Grabbing the gold in Olympic apathy

If indifference were an Olympic event I could easily take the gold. I simply don’t get the Olympics.

Loud and clear. Oh, I mean I get them. The signal comes through my television endlessly. Complete with daily coverage of critical Olympic events such as “mindless commentary by Bob Costas” and “inane chatter with has-been athletes.”

Not to mention what appears to be the main event – continual observation on the wildly in-demand “Olympic beret” which has become Salt Lake’s hottest item among American fans.

What’s with the berets? This despite the sad and obvious fact that no American has ever possessed the ability to wear a beret without immediately resembling either Pepe Le Pew or Monica Lewinsky.

We can only shudder to think of herds of beret clad Americans lumbering about. The French must be in stitches.

No, what I really don’t get is why we must all be subjected to the games? I understand, I really do, that a lot of people love the Olympics. This, however, is not a strong argument.

A lot of people, (including my husband who used to be cool), like televised golf. Nonetheless we aren’t subjected to two weeks of constant golf coverage while all the other channels go on endless rerun standby until Tiger Woods gets tired and goes home.

No, they give it a private channel the way nature intended and allow the rest of us to live our lives and watch Friends in peace.

Like the Golf Channel. I favor an All-Olympics All-Day channel. It could air endlessly and show “classic Olympic moments” in the off-season.

The Golf Channel does this if you can believe it. People actually sit and watch reruns of televised golf events.

“Man, I was on the edge of my seat watching that 1969 match the other day but it turns out that Arnold Palmer still wins it every time. Boy howdy that never gets old.

So if it works for golf (or at least says something suspicious about the minds of golfers) why not the Olympics? Imagine the thrill of wondering if Dorothy Hamill still takes the gold in 1976?

That’s got be at least as exciting as watching Olympic curling. A dear Canadian friend once tried to explain this sport to me. In curling, teams of players take turns shoving a large rock across the ice with brooms.

For obvious reasons I just assumed she was crazy. Nope. Turns out it really is an honest-to-pete sport. Better yet, I understand that all 10 people who appreciate curling have really enjoyed the coverage.

By now you know that I don’t watch the Olympics. It’s not personal. I don’t watch any televised sport. Period. If someone I personally know is not taking part – I don’t care.

This is why I will willingly and happily attend the little neighbor boy’s t-ball game but wouldn’t go to a pro football game if you gave me free sky box tickets (which has actually happened – God forbid).

Who won? I have never fathomed fans shouting “We won! We won!” when a team goes all the way to the super series, or the world bowl, or whatever it is that they do. No, you see, they won.

Most fans, I would surmise, were couch-bound with the remote clutched in one fist and a jumbo bag of cheez-doodles in the other. Face it folks, no MVP ever looked into the camera and said “First I’d like to give a shout out to Joe Mugwaller from Boulder Falls who led us to victory with his exceptional buffalo wing buffet and magnificent recliner defense!”

My alternate viewer. Obviously, I don’t watch the Olympics. So in the event that I am unable to raise my Olympic fever and perform my fan-like duties, I have selected an Olympic alternate.

My pal Sherry is going to pick up the slack for me. She likes the Olympics enough for three people, so I’m covered.

As for the rest, I think I speak for a silent majority when I say “Go USA! Bring home the gold! But please, we beg of you, leave the berets behind.”

(Kymberly Foster Seabolt favors amateur potty training and couples toddler wrangling as future Olympic events. She welcomes comments c/o kseabolt@epohi.com, www.farmanddairy.com or P.O. Box 38, Salem OH 44460.)

About the Author

Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless. More Stories by Kymberly Foster Seabolt

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