The Olympics Now . . . and Then

By David Daniel

I was sitting at a restaurant bar last Saturday afternoon, the corner seat, having a martini. Tanqueray No. 10, a whisper of dry vermouth, stirred, not shaken, and a single olive—the way a New York bartender explained as she made one for me many years ago. I don’t have them often, usually only after I’ve watched an old movie with William Powell and Myrna Loy on TCM, but it was hot outside and cool in there.

It was the closing weekend of the 2024 Olympics and the games were on the big TVs. I scanned the screens for track events or volleyball, but what was on was the duet artistic swimming competition, what used to be called synchronized swimming.

Kitty-corner to me sat a couple, watching. They were old, wearing some kind of loose robes, as if they had just come from the beach, and sipping wine. He had a curly white beard. This close, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop and heard them speaking a language I don’t know. But they were undoubtedly into the games. That’s one of the great things about the Olympics. People from all over the world find reason to cheer.

“Eviva!” the man cried as on screen the pair of young women swimmers, representing China, appeared almost to be levitating in aquamarine air. “Like . . . mermaids,” he said. “Like  Homer!”

Mermaids. Homer. The Sirens. OK, sure, I could see it. The formfitting suits, with sequins and shimmering colors. And the swimmers were mesmerizing to watch, perfect images of each other, in movements so balletic they seemed to nullify gravity. Nullify? Did I just think that? I sipped my drink.

Soon a new duet of swimmers came on and performed an underwater tableau so perfectly synched it was like seeing double. All three of us clapped. We chatted a bit—they knew some English—and they introduced themselves. Xenophon and Penelope—”Zenny and Penny”—from Greece. Athens and Sparta to be precise.

When the action finished the broadcast cut away to a panorama of the skyline, where it was evening and the city glowed with light, Penny clapped her hands. “So beautiful.”

It was true. Paris had certainly shined itself up for the games and was doing a hell of job. Some years ago Boston had been given a chance to bid for a future Olympics. It’s a nice idea, but native practicality and wisdom prevailed. How would it have worked, anyway? Swimming in the Charles . . . bicycling along Storrow Drive . . . high diving off the Tobin Bridge?

At home over the previous few weeks, I’d been tuning in to watch track and field, and some beach volleyball, surfing, even ping pong. I found myself getting into the spirit. Those five interlocking different-colored rings meant something, gave a feeling that we were all together in some big enterprise. Sure, on one hand, people were rooting for their home teams, but on the other hand there was the cooperative human element of the games, too. The joy of sport. I was cheering for the USA but I also found myself applauding great performances, rooting on a team or athlete from somewhere else in this big small world of ours. We became boosters for accomplishment, underdog grit, spirit, heart. Given all the things which seem more and more to divide us, it felt good.

“What is this?” Penny was squinting at the screen.

It was breaking. What used to be called break dancing. I recall first seeing it in Copley Square: young guys spinning around, with music from a boom box ringing off the walls of Trinity Church and the BPL. Now it was an Olympic thing and there were men’s and women’s events, the breakers in baggy sweats and Vans, busting moves that were crazy and whirling and damned near physically impossible, but goddammit they were doing it. The commentator was explaining that breaking had its origin in the Bronx—“and,” she added enthusiastically, “it’s proving to be dope!”

Zenny fingered his beard and looked troubled. “Dope . . . not so good for sports, no? Is cheating.”

I made a go at clearing up his confusion, explaining the word in this new context. “Street slang,” I concluded. “New York City.”

“Ah, New York.” Penny nodded. “A very new city.”

Well . . . new, yeah, I guess. Compared to Paris or Athens.

Although they spoke passable English, Zenny and Penny weren’t easy to understand. But for foreigners—and oldsters, at that—they were definitely down with the action. And appreciative and knowledgeable. It was as if they’d been watching for a long time.

“I remember from the first,” Zenny said. “Fotia. The fire.” He mimed raising a torch. “The wreaths . . . for the head.” He tapped his white curls. He sounded nostalgic.

Me—not gonna lie, I was a little buzzed. I can’t knock ’em back like William Powell and Myrna Loy. “Yeah,” I said, apropos of nothing I could remember, “hard to believe it’s been almost three weeks.”

My new friends exchanged a glance, which meant something to them if not to me.

“In old days,” Penny offered, “always in Archaea Olympia.”

“But was only men,” said Zenny.

She bumped him with her shoulder, an age-old gesture of loving exasperation.

“No, is true,” he defended. “Because no clothes. Better to run. Women they stay on south side of the river Alpheios. Not my rule.” And they got into a rapid exchange in the language I didn’t know.

While they bickered spiritedly, I slipped away to the men’s room. When I returned, Xenophon and Penelope were gone. Their seats were empty. But they had been there. Right? In their beach robe outfits—which, come to think of it, looked a bit like togas. There on the bar-top, just barely visible, I could make out the interlocking rings their wine glasses had left.

****

Frequent contributor David Daniel has been watching the Olympics for a long time.