in a barrel was never so easy. The Olympics makes itself such a big target that it would be nothing short of a miracle if it got within cooee of the hype.
But, I still love the Olympics. To me, this two-week period every four years is something to savour: the cherry on top of the cake, the crackling accompanying a pork roast, the reverse-double-somersault-with-a-twist at the end of a 10-metre platform dive.
“Yes”, I hear you say, “but the only reason you love the Olympics is because you’re mad about sport”. Well, yes, I’m slightly guilty in that regard. For many years, my family would attend the training sessions of the West Coast Eagles rain, hail or shine, just so we could see how the boys were shaping up for the upcoming game. This is a phase I like to call our ‘lunacy period’.
But, my love of the Olympics is more than just a love of sport. In many ways, it has been the story of my life…
For the rest of the article, please click HERE.
Click here if you would like to be on the mailing list for this column.