Olympics 8: Greco-Roman Wrestling

Oh yes, the king of all Olympics tickets. The final of the Greco-Roman wrestling! But before I write about that graceful, poetic sport, a shout out to a memorable moment. As luck would have it, not too long into our evening's entertainment, it was pointed out to us that Helen Glover was sitting just in front of us. Wow. Who? Before last week I would have had no idea either, but then she won Gold for GB in the rowing coxless pairs. Going against all my instincts to leave renowned people to their privacy, I approached her and the result was...

I am glad to report that she was very friendly and gracious. If she was bothered by the attention she did not show it and even let me touch the gold medal (awesome!!!). It is wonderful to see people like this get the attention they deserve for all their hard work. Move over Joey Barton.

THE WRESTLING

On entering the arena I was completely clueless as to what this sport was. Leaving, I was barely more in the know, but will do my best to interpret. Unlike freestyle wrestling where you can use your legs to attack and defend, in Greco-Roman you can only use your upper body. Lunging and slapping for a grip, muscle-bound dudes grab hold of each other's hands, neck, head or torso and tussle. It resembles a bear fight, especially with the hair on some of the Eastern Europeans.

The aim is to throw the other man onto his back or out of the ring with points scored for each. Whoever scores more points wins the round and whoever wins enough rounds wins the match. Simple. Not quite. There were a plethora of other niceties such as illegal moves and challenges (at one point a wrestler was so pissed with the decision of the judge that he refused to shake hands and stormed off down the wrong exit). The most peculiar bit though comes if the scores are level with 30 seconds to go in a round. One of the fighters lies prostate on the floor, the other one approaches slowly from behind, mounts and then, in tight embrace, tries to wrestle the other guy off the floor in the remaining time. More of that later... 

A full evening's entertainment included the repercharge, bronze and gold medal matches of the lightweights (sub 60 kg - approx a small woman), middleweights (sub 84 kg - approx me, on a good day) and heavyweights (sub 120 kg - approx MASSIVE). In many ways the small guys were more entertaining. Faster and with many more throws compared to the giants who seemed to be locked in a slow full body arm wrestle.

All this was fascinating to watch, but the crowd was just as interesting. It had passed under my radar that this sport was huge in a whole host of countries roughly equating to the combined range of the Byzantine and Russian empire. Turks, Georgians, Egyptians, Iranians, Poles, Kazakhs, Russians and... OK the pattern does not quite fit, a gigantic Cuban who won the heavyweight crown. Instead of being full of clueless Brits, the place teemed with noisy, partisan fans from each of these countries. Particularly good were a bunch of burly Georgian men congregated in the far corner, some rowdy Poles, hundreds of excited Iranians and two drunk Swedes kitted out in lycra who were man-handled out of the arena by security after running on to celebrate when their compatriot won bronze.

It was a special moment to see three gold medals awarded, complete with obligatory tears from the victors, but the lasting memory from my first encounter with this most ancient of Olympic events is its touching homo-eroticism, lost from so many modent sports. Fitting for a sport which originated in ancient Greece (although then it was done in the buff as opposed to overly tight lycra), the big matches were won in a groaning eliminator man tussle. A beautiful sight to behold.

Olympics 7: Volleyball

I'm not quite sure why, but my expectations were a good deal lower for the volleyball than for the other events I was due to attend at the Olympics. Perhaps it was the seemingly low key non-Olympic Park venue, Earls Court. Maybe it was because of GB's low standing in the sport. Almost certainly it was because of my general ignorance of all things volleyball. 

 

First to the venue. Tucked away in west London, Earls Court is a crumbly old exhibition centre. I am sure it was very impressive when first opened in 1937, but the intervening 75 years have taken the gloss off it. When you think of the Olympics you think of shiny new state of the art arenas rather than aged concrete monoliths complete with the odd missing roof tile and damp stained walls.You know what though, if a trick can work for dozens of temporary scaffold stands around the games it can work for an OAP of a venue. All it took was a bit of cover up. A few hundred meters of logo'ed cloth and a lick of bright paint made the place look up to scratch, with a sniff of a Berlin rave warehouse.

