FWS Cultural Olympiad

Submissions continue to arrive at the finish line and Colette Coen, our Scriver, has curated more responses to the Olympic sports of 2024.

Congratulations to our writers, Victoria Maciver, Laurie Donaldson, Dorcas Wilson, Antje Bothin, Donald Adamson, David C Brydges and Mary Irvine.

Remember, this call remains open through to September 13th, so there's still time to finalise that piece and to send it in to fwsanthology@gmail.com

Enjoy...

Goat

Victoria Maciver

Different location, same routine…

She breathes the simple words in slowly, then carefully releases them into the world. Grounding her body like roots to soil then shrinking the world down. Her mind balancing precariously between then and now, falling and rising, the bitter taste of sorrow or that of sweet joy.

The wicked recesses of her mind poke and prod at her with murmured ‘you failed’. Time in all its ageless beauty has bestowed upon her the gift of reflection, taught lessons in survival, determination and motivation. Is it truly failure to fall when you love to fly? A stumble the finish line or the opportunity to rise. These were the toughest of lessons, hard won like fingernails cracking as they cling to the cliff edge.

She sat upon a throne built of her own success and the world’s gluttonous delight of it. An endless hunger to love the winner, because everyone loves the winner until they’re not. It matters not that this is life and death; she’s a winner. So, win!

But in the silent classroom she rebuilt her mind, re-evaluated her world. Strengthened her mind and body. The mantra remained. Different location, same routine.

BEEP!

She sets her face to smiling, rehearsed to sell just as any experienced trader at the market. Ready to rise as the phoenix from the ashes.

Inspired by Simone Biles’ return to gymnastics

Goodbye Andy

Laurie Donaldson

You put us through it, you put yourself through it, but by god it was fun. Pushed your body through the Olympics for one last time – only the doubles manageable – to leave on a high. You and another redoubtable, Dan Evans, should have lost against the Japanese and somehow won. You did it again against the Belgians, so many match points saved across both matches, before they young whippersnappers from the US put us into our misery and tears. You didn’t want to go but had earned the love through dedication. Although not being smooth and English-media-friendly, you had won the idolatry entitled to a twice Wimbledon winner and all could see that your sleeve was where your heart was.

You exemplified the Scottish cussed spirit, pushed yourself to extremes, and I lived this all with you, following your every match, listening in bed to the late-night commentary from Flushing Meadow, checking ATP timings and draws, willing you forward. I watched as your body strengthened; early games, always fearful of your next injury. Raised on the geometry and modernity of those exotic honed beasts, Borg, Connors and McEnroe, laundry-clean white on background green, I never imagined somebody from my own land could intrude, and that it would be a crabby monomaniac that would become my hero.

As I Prepare

Dorcas Wilson

As I prepare to run my first Olympic 100 metres, my great-great grandmother is by my side.

‘You go, girl. You go, Bess, girl,’ she whispers, her voice dripping with pride at seeing me fulfil my dream.

It was her dream, too.

‘It takes more than speed to win,’ she says, positioning my body to ensure I will get the best possible start.

She could run like the wind, but she couldn’t run free.

‘Focus on the finish line. Run your own race. Don’t worry about the others.’

She had no choice but to worry about others as they gave her reason after reason why a woman couldn’t run on the international stage:

‘It would be embarrassing for their menfolk.’

‘Too distracting for the male athletes.’

‘Running is unladylike.’

‘Run in the Olympics? You’re lucky we let you run at all.’

‘We’ve got this,’ she urges, as we cross the 50-metre mark level with the favourite.

I run with her.

I run for her.

I run free.

Winning is not everything

Antje Bothin

The ribbon danced around the floor. She pushed the device with force, while hovering over the ground like a fairy. Her dance moves hopefully would impress the judges. Now was the moment of truth, her performance at the competition, this important event.

She had spent months practising this routine. Since she had started dedicating her time to this sport as a child, she enjoyed it so much. Watching the Olympic Games inspired her at the time. Now, she was an athlete herself.

