Reflections on the Olympics

My dad, Barry Davies, was, at London 2012, covering his 19th Olympics as a broadcaster - his 12th Summer Games. A shorter version of this blog was initially written as an Olympic Diary column for the Spectator. It is reproduced here in its longer form with their permission.

A year to decide to go for it; two to convince the powers that be that you should have it; seven more to build it. It seems only yesterday that I was in Singapore suggesting to one member of the International Olympic Committee whose view was ‘you can lose a Games with a presentation but not win one’, that ‘this could be the exception’.  Hours later, when the President said ‘the city of London’, I launched into hyperbole about the importance to the country, the chance for youth, and the impact of fitness on health. but in our wildest dreams could we have expected what was achieved at the Olympic Games of London 2012? The exception led on to the exceptional. In every respect the concerns about following Beijing were swept aside, and the legacy from our home Games is already some paces down the track. The politicians who played their part from Singapore onwards must now have eyes wide open about the true value of sport to the morale of the country. But while the elite will probably be taken care of, the next generation will require a warm welcome from the sports clubs whose responsibility it will be to keep alive the newly found enthusiasm and the inner determination to succeed. We've had seven years of feast. The next year's response will dictate what happens to the seven that follow. The London Games distinguished themselves from all the others I have been lucky enough to witness through the unprecedented size of the crowds. The number who flocked to the streets on the last day to see  the marathon - for which there was no expectancy of a medal - made a crowd worthy of a coronation. They came to the Olympic park with their smiles - many without venue tickets - and were greeted with smiles from those who had volunteered to help ease them on their way. Every sport was supported with a fervour that led the coach of the Australian men’s hockey team, Rick Charlesworth – a man with experience in many fields including being a member of his country’s parliament – to comment after Great Britain’s team recovery from three goals down, “with that support the opposition always needs another goal.” Sport is an integral part of the British psyche - after all, we invented most of the games the world now plays - but never before has that been made so abundantly clear. At the start of competition, I found a scenario of which the star of the Opening, Mr Bean, could have made much. (Is there a more expressive face that that of Rowan Atkinson?) When I sat in my commentary seat, I could see very little of the hockey pitch: the monitors were blocking the view. The otherwise excellent Riverbank Arena offered cover only to the VIPs: rain (which required notes written on paper to be discarded, and monitors offering close-ups to be switched off) was a constant threat; while if the sun shone, the picture on the monitor became a silhouette. Any such complication is unhelpful when you are looking in on the frequent rush hour of the attacking circle (where the ball has to be for goals to be scored) to see whose stick had caused a deflection and whose foot had got in the way when it shouldn’t have; even more so when some of the laws recall Mornington Crescent! But after a couple of days, higher stools arrived; and the cloudbursts, which more than once flooded the commentary area, were generous in their timing. The challenge almost became part of the fun. And the spirit of the Games did not countenance blame. Among the nicest things about having the Games at home was the opportunity afforded to great champions of the past to have a say, and how positive they all were about the present. Seeing Mary Peters joining Denise Lewis and the new champion, Jessica Ennis discussing the heptathlon was a particular delight. I remember well Ron Pickering’s Munich commentary “come on Mary, you can do it” as she battled for needed pentathlon points in the last few metres in '72. I suspect that then, someone in authority may have raised a disapproving  eyebrow, just as there were those who thought I was being too patriotic in dismissing the Germans with “who cares?” in the men’s hockey final of 1988. Then, over praising the ‘plucky Brit' who finished down the field was criticised, and the use of ‘us’ and ‘we’ was banned. How different now! But provided comment is fair, today’s public expects British eyes. They were, in the entirely appropriate words of the IOC President, Jacques Rogge, “the Happy and Glorious Games". But for me, they were also ‘The Crying Games’ which made clear that we are now a passionate nation, and the days of the ‘stiff upper lip’ are well behind us; and the first ‘Tweeting Games', where instant comment and criticism had to be accepted. Some competitors may now regret that it dulled their edge, but for most it was harmless fun. For me, social media corrected a mistake: my "Heather" MacLeod quickly disappeared after GB’s first hockey match, prompted by Hannah's own despairing tweet. She therefore appeared with her rightful name long before she played her best match for her country, and with her teammates won bronze. Olympic Ceremonies are much debated, always too long and usually attract the biggest television audience: London’s were no exception. When I asked Danny Boyle at the media conference how he wanted his work to be presented, he found it hard to give an answer; and his wonderfully imaginative, dramatic and amusing Opening was certainly a challenge to the commentator.  The pace was quick, and the time to explain the significance of the likes of Brunel to an international audience receiving the Olympic Broadcasting Service pictures very limited. Kim Gavin’s closing had a clever beginning, but soon became the usual end-of-term party with many famous faces and lots of songs - though, to my ear, offering little variety. For both, I adopted a policy of  ‘less is more.’ The Ceremonies are meant to put an arm around what would otherwise be a collection of world championships, and place each Games in context with a tradition which - for all its failings - brings people and countries together in the name of a sporting ideal. Lord Coe’s welcome was the best I have heard from the chairman of an organising committee, but the speeches apart, the protocol was not well served. The Olympic flag was given the briefest entry without the singing of the Olympic Hymn, and then lowered far too quickly when it was superbly sung at the closing - whipped away like a table cloth no longer required. The Olympic flame mirrored the feelings of the nation: it burned so brightly for a fortnight in the stadium, and died with seeming reluctance. The Games of London 2012 have drawn to a close, and the pressure is now on Rio. They've made a decent start: who among those who witnessed their lively and rhythmical eight-minute cameo last Sunday evening did not ache to be there in Brazil in four years' time?