The Game(s) of Possibility
We’ve left the city, Mary and I, but not the embrace. No, as we woke up back in our own familiar bed, we could still feel the warmth of our sixteen days in France’s capital city, as well as the excitement of the first games in history to be played outside of a traditional closed-off stadium. For these Olympic Games, Paris was the stadium, and all of us, whether standing in the streets or sitting in the seats, felt a bit like participants.
“We will be traveling,” our French hosts said when we first decided to rent their apartment for two weeks during the games. “Many Parisians are leaving because it’s going to be too crowded,” they complained.
At first, this made us sad. “No, don’t go,” we thought. But once Mary and I got our feet under us, we realized just how great it was to have fewer people in Paris for these two weeks. Fewer people on the metro. Fewer people vying for Velib rental bikes. Fewer people crammed into the famed Parisian cafes. Ironically, as the games proceeded, we read about some of these same Parisians coming back to the city when they realized the mistake they’d made. No, these Olympics were not the disaster they predicted. Quite the opposite.
By chance, Mary and I landed in the 11th arrondissement, in an apartment just outside the center of Olympic craziness — a place where normal Parisian life seemed to still exist on nearby streets and in the local stores. We chose events less for what they were, and more for the venues they were in. Inspired by our niece Brooke, a Tokyo Olympian and world record holder on the ERG, we signed up for rowing first and foremost. Brooke and Mary both championship rowers—Brooke someone who would have been rowing here had it not been for and untimely injury—the two of them forever bonded by a love ofd a sport whose pain few can tolerate. Vaires-Sur-Marne, the rowing venue just east of the city, here we come.
We chose beach volleyball under the Eiffel Tower, and marathon swimming in the Seine. We saw horses dance at Versailles, and marvelled at the cycling up the cobble stone streets of Montmartre. And yes, we also make it to St. Denis and La Defense for the traditional Olympic track and swim competitions. You couldn’t do it all, but we did a lot, so as the US Women’s soccer team advanced, we gambled and bought tickets to the tournament’s final game, fingers crossed that the US team would be in it.
If you’re an athlete, you grow up thinking about what it might take to be in the Olympics. You grow up watching the various stars compete while learning about new sports and solidifying your love for the ones you play. Over the years, you come away forever impressed with performance at this level. When Katy Ledecky wins the 1,500 by five seconds, you marvel in what it must have taken for her to train for such a result. And when Steph Curry buries four threes in the last minutes of a gold medal game, you know it’s not luck, but hours and hours of extra time in the gym before and after practice. But maybe most incredibly, when you witness a woman run the 5K, 10K, as well the marathon, all in a week, winning bronze, bronze and gold in that order, you can’t believe it. In this moment, you face your truth—you were never at this level of talent, fitness or training. You have never run through the pain cave the way these athletes do. You’ve never put that kind of time into practice. You are in awe!
At some point in all of this competition, you wonder to yourself, “Exactly what is all this all really about?” Yes, the Olympics are a huge corporate event. Yes, money governs many of the decisions surrounding the games. And yes, there are many things wrong with what comes together in these venues every four years. But this is also a place where athletes do things even they can’t believe—the rest of us watching in wonder. This is the time when kids come away inspired to dedicate their lives to a sport. Unpredictable things happen when one plays for one’s country, and not for some random professional team. There’s a spirit money can’t buy, and we all feel it wether in person or watching on TV.
The layout and programming of the Paris Olympics seemed risky, but in the end proved genius. All of Paris the arena. Cyclists raced through century old streets, while swimmers navigated unpredictable river currents. Fencers lunged under vaulting glass roofs, while archers found their targets next to Napoleon’s tomb. Things were happening everywhere, all the time. Organizers even offered a 10K road race to anyone who sent in an email with a doctor’s note, inviting fans to to join a midnight run laid out on the same marathon route the men and women would run their races. The organizers made us feel a part of the games even if we weren’t competing in them.
The Olympics are not perfect. They are not always fair, and they are certainly not unaffected by the power of money. We’ve come to understand this, and yet for two weeks choose to ignore it in order to watch athletes rise up and perform their incredible feats. France has never been more proud of their team. Never cheered louder for any individual medalist. Maybe not since Jean Claude Killy graced the slopes of Grenoble has one athlete captured the hearts of this country as much as Leo Marchand did in the pool during the first week of these games. When a country hosts the games, and then fills the stands with their fans, surprising things happen. Golden rings found themselves wrapped around the French volley ball, hand ball, and Rugby Sevens teams. Silver ribbons around the unlikely finishes of the men’s and women’s basketball tournament. We too found ourselves shouting, “Allez Les Blue”. You couldn’t help but root for the French as they rallied to win a record number of medals for their ‘Republique’. At these games, we all cheered for Paris and for all of France.
“What was the highlight?” People ask when we’re finally back in Brookline “All of it,” we answer. The chance to speak French again. A morning walk to fetch fresh baguettes. A bike ride up the narrow streets to the top of Montmartre. And of course, delicious meals, one as good as any we’ve ever tasted. We saw Paris, as we reveled in red, white and Les Blue. All of it! C’est manifique!
Even our own flag, which before these games had been co-opted by our fractured politics, captured our hearts when we won gold. You couldn’t help feel pride of country. Walking from the train to the stadium for the finals of women’s soccer, Mary asked, “where’s our flag?” Finally, oue chance to wear the colors and shout, “USA! USA!” I too found myself yelling, high-fiving and otherwise Americanizing my way toward our country’s gold medal match-up with Brazil. We didn’t arrive thinking we’d get quite so wrapped up in it all, but then maybe no-one does.
The French brought flair. They brought innovation. They brought a quality and color we’ve not seen before. Under immense scrutiny and pressure, the French offered their beloved Paris to the world and delivered. What had been years of Parisians complaints, “non, ce n’est pas possible (no, that’s not possible)”, gradually turned into, “pourquoi pas (Why not?)”. Why not swim in the river? Why not a purple track? Why not let the fans run? Why not forget your troubles and embrace the possibility. The world could use a little more of why not.
Paris is the city of lights, of love. And for these two weeks, the city of possibility.
Merci Les Blue.
Mercy Paris.
These the games of possibility we will not soon forget.
(PS Watch ‘La Grande Seine’ on Peacock to learn more about how the organizers pulled off those Opening Ceremonies.)
