Jonny McCambridge: Sailing with no wind, kicking the volleyball and Chariots of Fire – we’ll always have Paris
During the past week a friend, whose sound judgement may or may not have been clouded by the mists and vapours of drink, laid a wager as we watched the cycling on TV that I would not be able to find a way to use the word repechage in this week’s column. He now owes me £1 million.
Moving on, I feel a gaping hole has been left in my existence with the conclusion of the Olympics. After falling into the routine of watching the coverage from Paris from 8am until 10pm every day, I am now at a loss as to how to fill the time. The emptiness of days without judo, diving and ping pong to watch stretches dauntingly in front of me. I console myself by savouring some special memories.
Brown water and sailing with no wind leaves a sinking feeling
On several days I rise early to watch the triathlon only to have my hopes dashed due to pollution levels in the River Seine. When they do eventually swim, the water is unmistakeably brown. It makes me feel queasy just watching.
Equally unsatisfactory is the sailing from Marseille. Often the BBC presenter breathlessly tells us that they are going to the marina for the medal race, only for it to be abandoned due to lack of wind. I can tolerate most forms of sports, but even my enthusiasm is tested by hours spent watching little boats bobbing helplessly up and down in the water like rubber ducks in the bath.
Taking a tumble
Years of preparation can be undermined in a moment by an accident. There is a mass pile up in the home straight of the heat for the men’s 5000m race in the athletics. Four runners hit the deck as the final sprint begins, including a Dutch athlete who does a full somersault before landing on his back. I am surprised when the judges show clemency and award all four fallers a place in the final. If I’d known of this loophole, I would have entered myself and then collapsed in a heap seconds after the starting gun.
There is more misfortune in the team triathlon. The French team are heavily favoured and the home crowd lining the streets are whipped into a state of frenzy as they chant ‘Allez les bleus!’ Less than 10 minutes into the race the New Zealand competitor falls off his bike, bringing down the French triathlete who is directly behind him. He rises gamely only to find that his bike chain has come off and the gold medal chances are gone. Zut alors!
Don’t jinx their chances
I live a life without superstition and governed by reason and logic. This collapses when it comes to sport. I become convinced that the BBC presenters are jeopardising the chances of the GB competitors by talking too optimistically about them. Swimmer Adam Peaty’s life story is repeatedly endlessly – he doesn’t win.
Runner Josh Kerr almost has the gold medal hung around his neck before the 1500m – he doesn’t win. We are told over and over that taekwondo fighter Jade Jones is a virtual cert for a medal – she gets knocked out in the first round. I am certain that a better approach would be to pretend there are no local competitors taking part and then to be pleasantly surprised by the haul of gold medals.
This madness reaches its zenith in the men’s 400m final on the track. Team GB’s Matthew Hudson-Smith is fancied to win. The BBC decides that its angle will be to highlight that no British runner has won the 400m since Eric Liddell at the 1924 games in Paris 100 years before – a race immortalised in the film Chariots of Fire. Flickering black and white clips are shown, Vangelis’s stirring theme tune is played. Moments before the race starts, commentator Steve Cram points out that the runner shares the same Hudson surname as the director of the movie. I quickly send a text to my brother "He’s doomed, isn’t he?”. Matthew Hudson-Smith doesn’t win.
Football vs handball
I like to watch the handball. I observe that there are huge similarities between football and handball. Apart from the obvious difference in the part of your body which is used to manoeuvre the ball, there are significant areas of overlap. Yet one sport is a multi-billion pound industry while the other disappears into obscurity outside of the Olympics.
I imagine an alternate universe where handball players get paid £350,000 a week, where players’ wives and girlfriends populate the pages of tabloid newspapers, where handball fans shout obscenities at each other from the stands and where the media in turn lionises and then rubbishes the English handball team before they get knocked out on penalties.
Volleyball – you can use your feet!
My top moment of the Olympics occurs when I’m watching France play Italy in the men’s volleyball. During one rally the French player spikes the ball fiercely towards the ground. I am certain that a point will be scored until an Italian player kicks the ball back into the air and play continues.
I fall off the sofa in shock. I begin to hurriedly tap out messages to just about everybody I know. “Did you see that? He used his foot!”
It seems that my friends are neither as interested nor as shocked by the revelation as I am. Some ignore my message, some send responses enquiring after my health and some leave WhatsApp groups that include me.
Undeterred, I intend to get to the bottom of this. I compose perhaps my most unusual Google search request. ‘Can you use your feet in volleyball?’
Contacting the ball in volleyball with a foot is legal, however the player's foot must not leave the ground during the effort. The foot must be slid across or dropped into position on the floor into the path of the ball.
Roll on LA 2028.