The Olympic village was an oasis of calm yesterday as athletes prepared for battle
THEY MAY be billeted in the biggest shrine to corporate branding on the planet and overlooked by the largest shopping centre in Europe but somehow the Olympic athletes manage to make their temporary home feel like a real village.
Yesterday, with a day to go to the opening ceremony, competitors poured in.
It doesn’t matter where you go in the place: you can’t throw a flip-flop in admiration without hitting the finely toned torso of a champion. The Olympic village is one giant, living and breathing, trophy cabinet.
A short, highly controlled media tour of the complex was allowed yesterday afternoon.
There were lots of instructions on how to behave, such as: “Media must not approach athletes directly or disturb them.” Fair enough, as competition is about to begin. They must be very tense and anxious, and might easily bolt or bite. Or so we imagined.
As it turned out, we left the tension and anxiety behind in the media centre, with its thousands of journalists and photographers running in and out of the vast hall in a state of panic.
It was an oasis of calm in the village. Laid back, relaxed – until the red-faced, puffing and sweating hordes arrived off the media shuttles.
We were only in the gate when we saw Sonia O’Sullivan whizzing past on her bicycle. The Irish are staying in the “seaside” apartment block section, the other two apartment zones are “countryside” and “heritage”. Like all the rest, we have the flag flying from the balconies. And, like the rest, we have the washing out too.
Who are our neighbours on De Coubertin Street? The Austrians, mainly, and Syria. The Syrians could do with a little cheering up, so they’re in the right spot.
Derek Burnett from Longford – he’s a clay pigeon shooter – strolls past. This is his fourth Olympics and if he can somehow counteract the world force that is the Italians, he could do well.
And lo, the Americans arrived. Team USA took up their lodgings at a huge corner in Ulysses Place. They were very excited heading inside. “Whoo!” they yelled.
Jon Drummond, former sprint star and now a coach, posed for photographs with team members.
Nearby stood a striking figure in US tracksuit top, shorts and bright green trainers. All eyes were on him, this very tall young man with the dark shades and the easy smile. His body didn’t seem to begin until the waist. His legs were skinny and he had no backside to speak of. But then everything flared from the waist into a powerhouse of upper-body strength.
Superstar swimmer Michael Phelps is built like a Martini glass – an inverted triangle on a stalk.
He was very relaxed and posed for photos with athletes from other countries. He’s clearly used to it, spreading his considerable wingspan to take in a group of four giggling Greek women.
Delilah Ponce didn’t notice him. She was too busy looking after her own business – Delilah, from California, is chief boxing official in the state and the first female manager of the American Olympic boxing team.
“You’re from Ireland! You have Katie Taylor – she’s the one to beat,” she said. “I hung out with her team manager in China.”
And what about Katie’s chances? While she has time for the Irish world champion, the US team boss bigs up the wonderfully named Queen Underwood from Seattle, Uncle Sam’s woman in the lightweight division.
The medical director for the Singapore team – big in table tennis – stopped for a chat. Dr Cormac Ó Muircheartaigh has lived there for eight years and he’ll be showing his dad around the village next week.
It was time to eat. The main canteen is like an aircraft hanger – run by a woman from Sligo, Catherine Toolan. Journalists are allowed in to a small section for a look but not to eat.
The Irish Times sneaked in. The choice is huge: best of British, Europe, the Americas and the Mediterranean region, African and Caribbean, Indian and Asia. And a McDonald’s, of course.
We went Jamaica, standing next to a sprinter encased in lycra with a body sculpted by the gods. She had salady stuff and nuts on her plate. We had pork, gravy, rice and peas and fried peppers.
A Georgian weightlifter perused the salad bar.
The Canadians have a life-size red moose outside their lodgings. Horny McCloud is his name. The Australians have outdone them with three emus outside their apartment block entrance. “They’re flightless birds but we have them nailed down anyway,” said a team official, adding they were flown in from Down Under.
The apartments, by the way, are simply furnished. The beds are single and the mattresses are terrible. Soft and squishy and you call feel the springs.
Usain Bolt imported his own.
On the way out, we passed the president of Malawi posing for a photograph under the Olympic rings in Victory Park. Rory McIlroy and Caroline Wozniacki were there before them.
A saxophone played cool jazz on the evening air and the beautiful people strolled around.
Still a village of dreams.
