Citius Altius Fortius

I always think I'm not a big Olympics guy, and then the Olympics actually start. I've never been the gung-ho patriot type, but I'll be damned if international competition doesn't bring out in me a fierce rooting interest in anything United States. Of course, it's one thing when it's the World Cup; soccer, that's a sport I follow on a regular basis. With the Olympics, by comparison, we're talking swimming, and track, and gymnastics. Like most people, I have no idea what's happening in the world of swimming at any point in the four years between Olympics. I knew what Michael Phelps did in Athens; I knew what he was trying to do in Beijing. I did not know, nor did I care, what he was doing from September 2004 to July 2008. But when Jason Lezak touched the wall a barely perceptible .08 seconds ahead of France's Alain Bernard - whose braggadocio I, no doubt like most American viewers, had been quietly seething over since being informed of it mere minutes earlier - I involuntarily yelled out of sheer excitement.

Lezak had entered the pool nearly a full body length behind Bernard, only one of the fastest sprinters in the world and the world record holder in the 100m free until it was broken by Australia's Eamon Sullivan on the relay's opening leg. (Because the 4x100 starts with a tone, as do regular races, the opening legs are eligible for world records; the later legs are not because their starts are not controlled by the tone.) A full body length is an eternity in Olympic swimming, especially against one of the world's best sprinters and especially after Lezak had failed to make up significant ground after the first 50 meters of the final leg. With only 30 or so meters to go and Lezak still at least 3/4 of a body length behind Bernard, the commentators began discussing how the United States would have to settle for holding onto the silver medal, with Australia charging hard to Lezak's left.

Then, suddenly, the atmosphere changed. Almost no sooner had the announcers written the U.S. off than they began to remark upon the fact that Lezak seemed to be gaining. Like a championship thoroughbred breaking free of the pack, everyone could see Lezak closing on Bernard, a man seven years his junior. The intensity in the Water Cube reached fever pitch, and when Lezak touched the wall after just 46.06 seconds in the pool (in a finish so close that replays showed Phelps checking the scoreboard before celebrating), there was sheer exuberance from the rest of the team, the announcers, and surely Americans just like me all over the world, suddenly glued to their sets not four minutes earlier, having no idea until it unfolded in front of them that they were about to witness one of the most dramatic moments in Olympic history - perhaps the most dramatic moment for an American athlete at any Games since the 1980 hockey team stunned the Soviets.

Once the XXIXth Olympiad fades into memory, I probably won't remember much about it. If Phelps does indeed eclipse Mark Spitz's record by tallying eight gold medals, I'm sure I'll remember that; if he falls short, I may remember the race he lost. I'll certainly remember his name, as he's already just one gold medal shy of becoming the most decorated Olympian in history, a record he's sure to obliterate this year and possibly put even further out of reach in London in 2012. And I'll probably remember what the basketball and soccer teams did, sports that I care about outside of an Olympic context. But no matter what else happens at these games, I'm sure I'll always remember Lezak's charge, the hair standing up on the back of my neck as the announcers' voices began to break, the scream erupting from my mouth before I could even think of holding it in. It's moments like this for which we watch sports, and with the added incentive of national pride on the line, it's especially moments like this for which we watch the Olympics. We're a jaded society when it comes to sports these days, but when Lezak touched that wall, he was a pulsing reminder of how athletic competition can really still matter.