The Olympics and My Grandmother

I fell in love with the Olympics in 1960. I was eight, and my uncle had just given us his old television set. It was harvest gold, and the screen was small and grainy. But it was thrilling to watch the athletes performing stunts only seen at the circus.

Every four years, Ron and I continued what we started as kids. And the family rooms, in a succession of houses, became floor exercise mats as our kids tried handstands, cartwheels, and leaps. They suffered through volleyball matches and equestrian events, cheered for divers, and screamed during track and field. As they got older and swam competitively, played team sports, or ran track, they appreciated the determination, and work ethics, of the members of the teams. Now they have families of their own, and the tradition continues.

Yesterday, I babysat my five granddaughters for the day and evening. Hannah, the oldest, is eight. None of them has any memory of 2008. But they couldn’t wait to watch all the Olympic events at our house. As we cycled through the recordings, they were shouting their opinions. Kayaking is boring. And why would anyone play volleyball in the sand BAREFOOT? Swimming’s better. But There’s ecstasy! Sarah, 5, is quite sure she could do everything the gymnasts do, if she only had the equipment in the garage! And Grammy, how do they stay on that skinny piece of wood?

Every four years, as we put our lives on hold to cheer for the United States, always ready to be amazed by some new feat, I remember my grandmother, and I smile. Because Momo had quite a different reaction. She didn’t have a TV, so she often watched ours. But she never watched the Olympics.

When I was 12, during the 1964 games, I asked her: “Momo, why don’t you watch the Olympics? Don’t you like them?”

Her answer made me think – and still does. She sniffed with a trace of contempt, then delivered her judgment.

“Everyone has a finite number of heartbeats. Only fools squander them early.”

She lived to be 91. Maybe she had something there.