Although I probably should be watching baseball, I find myself oddly enthralled by the Olympics. Ichiro’s chops as a Yankee? Nah, I think I’ll watch some women’s badminton instead. Fister putting a brief stop to the Tiger’s road woes? Hm, I guess I’m going to go for some ping-pong (table tennis, if you want to be stuffy about it). Rivalry weekend in America? Nope, women’s skeet shooting.
I’m not saying I’d want to watch these games all the time. I love women’s gymnastics as much as the next guy but I can only take so much of it. But at the same time, there’s something special about the Olympics. For instance, yesterday I was watching a British dude named Paul Drinkhall advance to the third round in men’s table tennis.
First of all, his name is “Drinkhall.” How awesome is that? That’s like a German guy named “Biergarten.” Or an American named “Applebees.” Second, this dude has little or no muscle tone, pasty white skin, horrible shorts and an equally terrible haircut but he’s an Olympic athlete. That, my friends, is badass. Badass in the same way as David Wells and his Churchillian physique somehow destroying opposing batters.
I freely admit that a lot of it is the novelty. It’s hard for the 162-game slog of baseball to compete with the instant gratification of a Moroccan/Uzbek flyweight boxing match. And once the new “Dream Team” really get’s going, baseball is going to find it tough going. I guess it’s kind of like the guy who has always sworn that he’d never leave his frumpy but faithful wife but somehow finds himself behind the wheel of a convertible with his 24-year old secretary. Sure, it’s cheating but really, what were you supposed to do? Odds like those don’t come up everyday.
So, I’d like to say that this was just a weekend thing and tomorrow I’ll be back to MLB. But we all know I’m lying. Can you blame me though? I mean, seriously, synchronized diving!!!