Red, white, blue and gold

The Olympics. Even just the word conjures the sound of the Olympic theme song incessantly played by NBC at every televised transition, the taste of victory and the sight of tremendous athletes showcasing their practiced craft.

            The event promotes feelings of triumph and patriotism, encourages healthy competition, and allows us to join the whole world in watching a spectacle. Because watching athletes fight for the gold can inspire us to work a little harder, dream a little bigger and do a little better.

            Even the biggest non-sports fans bleed a little red, white and blue in hopes that American athletes will bring home the gold.

            I like the Olympics because of all the great emotional, tense and exciting moments that come with the nature of being American in the midst of a world competition.

            Take for instance the Michael Phelps Ryan Lochte face-off. Who didn’t love watching the man-fish Phelps become the most decorated Olympian of all time? While he slides effortlessly into the end of his Olympic legacy, his teammate, the very confident “this is my year” Lochte, is taking the limelight. Their first event was almost a non-event except for the fact that Phelps had finally missed the medal podium. But watching their team work in the relays provides the drama of unspoken rivals working together.

             And Missy Franklin, from my native Colorado, gives the Olympics that fresh-faced fervor we miss when watching two, three and four-time Olympians take to the court, pool, field, etc. She is youthful and lively and purely excited to be in London. She does not show an air of entitlement to the seven gold medals for which she is in contention. She wants to earn every stroke she takes and every smile she shows.

            For every exhilarating win there is always an equally heartbreaking moment, and sometimes on the very same team.

As the women’s gymnastics team performed for the qualifying rounds of the team finals which would also decide the two contenders from each country who would compete in the all-around, two girls relished in the moment of making the very tough cut while the strongest competitor and reigning world champion, Jordyn Weiber, saw her Olympic dreams crushed before her eyes.

            The men’s gymnastics team entered the finals as the top ranked team. A few crashes and missed landings later, the team finished fifth. They were supposed to be contenders for the gold.

            But don’t we expect all our athletes to win the gold? I know I do. Why else would you be at the Olympics?

            Maybe it is the American spirit that demands not just the greatness it takes to make it to the games and take part, but to dominate and place first. Who wants to watch a medal ceremony where an athlete isn’t mumbling the words to “The Star Spangled Banner?”

It is a high order to ask our athletes to win gold every time. But the commercials, endorsements and never-ending profiles of the athletes trick us into thinking that only gold means you succeeded.

For most of these contenders they have devoted their lives to these sports. Starting from when they could walk, run or jump to the time it meant missing major life moments for that extra training session.

The only thing I’ve ever devoted that much time to is school or maybe watching TV. As a girl who barely knows the difference between a free throw and a freestyle stroke, I’ve come to expect that Americans sweep the events, (except maybe table tennis.)

But that’s why I love the Olympics. I love the way the country stands behind the 531 men and women competing. I love the pageantry of the ceremonies. I love the triumph and heartbreak. I love the hype. I love the non-stop coverage. I love those sappy profiles that tug at my heartstrings. What do you mean he came from a broken home and had to play badminton to save his life? I’m sold. I can’t help but root for these “heroes.”

Maybe I’m being brainwashed by the International Olympic Committee or the awful NBC commentators, or maybe I’m just indulging in an American pastime I only get the chance to do every two years. Whatever you call it, I call it loving every last minute of the Olympics.