When there was an audience and people watched the same TV, the Olympic games were copulative in the grammatical sense: conjunctions that united the citizens of the planet in an ecumenical sensation.
It was difficult to escape the Olympism, this was a great planetary wedding, and even the most cynical would soften at desserts and throw a dance.
It was not the passion for the hammer throw or the hundred meter hurdles that gathered millions of spectators, but the communal liturgy, the universal merriment.
Inside the macro-operation of the Olympic broadcast
It gives me the feeling that this is no longer the case. Sports broadcasts are no longer mythological tales of modern Greek heroes, but strictly sports programming aimed at a specialized audience. The charisma of the athletes does not transcend or is on the ground. High-performance centers robotize them and cancel them out like novel characters. There are no more cheaters like Ben Johnson or divas like Florence Griffith-Joyner.
They want them so perfect and focused on their own that they pretend not to mate, so as not to catch coronavirus, but also to set an example of Christian temperance to the young. I have continued to be fascinated by the soap opera of the dust beds (on the other hand, I don't know anything about the medal table) and the song by Javier Krahe came to mind.
Not everything is going to be fucking
, the peak of the stoic wisdom of the songbook. Krahe refers to the ready-made person, not to athletes in heat whose momentum is not deterred by a cheat-bed. Whoever jumps eight meters in length can enjoy sex suspended from any ceiling.
Athletes' claim to exemplarity is a hypocritical and unfair dream.
These gladiators have enough pressure to win that they also educate children in prudish values.
So I wish you a lot of powder before you reach the age when Krahe's song is understood.
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