The music echoed around the air. She had chosen something cheerful and upbeat. Her feet moved around when she jumped up and down. She smiled with pride and confidence.

It has not always been like that. She used to be a shy child, anxious of other people’s judgement.

The music finally stopped. It was done. She felt great, as she believed she managed to get through without mistakes. She smiled from ear to ear and awaited the results.

A glimpse of anxiety flared up in her mind, but she pushed it away quickly, and displayed a pose of victory.

Would she be first, or last, or anything in between? It suddenly did not matter anymore. It was a brilliant achievement to remember!

She still had the competitions using ball, hoop and clubs to look forward to.

Higher

David C. Brydges

I always wanted to be a bird. In my teens, it was my nickname. Thus, I figured the only way to fly through space without drugs, physically, was to become a pole vaulter. It was a gruelling choice as our high school couldn’t afford the new fibreglass poles or proper foam mats to cushion the re-entry. Instead, I modestly soared with an aluminum pole and crashed to earth on a slim pile of sawdust. I paid a painful price for these ephemeral flights, however, that thrill of self-propelling my body upwards... Living up to my name was very gratifying.

So, with heightened interest, I watched Swedish pole vaulter Armand Duplantis win Olympic gold and set a new world record on his third and final try in front of the 70,000 ecstatic audience.

His father vaulted, and he even built a training pit for him in his backyard.

The aspect of the form I especially eyed was how the pole bent, sending Armand into the stratosphere where no human had ever been. I fantasised about how it would feel to be riding such a flexible pole higher. Upward to hang out with the birds.

Miracles

Donald Adamson

Gymnastics? Aargh … I remember the pain and humiliation of falling from the buck at school. Tonight, though, it’s the Olympic women’s gymnastics, and my eye is caught – why, I wonder? The instinctive male gaze? No, for these are utterly exceptional creatures. They look young, not ‘girls’ – the term would be disrespectful – but women? Yes, in a special way of being women.

They seem predominantly Asian ... delicately featured, fragile embodiments of vitality … you think a breath of wind would blow them over. But then – the performance, the strength, the perfection of them! How can any human achieve the balance, the shifts of the body faster than the eye can follow? They are surely beings of the upper air, which is their natural element.

I have seen my 10-year-old granddaughter doing somersaults and handstands in the garden. She belongs to a gymnastics club, wants to progress. Good. But the Olympics? I wouldn't wish that for her. But it is not mine to wish.

The competitors follow each other; the vaults, the bars, the leaps, the miracles. It cannot be a lifelong gift. With the passing years muscles will slacken, flesh will have its way. They will become more human, and – I dare say – lovelier.

Contemplating the so-called blemishes of ageing, I hope they will find, in themselves, their own unique, miraculous beauty.

Boxing and Wrestling

Mary Irvine

Watching the Olympic boxing and wrestling, a niggle of a memory entered my head. It grew until the name Arrichion, one of the greatest champions of the Pankration of the Ancient Olympiads eventually surfaced. The Pankration had two rules, no gouging and no grabbing the genitals (although you could kick them). A win was achieved by holding your opponent in a strangle-hold and punching him unconscious. The other way was submission. If you’d had several fingers broken, a shoulder dislocated and multiple groin kicks you might have considered raising an index finger – presumably one not broken –indicating submission. A simple, extremely popular sport not for the faint-hearted. A sport for the biggest and strongest. Occasionally a contestant would die. Arrichion died, defending his Olympic title in 564 bc, yet was proclaimed victor. He actually died after his opponent had submitted so was awarded the Olive Wreath.

Apart from Arrichion another famous champion was Polydamas, the Olympic champion in 408 bc, who is reported to have been incredibly strong. When I needed a Pankration for my book about Theseus, I decided to pair these two, even although they could never have met. It seemed appropriate as the Pankration was, traditionally, conceived by Theseus.

There is a ‘modern’ Pankration, not in the Modern Olympics, but it is far more restrictive, with a lot of rules and protective clothing being worn. The ancient exponents of Pankration would no doubt regard the modern form with disdain.