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August, indeed
There’s no cauldron in the Olympic stadium, not in the accepted sense of the word. Thomas Heatherwick gave tradition the elbow in his search for something to hold the flame for a wider sporting world. His creation, its' wondrous birth the pinnacle of an astonishing opening ceremony, stands proudly at the finish line end of the stadium. But it’s not a cauldron. There is one though. A seething, bubbling tumult of emotion, fuelled by incredible passion, fanned by the screams of eighty thousand sports-mad souls.
We would not let them lose last night. Greg Rutherford was lifted into the air, propelled through the night by the roar of the crowd. I watched it happen. A man expected to be ‘in with a shout’ of a medal soared to improbable gold. There was nothing anyone else could do. Jessica Ennis didn’t need to win the 800 metres to take the heptathlon laurels. They caught her on the back straight, passed her on the bend. All she needed to do was hang on to take the title. But we wouldn’t let her. The wall of sound that chased Ennis round that final bend was incredible, vibrating through the chests of those striving for the line, but it only lifted one, the smallest woman on the track, driving her home to glory.
Mo Farah had it all to do. He faced three nations with well-laid plans to double-team him. They jostled and jousted, bumped and bored, tested and teased. Mo stayed true to his plan, stayed calm, nestled in the middle of the pack, watching, watching. With 800 to go the crowd took to their feet. The roar rose to a scream: ‘Mo!!!’ I had tears in my eyes as this small, humble man hit the front, hunted down by whippet-like African assassins. They started to catch him, on that same dreadful bend, on into the home straight. But we wouldn’t let him fail. We lit the touch-paper, and Mo did the rest.
We roared them home on a wave of love and pride.
The stadium PA played ‘All You Need Is Love’ as Mo Farah took the plaudits, his broad smile lighting up the track, draped in the Union flag, his wife and daughter by his side. We sang, of course, only we changed the words. ‘All You Need Is Mo!, Ya da da da daaah!’ We sang the National Anthem as Ennis got her gold, and the tears fell once more, hers and mine. I didn’t think I had any left. Euphoria, fired into the night sky like exploding rockets, fell onto the stadium like the finest rain as we collected our wits and made for the exits.
A journalist, unaware of Mo’s love of Britain, and London in particular, asked him if he’d have rather run for Somalia. Mo looked him in the eye and said: ‘Look around you mate. This is my country.’ An hour after it was all over, most of the jabbering, wild-eyed patrons had spilled out into the Olympic Park. A small, brown man in a white track suit emerged from the shadows. Without fanfare or announcement he took off on a long, slow plod around the track, lap after lap at a solid, steady pace. Alone with his thoughts, no doubt playing it all back inside his shiny bald head. Mo Farah, starting his prep work for the 5,000 metres. Mo the ultimate Pro.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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