Only four days into the Olympics and I’ve cried enough to fill an Olympic-size pool. I don’t know what happened. I usually don’t get mushy over big spectacles and those formulaic athlete profiles. But from the opening ceremonies when Yao Ming walked in with the 9-year-old earthquake survivor who went back into the rubble to rescue two classmates because he was the class leader to watching Michael Phelps’ family rooting and crying for him (let alone watching him win), I’m a mess.
The waterworks kicked on again when the Korean swimmer who was disqualified in Athens for diving in the pool before the gun, going home in shame, won the gold this year–the first swimming gold medal for Korea.
Then the men’s U.S. 4×100-meter relay team ratcheted up the drama in the pool, smashing the French team that was foolish enough to trash talk the U.S. team before the meet. Silly French swimmers.
The NBC montages, the athlete profiles (overcoming tragedy is required), man, even the commercials are conspiring against me (did you see Hank the Clydesdale??).
So, I’m ready judges. Just drape that gold medal around my neck for excellence in crying, play the national anthem, and damn, I’m crying again.