 

To the sport. GB were due on second, but the big draw of the night was the opening match between world number one Brazil and world number five USA. A real clash of heavy weights. The crowd went nuts as a dozen or so absurdly tall pumped up men stepped out onto court. I had clearly made the mistake of thinking that just because I do not care about volleyball others felt likewise. It could not be further from the truth. The placed was packed with at least 5,000 crazy Brazilians jumping, singing and shouting for every point. So distinctive in their green and yellow garb and wonderfully inhibitionless dance moves, the carnival had come to the borough of Kensington and Chelsea. 

 

As much as I hate to admit it, the few thousand Americans present did a pretty good job too. Countering the Brazilians flare with repetitive, monotone though undoubtedly enthusiastic "U S A, U S A" chants. Backed up by the neutrals who were easily persuaded to their cause, the Brazilians clearly won the fan war, but the match was closer.

Much more epic then I would have imagined, the two teams went at each other hammer and tongs. For the first two sets, neither side managed more than a couple of points gap with multiple changes of lead. The points were punishing, the players brutally digging (two hands down), setting (two hands up), spiking (one hand smashing down) and blocking (as it sounds) the ball. The guys really pushed themselves to the limit, diving all round the place and throwing themselves in the way of balls travelling at well over one hundred miles an hour.

 

The USA edged the first set, showing real composure when the pressure was on. Their aggressive style contrasted with a more skillful Brazil. Just like watching their football team, players often did the unexpected with a mixture of success but plenty of entertainment value. Loads of reverse passes, dummies and small flicks against the non-stop American pummelling. This helped Brazil to edge the second set by a couple of points.

The atmosphere was electric and building as the game went on. All in, some 15,000 peoples' cheers, shouts, claps and whistles echoed off the concrete walls and intermingled to a cacophony. The noise level was up there with most football games I have ever been to.

 

While I was out buying another exorbitant Olympic beer the USA took a decisive lead in the third set and held on to be within one set of victory. First to 25 with 2 clear points is a lot of sweaty game play. Moving into the fourth set we were approaching the two hour mark and my respect for these athletes was going right up. To the despair of the green and yellow samba army, the USA squeezed through in the fourth to win 3-1 and cause an upset. Credit where it is due, they had won a great game.

Next on were Team GB. A mentioned earlier, GB do not have any particular status in this sport so I expected very little when they came up against world number 11 Italy. For the hosts this was one of the scratch teams built up since London were awarded the Olympics with the aim of being more competitive than GB had been before and raising awareness of the sport in this country. They did not disappoint.

 

I won't build up expectations of a successful underdog upset. They lost in straight sets. What they did do though was fight toe-to-toe with the Italians for the first three quarters of each of the first two sets. Some inspirational spikes and blocks kept them in the game. Unfortunately the greater technique and experience of their opponents increasingly told. Whereas the Italians always seemed to have two or three men up for every block and multiple options for the spike, GB increasingly only had one of each.

 

Most of the crowd stayed on towards midnight to cheer the home side on and in the context of the sport's standing in this country they did a good job. Plenty of encouraging GB chants and flag waving showed the support of the viewing public. Hopefully the great arena sticky-plastered together for these games and the solid performance by the team will inspire more people to take it up. You never know we might even win a game next time. That is if we qualify...

A bit knackered, I wandered onto the tube feeling ever so less ignorant of volleyball and really impressed with what it entails when played at the top level. Next up the most randomly intriguing and homo-erotic of all my events, Greco-Roman Wrestling. Bring on the big hairy men!

Olympics 6: Ladies Marathon

A quick one in both spectator and blog terms. Waking up from a late morning nap on Sunday, it dawned on me that the ladies marathon was coming to a close less than a mile from my house. We jumped out of bed (or in Christina's case as close to jumping out of bed as a 36 week pregnant lady can do) and strolled up Waterloo road to grab a piece of the action.  

We could tell we were cutting it fine as TV helicopters were circling the north bank of the Thames just west of Blackfriars. Stepping up the pace, we popped on to south side of Waterloo bridge just in time to see the leaders running past on the other side of the river. By the time we crossed the runners were coming through in larger numbers. Crowds were lining the streets and the top of the bridge from where we peered down onto the action. Striding athletes, a noisy crowd, flags galore and plenty of umbrellas. Fortunately for us a short heavy rain shower had dispersed the crowd enough to allow us to park ourselves with a good vantage point.

