It's More Than A Game As The Boys Hand Out Their Gongs After Careful Consideration
Sydney Morning Herald
Thursday September 28, 2000
Talk about the pressure on Cathy Freeman and Grant Hackett.
Well, it's nothing compared with the stress I have suffered as tour leader for a pack of media gibberers and legends such as Stinger, Lard, the Invisible Man, the Big D, Gentleman Jim, the Wanderer, Brother Ray, the Dirty Old Man, Mini Me, Dirk Diggler, the Spy and Babe all trying to see every Olympic pursuit live.
We are now into day 13 an unlucky number for some, but not for us and have at last achieved gold for having one member, and usually two, attending every Olympic event.
It has been a logistical nightmare, especially convincing some of the more reticent to leave the cozy Main Press Centre barbecue and bar to attend the backblocks of Sydney. But we've done it.
We were there when Hackett won. And, we were there eight rows from the front, right on the finish line, with tears streaming down our cheeks when Freeman changed the world. Yes, we were there when the Australian women's water polo team won, when we won the madison at the velodrome, the archery, the horsies, everything.
So we are the true experts on what actually is worth going to, and what is worth brushing. The results will make some blush. There were endless candidates for the best event, and only one for the worst.
When taking into account the gold medallist for sensational events, we did not just consider the actual sport. As important was the ambience, the crowd, the excitement, the junk food available at the event, how hot the pies were, the bar facilities, the price of a schooner, the availability of a filthy chilli dog, how far we had to walk from the press centre bar, the best place to hide from cameras and our boss (actually, the boss was usually with us) basically, as the Irish would say, how good was the craic.
The gold medallist was hard. In the back straight was a packed field, looking for a clear run. The fast finishers were baseball, beach volleyball, triathlon, archery, weightlifting, cycling, water polo, boxing, handball and athletics. A lot of jostling, but the judge's final decision was:
Gold Handball.
This is the great unknown event of this Olympic games. It is the ultimate stink. Shirtfronts. Coathangers. Squirrel holds. Don't argues. Hip and shoulders. Headbutts. Backslams. Violence. Blood. Mayhem. And that's just before the game starts.
Anyone disillusioned with how rugby league has lost the plot by burning the South Sydney heartland should immediately get on the train to Homebush, beg, borrow and steal a handball ticket, get inside and be joined with countless other lunatics. Even Campo would love it!
Handball is basically water polo on land, basketball with feeling, legal schoolyard brandy, and with the best headhighs since Les Boyd was running around the league ranks. It is ballet in hobnail boots. Standup comedy without the showoffs. And everyone we mean everyone, including most in the press seats blow up and scream themselves into a stupor.
Silver Cycling.
The best single event at the Olympics was the madison, which was won by the Australian pair of Scott McGrory and Brett Aitken. Anyone who grew up watching Ralphy Valaderos on TV in the Roller Game would drool over this.
It is basically rollerball at the velodrome, with teams of two flicking each other around the course in the most dangerous event since a package holiday to Jonestown, Guyana. How the whole field does not crash is beyond us, with bikes going all ways for endless, frightening laps. But it could still be improved. Why not have half the field going the opposite way, or have several riders in horse and chariots to really enliven proceedings?
Bronze Baseball
OK, OK. Baseball can be slow at times, but it is the ultimate up and bottom burp exercise. It is a belching, drinking feast, with the best junk food going around.
No, we don't discuss whether the South Korean pitcher is a whippy knuckleballer, or the US pinchhitter is hopeless in belting dippers, rather, whether you should you go for the double chilli and the grated cheese, or the single chilli and the cream cheese with a chilli dog? As big a dilemma is whether you double up, or mix the diet up with a bucket of nachos.
A highprofile Melbourne TV identity joined us one night and had his first ever chilli dog, then his second, third and fourth ever chilli dog. At the end of the ninth innings, he was slumped forward in his seat, in enormous pain and discomfort, making all sorts of sounds, but with a big grin on his face. We left him there.
Next best Water polo.
It would have won gold if we were allowed to put on the snorkelling gear, get under the surface, and watch all the straying hands squeeze out the Christmas hold. It's good in the terraces though, and like the handball, attracts the crazies. It deserves an unhonourable mention.
As for the shockers, we walked straight out of several events because they were too serious, too squeaky clean, too pretty, too boring. We couldn't cop the fencing, badminton, synchronised swimming, diving, hockey, or the prima donnas at the tennis. Many of these events shouldn't even be in the Olympics, because they're too nice. We want edge.
The worst Swimming.
Who cares about gold, gold, gold? What's the attraction in watching a ``moving splash"? There's no pushing and shoving, no stinks, just plenty of kids screaming out silly little kindergarten ditties as if they are at a school carnival, and everyone is so loveydovey to each other. It is ultimate tedium. Don't believe me. Just go down to your local pool, and watch one person do two laps. I guarantee you, by the middle of the second lap, you'll be heading for the canteen in search of a Chiko roll.
Gotta go. The boys are all off to have Greek lessons. All complaints to: mediagibberers@
casualtyward.com.auMedic.
© 2000 Sydney Morning Herald