I Could Never Be An Olympic Athlete
When the good Lord was handing out athletic prowess to Jamaicans, He saw me approaching the top of the line, sighed and said, “No, baby love. I will give you strong carpal tunnels instead, because you’ll be writing writing writing.” I have no physical talents whatsoever, pretty much failing my way through PE every term of the three years I suffered through it in high school. I was also just not interested, so Miss Lyngo had absolutely nothing to work with out there.
My interest in sports is purely from an observer’s standpoint. I am a proud couch potato pundit. My only exertion comes from screaming, jumping, and dang near flipping my furniture as I cheer for my favourites. Being a fan is fun, but it’s also hella hard on my fragile nerves, which is how I know that even if I had been blessed with the talent, I could never make it as an elite, Olympic athlete.
We’ve all seen the videos and memes of American gymnast Aly Raisman’s parents practically hyperventilating in the stands watching her compete. That is me every single time one of my faves is in competition. It’s even more stressful when it’s a Jamaica versus the world situation, because I am a rabid fan of my country and will lose my natural mind while showing my support. And it’s absolute mayhem on my psyche when it comes to athletics, particularly the sprints. I was practically throwing up on Saturday night as I waited for the women’s 100m final at the Rio Olympics. I was cheering for all three Jamaican ladies, but my heart was with my bae Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce, so I was nervous enough to faint. I was shaking, pacing, almost crying, almost peeing my pants. So I have to wonder, if I can feel all of this, thousands of miles away, watching on a television, how do the athletes themselves feel? How the heck do they even do this?!