Ringing in the Olympics: Thorpe and Freeman

A few summers back, Amanda and I took a trip down to south-west London and joined the legendary Wimbledon Queue. We knew we were riding our luck somewhat as our targeted day was the second Wednesday of the fortnight, men’s quarter-finals day, and the final opportunity of the Championships to get your hands on those prized show-court permits. We were rewarded with ringside seats on Centre for Federer and Murray’s victories, though we made it by the skin of our teeth.

This being Wimbledon, the Queue (it does indeed merit capitalisation) was organised with levels of efficiency that would embarrass a German. Upon arrival (a full 24 hours before our scheduled matches), we were issued with tickets 530 and 531. With 500 tickets set aside for each court, there was no guarantee we’d get to see oor Andy. But as the day went on, it became clear we might just about make it. Because when the following day’s schedule was released in the early evening, Lleyton Hewitt’s tie with Roddick was to be played on Court One. And some way ahead of us in the queue was a sea of green-and-gold and the customary Bundy Rum-fuelled rounds of “Let’s go, Lleyton, let’s go!”

In Britain we pride ourselves on being sports-mad, but I don’t reckon anywhere in the world comes close to Australia. Sure, the most die-hard football fan in the UK could match the frenzied passion of your typical Aussie Rules supporter. But the difference, as far as I can tell, is that Australians will get hammer and tongs into any sport where one of their brethren is competing. If Bruce from Tasmania were competing in the Greenland Tiddlywinks invitational, you’d be bound to find at least one compatriot there, cheering him on, tinnies to hand.

And that more than anything else, is what, for me, places the Sydney Games at the top of the pile. Australia, as they were bound to, embraced the Games like no nation before or since and the reverberations could be felt worldwide.

Of course, the sheer pride of hosting the games ensured the support went way beyond the mere partisan. But national pride was not completely out of the equation, and the hopes of a nation rested predominantly, if not quite completely, on the shoulders of Ian Thorpe and Cathy Freeman.

While I’ve greatly enjoyed watching the all-conquering Michael Phelps over the past couple of Games, the Thorpedo will always be no.1 for me. Until 2000, I hadn’t really gotten into Olympic swimming. Thorpe changed that, cruising his way to three gold medals and, unlike Phelps, never really looking like he was trying (a bit like Federer and Nadal in tennis) and posting super-human times in the process.

The race that really did it for me was the 4x100m freestyle, a true AUS v USA smackdown, (the US never having previously lost it) in which Thorpe had the anchor leg and looked like he had it all to do with 50 metres remaining. And all he did. I’ve met Australians who were there that night and will tell you that the earth literally shook in that arena. Video below.

The opening ceremonies of the Games these days tend to feature much well-intentioned waffle about nations and people groups coming together as a force for good. On the evening of Monday the 25^th of September, that, for once, really did happen, as Cathy Freeman, of native Australian descent, took gold in the women’s 400m and a nation with its fair share of racial baggage in its past celebrated as one. With Jonathan Edwards and Denise Lewis doing it for GB in the triple-jump and heptathlon, it was one of those special nights in an athletics arena when TV directors know not where to turn next, greatness seemingly taking place all at once.