Memories of lost Olympic dreams

Every four years, the memories return. For many people, watching the Olympic Games is an excuse for three weeks of living the life of a couch potato. Here in Texas, it is so hot in August that we’ll jump at anything to keep from going outside. The fact that we can tie patriotism to our dalliance, is a wonderful thing. After watching two weeks of political conventions where the flag was used as a tool to skewer the other side, it’s nice to find something on television which brings us together, standing in front of our recliners, singing the Star Spangled Banner, with tears in our eyes. 

Seeing those young people standing on the podium, holding those medals, makes us all proud, but alas there are painful memories attached. For not everyone can make it to the podium. Back in 1966, I was a senior in high school. It seems like only yesterday. I was young, healthy, and fairly fit. I’d tried every sport available to a young woman at the time. I’d played softball in the seventh grade … during PE. I’d done some aerobic dance during one six weeks of my freshman year. We did floor exercises to the tune of “A Summer Place.” There was no girls’ competitive basketball, tennis, or volleyball. As a matter of fact, the only competition I participated in was Number Sense in UIL, and I ended up coming in dead last in a field of twelve at the district meet. 

All I know is if I’d had the training, the motivation, and the opportunity, I might have won an Olympic Gold Medal in something. Running was out. Nobody ran anywhere. Nobody even walked the streets, except a few questionable ladies who were reportedly plying their trade in the seedier parts of nearby cities. If you noticed someone walking, you stopped and ask them if they needed a ride. If someone were running down the street, you followed … to get to the fire … first. 

Bicycling was left to the children. An adult on a bicycle was a sure sign they were “odd.” There was one “war bride” in our community who pedaled to the grocery store every day, but we figured she was unable to drive since all our signs were in English. I mastered my brother’s bike when I was in the sixth grade and rode it up and down our street until I was able to take both feet off the pedals and put them on the handle bar. Of course, it was closer to the circus than it was the Olympics. I don’t remember seeing any contest listed in the Cycling division for “foot propping.” 

Of course, fast swimming was out. We didn’t have any place to practice. The city pool was designated as a place to jump off the diving board, go down the slide, and sunbathe. Girls over ten were expected to tread water, wear a bathing cap, and lie about on towels getting a tan and maybe a boyfriend. There were no lanes for speed, and no one taught anyone how to do “a fly” or a backstroke. Breast strokes were not mentioned in public.

As I said, I could have competed, but the opportunity didn’t present itself. It’s really not a problem. By now, I realize that I was born too early, in the wrong place, and into a rather weak athletic gene pool. Anyway, if I had been able to go to the 1966 Summer Olympics, I’d have probably come in a disappointing fourth place. What good would that do me?