August

[Sweder]

More medal madness, this time in the Bird’s Nest. Pinch me, I’m dreaming!

Highlight for me was watching slack-jawed as Christine Ohuruogu swooped from nowhere to grasp gold from Four Hundred favourite Sanya Richards. Time stood still; I yelled in disbelief, up on my feet, arms wide, eyes wider as the field hit treacle and Ohuruogu hit the front, powering through into Olympic history. The heart-stopping finish was only marginally less teeth-grindingly close than her wafer-thin victory over the same big game choker in the World Champs last year.

Whatever your opinion on sport grabbing the headlines how good it felt, just for once, to have a wholly positive lead on the Ten O’clock News. And in this increasingly multiracial society where black Britons get a lean time in the mean red-tops how refreshing to see the beaming smile of a young black woman illuminating this hugely positive story.

There is of course a footnote; well, boot-print really. Ohuruogu managed to miss three consecutive drugs tests a few years back, earning an automatic ban only recently overturned following protracted legal tussling. Fellow finalist Richards had publicly declared Ohuruogu ‘lucky to be in Beijing’, adding extra spice to this Asian showdown. One might detect the ugly waft of hypocrisy in my celebrating her win, especially after my public denouncement of Dwayne Chambers as a drugs cheat rightly denied a ticket to Beijing. You can argue the finer points, missing tests versus actually using drugs to gain an advantage, but there are those in sport who can’t stomach the presence of either. I watched the commentators out there in the stadium, people like Michael Johnson, Colin Jackson and Brighton’s own Steve Ovett, listened to the excellent and often outspoken Steve Cram. To a man they celebrated unreservedly, praising Christine’s incredible performance and redoubtable heart. They were genuinely, eye-wateringly happy for her; that’s good enough for me.



It seems coming back from the brink is nothing new to Christine Ohuruogu.
What a gal.

USA, USA . . .

A mate of mine out in California complained bitterly this week that the US national broadcasters declined blanket live coverage of the games, with the unsurprising exception of the aquatic Phelps-fest. They get a heavily edited highlights package focused entirely on American successes. Sounds familiar; the BBC go mouth-foaming GB-crazy in their nightly round-up, but I do find it curious. I’m frequently told by American colleagues that the USA is the most sports-mad nation on the planet. It's my duty to point out with a weary sigh that the sports they tend to go maddest about are such renowned ‘world’ events as baseball, basketball and their own bastardised version of rugby, Gridiron. They're all good enough in their place I suppose, it's just that their place is within the confines of North America. I've always felt that if you can take part whilst chewing gum - or for that matter chewing tobacco - it just ain't cricket, or even sport.

If more than three countries are involved our transatlantic cousins get decidedly chilly feet. Chin up lads; you’re miles ahead of Russia in the medals table, a point surely not lost on Dubya as he pokes the grouchy Georgia-crushing Grizzly with Condee, his jet-setting sharp stick.