Omar’s Olympic Odyssey IV
I’ve been writing about my experiences at the Athens games for a few weeks now, but today while watching rowing, I remembered that the 2004 games weren’t my first Olympics experience. 20 years earlier, in 1984 at the Los Angeles games - when I was a 5-year-old tike - my dad and I went to Lake Casitas in Ventura County to watch a rowing event. I don’t remember much from that particular day, but I do recall taking a picture with a Canadian gold medalist. A picture my parents still have – somewhere. Point being my passion for the Olympics was sparked long before Athens.
Like many households throughout this great land, an American flag hangs in my home at all times. A symbol of our freedom and a constant reminder that no matter how bad our situation may seem, we’re fortunate to have what we do. But the story of that flag is much deeper than that.
In 2004, the anti-American sentiment was seemingly at an all-time high. It was the first Olympics since 9/11, and any worldwide sympathy we may have had after the tragedy had been erased by our perceived military aggression in the Middle East. So in anticipation of the games we were warned that as Americans, we were potential terrorist targets. We were told to blend in - try not to be too patriotic. The point was driven home at our hotel, where every time we entered we had to pass through a metal detector and there were armed guards 24 hours a day. It was scary initially, but as the days wore on, the fear subsided. And as the games grew closer, Athens transformed into the international capital of the world that the host city becomes during the Olympics. While more and more fans/supporters/tourists arrived from around the world, the Olympic spirit infected the city. You couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a painted face, waving flags and other displays of pride from each of the other countries. But the red, white and blue were nowhere to be found, unless you were talking about the French or British colors.
As you can imagine, frustration set in – having to curb my enthusiasm. I was tired of holding in my feelings. I felt safe on the streets, yet jealous that I couldn’t take part in the occasional U-S-A, U-S-A! Then one night while partying at a club, (which was an after work tradition) I reached my boiling point. I was headed to the restroom when I saw - near one of those giant club speakers - an American flag lying on the floor. I could conform to the unwritten rules, but certainly wasn’t going to let people trample all over the stars and stripes - enough was enough! So I picked it up, draped it around myself and was muted no more! I pretty much carried it with me wherever I went the rest of the trip (when I wasn’t at work, of course). You should have seen the faces of our countrymen that night. Most Americans weren’t used to seeing the U.S. flag out and about so when they saw me, their emotions poured out and the flag became a rallying point for backers of Team USA, people who had also been silencing their vocal support. I’ve never served in the Armed Forces, and at this point in my life I doubt I ever will – God bless those who do. Similarly, I’ll likely never compete in the Olympics, or any other international sporting event, so I’ll probably never understand how it TRULY feels to represent our great country. But as proud as I was in those moments, that may be the closest I’ll ever get.
By the time the Olympics ended Ol’ glory was commonplace and the Americans became as loud and proud as anyone, the thought of any harm due our way became more ridiculous as time and competition passed each day.
That was some liberating fun. I still have that flag hanging in my apartment, as it has everyplace I’ve lived since then. It doesn’t fit in with the décor, but it fits with me and always will. People hardly ask me about the flag when they come over, I guess they think I’m just a proud American - which I am - but now you know the rest of the story.
