- October 28, 2024
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While watching the Olympics as a family this week, my 6-year-old son, Luke, asked my wife, Hailey, what I considered a very personal question: “Have you ever competed in the Olympics?”
“No, honey,” she said patiently. “Most people don’t.”
I remained silent, hoping Luke would maintain the illusion that, maybe, while his mother had failed, his dad had made it but just never mentioned it before.
As we followed the stars and stripes, Luke chanted, “Go A-mer-i-ca!” I’m working on teaching him the much simpler, punchier, “U-S-A!”
Hailey clicked on another highlight reel in the Peacock app. My children were used to these tiles of video clips, but to me, it felt fractured — not like when I was a kid, when I clung to the belief that everyone in the world could be watching the same Olympics event at the same time.
The pommel horse puzzled the whole family. As legs flew in every direction like a butterfly knife, it was hard not to wonder who had the idea to try pommelling, and then who had the idea to perform the first flip on dismount.
During the gymnastics events, I was mesmerized mostly by the chalk. Chalk on the hands, on the arms, the thighs — a terrific messy blizzard — chalk on the mats kicked up by gusts of wind as athletes flew over them in superhuman poses.
Skateboarding, surfing, diving, swimming.
“I really don’t want the remote,” Hailey said, feeling the pressure of everyone’s silence. “I don’t want to pick the wrong thing.”
For some reason, we watched Qatar vs. Sweden in men’s beach volleyball, but there are rewards in Paris: the sand and crowd bathed in a gorgeous golden sunset, the Eiffel Tower at center court, armchair tourism.
Luke found something to complain about with each event. He only wanted one thing: more swimming.
I suspect he likes it because it’s easy to understand: No judges, no puzzling critiques of form — just go as fast as you can. The drama is self-evident, as swimmers make a push to pass each other in the final stretch for a surprise victory.
“Go A-mer-i-ca!” Luke shouted at the TV.
As I watched him cheer, it occurred to me that, at 6 years old, he is a dreamer, so easily encouraged, so full of hope — a tabula rasa.
The next morning, I caught him breaking the rules, watching TV before anyone else was awake. But I couldn’t help but smile when I saw what he had chosen to watch: the Peacock Olympics app, the same swimming event we had watched the night before.
