the inside, at least from within the temporary wings, that its form-over-function character was apparent. Below, one could see the fans and, beyond that, the pool; but in front, instead of a panorama of the far side of the stadium, all one could see were white steel girders and the low gray belly of the ceiling—an impressive ceiling, no doubt, one that “swells and ripples with sinuous energy . . . buckles and writhes,” to use the words of one inspired reviewer, but nonetheless one whose sinuous swelling blocked my view.
In past centuries, people attended athletic events because it was the only way to watch sports. Today, anyone with a TV, or even just a few bills to buy a beer at the local bar, can not only watch the world’s premiere sporting events but also observe them in greater detail and precision than even those with the best tickets. (Think of the mesmerizing and almost voyeuristic pleasure we get in watching vids of Rafael Nadal’s facial contortions as he savages a forehand or the slow-mo replay technology used after the Beijing Olympics 100 fly3 to prove Phelps actually did impossibly out-touch Cavic by 1/100th of a second, without which we’d still be hearing allegations of an American conspiracy behind his octuplet gold medal haul.) Competitions were once exclusive to live spectators: now they include, and in reality entirely cater to, the televised and streamed audience. But though the armchair TV and laptop viewers of the world may have a better close-up on the action, they’re still only watching on a small two-dimensional screen—and “small” includes all rectangularly framed screens, from 4" mobile phones to 64" high-def LEDs. They still aren’t there, and it’s exactly the being there aspect—the immersive sublimation of self into a thousands-strong throng of fellow roaring nationalist barbarians, or in brief the “atmosphere”—that accounts for why we still pay for flights and hotels and $175-per-session tickets for a couple of hours of straining our eyes and hearts while a bunch of kids splash around in a glorified fishbowl.
Though I only had an albatross’s-eye view of the action below, I was in stellar company. In the seat to my left was Katie Ledecky’s brother, who later that evening would sprint down the stairs yelling hoarsely as his fifteen-year-old sister swam the final lap of the 800 free to Olympic gold.4 And directly to my right was Missy Franklin’s uncle, who had tears running down his face after his niece won gold and broke the world record in the 100 back. Stadiums during Olympic finals sessions are essentially giant conductors for frazzled nerves and raw emotion: a month’s worth of heartbreak and exultation is often packed into a minute of competition.
I was grateful just to have a finals ticket, but something did seem fundamentally amiss that the two fans to my left and right, both family members of Olympic finalists (make that gold medalists), were seated so far from the action. One would think they’d have been closer to the pool—down in the illustrious Stingray seating that was nontemporary and unobstructed by sensual low-hanging ceilings—but most of those seats, especially the best and often empty ones, were corporate reserved. The sponsors owned and ran the show and would ensure that the £269 million cost of the London Aquatics Centre (originally projected at £73 million) would fall not on them but on the public, which is its own special corporate way of spreading the love. But what the hell, it makes good TV programming and the advertisers are happy, and granted, there may be a protest here and there, but that sort of collateral fallout can be carefully managed. The main thing is that politics stays out of sports, or rather a certain kind of politics: outpourings of national support during anthems are acceptable and encouraged. Just don’t lower your head and raise a black-gloved fist during the medal ceremony as did US sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics as a show of black solidarity, after which International Olympic Committee president Avery Brundage—the same fellow who as an Olympics official at the 1936 Berlin Games deemed the Nazi salute acceptable because it was a “national salute” rather than an individual one—forced their expulsion from the Games. The closest we got to color-coordinated medal ceremony apparel this time around, and just as telling of our times, was Ryan Lochte and Michael Phelps’s matching fluorescent lime-green shoes on the podium, a symbol of Nike power. But that didn’t ruffle any plumage: the essential thing is that the Games remain pure and unadulterated by ideology or profiteering, at least of the non-national, non-official-sponsors variety.
The audience roared as the announcer called out the 50 free finalists. The moments before the men’s 50 free Olympic final is about as loud as a swim meet gets, aside of course from a race’s final stretch and the relays, which are seen primarily as contests of national dignity. The crowd’s energy contrasted with the very clean, bright, and stark deck area. The scene was nothing like the US Olympic Trials, which involved pyrotechnics and sound and light displays that would rival any rave and fans pumping giant cardboard Ryan Lochte faces. The London Olympics were a more minimalist and dignified affair (think Wimbledon vs. US Open), with swimming and partying confined to their proper places, the pool and pub respectively.
The swimmers took their positions behind the blocks. Even after the official’s whistle, even after they’d stepped up, curling their toes into position and hunching over the edge of the block, waiting for the “Take Your Mark” command, people were still yelling and hooting. Ervin’s coach at the time, Dave Durden, later told me the announcer should have called down the athletes from the blocks and calmed the audience because of all the noise—or, as he put it, the “tons of energy just kind of swirling around.” Not that he was trying to excuse Ervin’s start, which Durden conceded was terrible; he just felt the eight finalists weren’t given the starting conditions they expected and deserved.
Aside from the usual stresses that come with rooting for a 50 free sprinter, with Ervin you have to contend with the additional anxiety that something gut-sinking might happen on his start. It’s not that you’re even hoping for a great start; you just want him to be in contention when he hits the water. You’re basically praying for no imminent disaster. Watching him crouch down for the start feels, on a less consequential scale, something like what the Russian roulette player must go through before pulling the trigger: Please, God, just no bullet. The 50 free is always something of a gamble, but with Ervin you feel like the gods also have to be on his side, at least for the first second.
Even from my height I could tell Ervin was unstable on the block. The announcer held the swimmers for a hair loss–inducing length of time after the “Take Your Mark” signal (about 1.8 seconds, actually). Ervin looked to be leaning forward precariously, then shifted his weight back as the buzzer went off. What happened next was pretty much how the broadcaster put it during the slow-motion replay on the Olympic Channel’s YouTube video of the race: “Ervin completely missed the start. Look at him come up with the black cap, four across. He was a mile behind.” He gained on them, but this time he was too far behind to catch the leaders. A longer pool, another ten or fifteen meters, and he would have been in it. But this was the 50 free, not the 65. He touched fifth.
The next day I was at the P&G US Family Home, a vast, many-leveled Procter & Gamble utopia where US athletes and their families could hang out to watch the Games, gorge on free buffet and beer, have American flags painted on their fingernails, launder clothes at the 24-hour Tide booth, change infants into Team USA diapers in the Pampers room, freshen up at a private sink in the Crest & Oral-B zone, get a makeover in the CoverGirl area, and score a shave from a hot, overly made-up hairdresser in a Gillette lounge unironically called the “man-cave.” Even their press release was a nugget of heartfelt commercialese: “P&G Family Home is ‘Home away from Home,’ Featuring Services from Leading Brands including Pampers®, Tide®, Pantene®, Crest®, Duracell®, and Gillette®.” The metal detectors and X-ray machines you first had to get through and the security guards stationed around the perimeter only added to the weirdly dystopian corporate Shangri-La feel of the place.
Inside the lavish embrace of the P&G womb, Ervin and I were huddled around a screen in one of the lounges along with other Team USA swimmers, watching the track-and-field 100-meter-dash final. As Usain Bolt pulled away from the pack, I turned to Ervin: “You and Usain look alike when
