I had anxiously awaited the Beijing Games’ arrival since first coming to the capital in 2005.
However, less than a week after the opening ceremony, my case of Olympic fever became a literal one. I was bedridden with a temperature of 39.6 C and a whooping cough.
Everything that didn’t ache stung, and if it didn’t ache or sting, it was probably hair. And likely someone else’s hair at that.
But I had tickets. Before I’d fallen ill, my wife had serendipitously snapped up a set of three for athletics — for a day I had off work, even — and I was so eager to live this crucial part of the Olympic experience to the fullest.
It was a very Charlie and the Chocolate Factory moment when I found out about these golden tickets. But I was feeling more like Charlie Brown when the big day arrived — mopey about how much fun I might actually have, that is.
Still, I pried myself from the nest I’d fashioned from blankets, pillows and sweat where I’d been hibernating, and after a quick tidying of my appearance (changing out of pajamas) and a short nap in the cab, I was at the Olympic Green.
It was a glorious sight — more incredible than I’d imagined, and I had imagined it to be pretty incredible. I was dazzled by the omnium gatherum of colossal futuristic structures cast in multicolored light.
But once inside the Bird’s Nest, I had no voice to cheer with.
Even though I was bundled in three layers, Beijing’s sultry August seemed to be blowing in straight from the arctic. Despite my shivering, sweat trickled from my forehead, which discomfort had wrinkled to look like a pug dog’s. From behind my walnut of a brow, my brain screamed in pain.
I had to leave.
As I made my ambling retreat from the stadium to the heaps of soft pillows and blankets swathing my couch, I felt defeated.
But then I began thinking back to what little I had seen of the athletics, especially the hammer throw.
It was my first time viewing the sport in any way, shape or form, and I was surprised by how often the athletes would foul out by hurling their hammers right into the netting surrounding them. Some did it for all three turns.
But even though they didn’t win a gold — or a silver or a bronze, or even make it on the field, for that matter — they were there. They’d made it to the Olympics, and just having been in the Bird’s Nest that day is something they should always cherish without regret, I thought.
And I realized, that even if my short, uncomfortable time at the Games didn’t quite provide the golden memories I had pined after for years, it’s something I should cherish without regret, too.