GYMNASTICS:Kieran Behan's moving journey to the Olympics won him new fans, but his disappointment afterwards was clear
DRAPING a large tricolour over the ledge to signal their presence, Bernie and Phil Behan took their seats in the front row and waited for their son, the Olympian.
Excitement soared in the steeply tiered arena as the countdown to the men’s artistic gymnastics began. The lights came down and the music went up; dark staccato strings building the suspense.
In the gloom, a line of blazered officials filed through the suspenseful strings to their places.
When the lights exploded, revealing the athletes, the crowd went wild. Then the music changed to a quick marching tempo and everyone clapped in time as the six groups of gymnasts paraded to their first challenge.
And there was Kieran Behan, the smallest in stature, fourth in line in the mixed group of competitors from countries without a full team. Bernie and Phil were on their feet, cheering.
“I looked up and saw them as soon as I walked out,” Kieran said afterwards.
That moment, when he laid eyes on his mum and dad, was the moment the young gymnast finally realised he had overcome cruel adversity and achieved his Olympic dream.
“It really hit me.” Until then, it hadn’t “felt like a proper Olympics” because, well, that would have been presumptuous. And with his history of bad luck, sure as hell something awful would happen to disappoint again.
“To actually know I was in the arena was just . . . I don’t know, it’s crazy; to be told you’re never going to walk again and to be diagnosed with brain damage and then to go out there and give it a go . . . ” He was crying, both hands wiping away the tears. So much achieved for the family he loves, so much he wanted to do for them, for himself, but “it wasn’t to be, this time”. As he fought back the tears again and again, eager to tell his story, we ached to jump the barriers and give him a consoling hug.
Today, London is an Olympic town with thousands of great backstories, but Behan’s journey to the structure once called the Millennium Dome is in a league of its own.
The crowd on Saturday morning was in high spirits because the British team was in the qualifying segment. But the home support was familiar with the tale behind the English-born Irish lad – the bullied little boy, who was told he would never walk again, now performing in the greatest show on the planet.
So they raised the roof when his turn came to tumble.
Greenwich North is a compact arena – high-rise, not sprawling – but it has an awesome 20,000 capacity at full stretch.
On Saturday, large swathes of empty seats in the lower sections of the hall were very noticeable.
Yet if you looked up, every seat was taken. The public paid hard cash for nosebleed seats, applying months ago for the privilege of attending and overjoyed when they succeeded in the lottery.
Yesterday, the games organisers rushed to defend charges that the prawn-sandwich brigade snaffled all the best tickets but didn’t bother turning up because corporates on freebies only do the closing stages.
They said it was mainly the fault of the “Olympic family”. A large amount of prime seating is allocated to athletes, team officials, national federations and the like. They were the bulk of the no shows, apparently.
The military was drafted in yesterday to help take the bare look off the Greenwich arena. London 2012 chairman Sebastian Coe said troops were moved in and “they are sitting there and enjoying the gymnastics . . . ” So they were, in their combat fatigues, watching supple young women doing flic flacs and forward straddle rolls while dreaming of a few pints in the asymmetric bars on the way home.
It gave a whole new meaning to parachute regiment.
Saturday’s competition began at 11am. On past form, we had high hopes of Kieran Behan making the final in the floor exercise.
We held our breath. Barefoot, with one ankle strapped, he padded to the competition area, clouds of chalk-dust puffing up from the soles of his feet.
He held his left arm aloft to signal he was ready. The routine lasted an explosive 70 seconds. Perfect balance, strength and tumbling, until the last two moves when he stumbled badly.
Kieran knew immediately. His games were over. With a rueful smile and a shake of the head, he held out his arms in a gesture of apology, before leaving the floor.
Dejected, he stood to one side, alone. Then he glanced towards his parents.
Bernie Behan recalls the moment: “He looked up. I just blew him a kiss and said ‘I love you!’” He only had one more apparatus to do – the vault, and it didn’t go well.
His Olympics began at 11. Competitively, they were over before midday.
But for some, the dream continues. If 23-year-old Kieran is our young hero, then Iordan Iovtchev is our older, greying and chiselled one. The Bulgarian, in his sixth Olympics, was in the running for a place in the rings final. Could he, er, hang on? The cognoscenti marvelled over the 39-year-old Iovtchev, like he was Methuselah. We were delighted to see him make the final eight, beating a German called Boy.
Philipp Boy didn’t have a great qualifier. “He’s overcooked his feet,” said one expert, before Boy fell off the parallel bars.
Gymnasts are emotional, but physically tough. Britain’s defending bronze medallist burst into tears after a good routine on the pommel horse. On the other hand, nobody batted an eyelid when a Chinese competitor landed on his head – including the injured party.
The late session saw the battle of Bosco. Among the teams were Russia, Ukraine and Spain, all dressed by the Russian clothing company, Bosco, which favours garish colours and patterns.
Ukraine has escaped the worst excesses of the sportswear giant, but the Russians are blinding in psychedelic red and white while the poor Spaniards sport retina-searing red and yellow outfits which look like a cross between a 1970s lounge carpet and a fast-food chain uniform.
In their defence, Spanish officials say they saved the taxpayer over a million euro because Bosco kitted out the entire team for free.
But back to Kieran, and the highs and lows of elite sport. As the successful qualifiers went to practice for the finals, he strolled across to the entertainment complex next door to meet his parents, sister Aine, and girlfriend Tasha Lee (25).
“I just want to hug him.” said his mum. “I’m devastated for him, but he’s done himself proud. Less than 1 per cent of the world can call themselves Olympians.”
“I’m just so proud of Kieran, he’s come through so much,” said Tasha, a PR executive and former gymnast. “Now the aim is Rio – today was just the practice.”
