Surely Nations Will Gather, but Families?

I recall the scramble to take off my shoes, the rush to fill a glass with chocolate milk or soda, and the feeling of coarse carpet rubbing on my forearms as I sprawled out on my belly on the living room floor. I'd bunch the pillow between my hands, shove it beneath my chin, and wait. My brother would follow suit, and our parents, not far behind, commanded us to slow down. But how could we? We'd waited four years in isolation; four years deprived of any knowledge of world competitions, international play, or sight of foreign face or color. And despite their pleas for us to relax, the excitement of our parents was equally undeniable. They had, after all, had a hand in crafting an aura and zeal for the games.

But like Bill Bradley noted in last week's Leading Off column, the idea that families will gather 'round the tele and share the global experience is fading--if it's not completely gone already. The upcoming results of Phelps' first two or three races? I'll probably grab those from ESPN.com and send out an e-mail. The Redeem Team's opener against China? I bet I'll hear the final, the leading scorers, and stats and highlights on the radio long before I hit play on the DVR, more than a day after the actual game, in a last-ditch effort to be involved. I suppose it's another glaring sign of the times.

It's hard to make the effort with so much on our plates, and although our viewing came far later than the live airing, we on 7th Avenue gave it the traditional go on Friday night. There we sat: Steph, Zoe, and myself, watching the magic unfold in Beijing. The color, the grandeur, and size of the spectacle were utterly amazing. The symbolic unity of the performers and the rich collaboration of a country determined to both impress the world and convey its message, its history, and its harmony did not disappoint. At times, I didn't know if I was moved to tears by the games themselves, or by Zoe's dander reaching my eyes, (though I like to think it was the show).

My brother sent me a text message during the ceremony that spoke volumes about the meaning of the games for my family. Watching NBC's Bob Costas narrate the ceremony, his message read, "If this is Michael Jordan's final chapter, what a way to close the book," a quote we loosely translate from the 1998 NBA Finals (I know Costas tried to say something metaphorically prolific, but all I can find is a clip in which he says, "If that's the last image of Michael Jordan, how magnificent is it?"). The message was heartwarming. The fact the my brother reached down into our childhood and pulled out a little gem to link our youthful passion to the 08.08.08 spectacle is an endearing reminder of the importance of sports and competition as fodder in our family.

All human rights issues aside, I think it's quite extraordinary that the country hosting the games has such a rich and mysterious history. As act after breathtaking act unfolded, Stephanie noted that everything we watched was actually a highlight of a historical highlight. That is, the ceremony did its best to encompass 500 years of history and value in a matter of hours, unveiling tip after tip of bergs in an unfathomably extensize ice field. Thousands of performers--none of whom were repeated, as organizers admit there's no shortage of people in the country--communicated the country's theoretical unity, its threatened harmony, and global appeals for redemption. Moreover, I found it particularly stunning that such technological wonders were balanced with a seemingly endless precision and flawless display of (hu)manpower.

A contrast noted: On one hand, I enjoyed seeing so much national pride. I didn't grow up during the Red Scare or the Cold War, so I don't have an inborn fear of communism. That said, I can admit an admiration of such a high level of nationalism evident in the actions and on the faces of the hosts. What I saw was undeniably impressive. Inversely, I started thinking that democracy and the fundamentals of our national fabric permit--even promote--a light switch approach to patriotism. We flick our pride on and off at will. While we are a nation founded in dissent, the Chinese thrive on the believe that such behavior is detrimental.

The Chinese put on a show, and like any show, it was crafted, directed, edited, and formatted to fit this screen. I know there's more here than meets the eye, and after watching the spiraling ignition of the flame and reflecting on the achievements of the ceremony, I couldn't help but wonder what would unfold as the games began. Like Rick Kushman, another Bee columnist, I wonder how our American values and our media-driven society will react to the levels of pride and nationalism the host country will undoubtedly continue to tout. Back on April 2 and again on August 7, Kushman speculated whether the media covering the games would seize the opportunity to bring human rights issues to global--and let's face it, American--eyes. Watching the games and soaking up the host country's pride, I too wondered if audiences would see any images that might tug at the strings attached to the core of their democratic hearts.

Will NBC show all us what remains to be seen? Will media show us its mettle? And if it succeeds, is there a family without scheduling conflicts available to savor the lesson?