Games are Not Supposed to Be Fun

Theoretically, I love the Olympics. I don’t watch them, follow them, or support them financially, but intellectually I’m obsessed. It’s Mortal Kombat for athletes. All the Rocky’s from across the globe united to do battle. Every one of them going full Whiplash to be the best in their field. Sacrificing everything for 7/10ths of a second. It’s a festival of singular focus. Pushing the human body to its absolute limits. Even just thinking about it makes the hair on my arms stand up. There’s not much more about the universe I love than when people devote themselves to being excellent at a task. It’s inspiring and fills me with the vibrant and unyielding desire to be better. 

Rocky, for me, works because of his juxtaposition to the larger boxing world. Just a lonely thumb-breaker from Philly trying to hit the pet shop girl and prove he’s not a bum. I can relate. But, when every country sends their genetic equivalent to Achilles, something about it feels a little absurd. What does it even mean to achieve victory by .005 seconds. Certainly, not much to the man on the top of the podium. But, to those eight others who go home with rocks in their shoes rather than gold medals, it must be maddening. What feels like a margin of error, becomes the beginning and end of your fame. This post is dedicated to the eight others whose lips could feel the moisture on the brim of the holy grail, and only got to smell it. To the countless 4th place contestants whose trophy case remains woefully empty.

My respect for the discipline, grit, and tenacity these athletes possess is immeasurable. They’ve dedicated every waking moment (and surely numerous dream hours) to being the best in their field. To becoming the human that runs faster, jumps higher, or whose body most most closely mimics a fish.

The question is this: at this level, have we removed the human element? Conceivably, each of these athletes has a fairly compelling why. They all have family they don’t get to see because they’re up at 4AM training. All of them have fathers they’re tying to impress. Presumably, they’ve all worked through pain, and suffering and injuries. But when your victory is separated by roughly the same time as the flash on your photo finish, what does this victory mean? Or, perhaps more importantly, what does the loss mean?

Lance Armstrong has a VO 2 max (the amount of oxygen the body can use in a given period); one of the highest ever recorded. With an extra long torso and feet like flippers, Michael Phelps is literally what would happen if you engineered a man to be built like a fish. Shaq was 7’ 1”. Only .000038% of the population reaching this height. In their own right, all three are world class athletes who possess an inhuman dedication to their craft. But at this level, shouldn’t we just give medals to everyone for being one of the dozen best in their field of all time? It feels criminal to reward 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in a room full of exceptional people.

The loss means nothing. This is an absurd contest. Those who compete are modern gladiators who deserve to have The Odyssey sung to them in the original Greek. They push the limits of human conviction and achievement. And I celebrate all of them. Every single athlete. Those with semi-precious medals are entitled to their sponsorships, Only Fans subscriptions, and social media clout, but every single one has my respect and admiration. You make me want to be better and are a ferocious reminder that we can make more of ourselves. In a game rigged by God for casting light on his well-born victors, fortune favors the bold.

Cheers to all the Olympic athletes. You make me want to be a better man.