Each time an athlete ran by cheers would ring out, with particularly great receptions for the Brits and, of course, those bringing up the rear of the field. Before we knew it they, and the related mini burst of exhilaration, had passed and a renewed rain shower sent us scurrying back to the South Bank for some munch. Normal Sunday renewed.

Short, sharp, random and worth the effort. I will be sure to try and make it to the men's race next Sunday.

Olympics 5: Hockey

The time had finally arrived, I was on my way to Stratford and pumped. A statement I could not imagine myself saying outside of the Olympic context. Attitudes to east London take some changing.

As I jumped off the tube and followed the crowds along the circuitous route to the Olympic park my heart was racing. As with all the venues I have been to, cheery volunteers were aplenty, urging people on with smiles and the odd high five. A quick security check, around a corner and there it was. Giant gates welcoming the world to London 2012 in the foreground and the Olympic stadium itself dominating the background. As I walked through those gates a tear came to my eye. I am not embarrassed about it. A real surge of emotion brought on by pride and excitement.

 

When rationalised it seems slightly odd that this emotion should be so strong when I have not been involved in preparing for the games (bar paying plenty of tax into government coffers), nor know anyone who is competing on a personal level. It comes down to feeling part of a wider collective. As a Londoner, as a Brit, but also as a human being. Dismiss such thoughts with cynicism if you will, but from the moment I stepped through those gates I was surrounded by people draped in flags from every corner of the earth who had come together in the Olympic cause and were ...  hold it.... happy.

 

After I had taken in the magnificence of the stadium and started on the long trek across the complex to the Riverside Arena for the hockey, my first thought was how this Olympic park suited London. At initial look it is basically ugly. A bunch of odd, though in some instances very funky and cool, buildings rising from a mass of concrete. Then as you look closer you notice the hidden gems. On the opposite side of the main thoroughfare from the largest McDonald's I have ever seen (how fitting to "Inspire a Generation") the land drops down via grassy wildflower strewn slopes to a stream. This green area then opens up to form a natural amphitheatre which encircles and focuses upon massive live action screens perched above the water. This provides a huge area for spectators to sit and watch the games unfold and reverberates at each each golden moment.

THE HOCKEY

Like half of the stadia for these Games, the Riverside Arena is only a temporary venue. A giant piece of scaffolding draped in the odd piece of logo filled cloth. A great idea. London does not need a 10,000 seater plus hockey venue and when you step through the metal pole innards and out into the stands it looks great.

 

I arrived just as the Dutch national anthem was playing to a vibrant scene. The bright blue and pink pitch was surrounded by supporters wearing every colour. As hockey is a major sport in the Netherlands and their ladies are number 1 in the world it should not have been a surprise that the dominant colour was orange. I would say 20% of the crowd were proudly wearing this most recognisable national colour and making loads of noise with boisterous chants. For the opposition, the Chinese, there were a few flags and the odd baffled chant of "China, China" (only slightly less monotonous and dull then "U S A, U S A").

 

With the sun out, the exorbitantly expensive beers going down the hatch (over 4 quid for a small bottle of Heineken!) and the sight of 11 beautiful Dutch girls constantly pressurising the Chinese with some top skills, it was fair to say that I was in a good place. To give the Chinese credit, they defended like their lives depended on it, putting their bodies on the line especially at short corners where they threw themselves in the way of some viscous shots. The thrashing that had been threatened when the Dutch went 1 - 0 up early in the first half never materialised, as China held them to that solitary score all the way to the final whistle.

 

Next up were the Germans vs the South Africans. Both had their supporters, but the place had somewhat emptied out with many of the Dutch leaving to other venues or I suspect the odd pub. This was a far better match-up with the Germans eventually edging it. The few beers were though taking their toll and I have to admit that by mid way through the second half my concentration was not what it was. More people watching than ball watching but fun none the less.

 

On my way out I had just enough time to wander over to see the impressive velodrome and the bobbly basketball arena which has apparently been sold to the Brazilians for 2016. The path then took me back over the hidden valley and along the main concourse with the masses strolling out from the various afternoon sessions. Such a great vibe. I was particularly impressed by all the funkily dressed foreign fans. French cockerels, Bolivian indians, a cross-dressing Spanish flamenco dancer and a number of oddly dressed Belgians who I thought it best not to photograph.

 

 

Next stop the volleyball... but first a thanks to Dan for giving me the hockey ticket.