Enough Already?
In all the news coverage of Michael Phelps—his gold medal chase makes the front page, while the conflict in Georgia is relegated to page 2—the one thing I’ve seen no one talk or write about is the ethical question: just because he COULD win nine gold medals, SHOULD he?
I mean, it’s cool and all, and heck, 25K per gold from the US Olympic Committee is nothing to sneeze at, but does anybody but me think maybe, just maybe, the dude is being just a little bit greedy? Couldn’t he give somebody else a chance?
I realize I’m treading dangerously close to Harrison Bergeron territory, that weird story by Kurt Vonnegut where, in the future, all the smartest, prettiest, and most athletic people have to wear handicaps so that everyone is made equal, but at the same time, there’s part of me that can’t help thinking about 8th grade gym class: there was this one kid, whose name escapes me, but I can still see him dressed in a white turtleneck and brown blazer in our elementary school graduation photo, who was far and away the best athlete in our school: he was the fastest runner, the surest shooter, the strongest wrestler, and a demon at dodge ball. Basically, he won every competition that was held.
So at some point, our teacher asked him to sit out a few games so somebody else could experience coming in first. And while I suppose this is something of a triumph of mediocrity, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing—especially when it enabled me to, for the first time ever, to be among the top three finishers in the 600 yard run.
Of course, I know that the Olympic ideal is to celebrate the highest level of excellence in sporting achievement; if Phelps is the best there is at all nine, why not?
But what if by stepping aside, he were exhibiting an Olympic level of generosity?
I mean, it’s cool and all, and heck, 25K per gold from the US Olympic Committee is nothing to sneeze at, but does anybody but me think maybe, just maybe, the dude is being just a little bit greedy? Couldn’t he give somebody else a chance?
I realize I’m treading dangerously close to Harrison Bergeron territory, that weird story by Kurt Vonnegut where, in the future, all the smartest, prettiest, and most athletic people have to wear handicaps so that everyone is made equal, but at the same time, there’s part of me that can’t help thinking about 8th grade gym class: there was this one kid, whose name escapes me, but I can still see him dressed in a white turtleneck and brown blazer in our elementary school graduation photo, who was far and away the best athlete in our school: he was the fastest runner, the surest shooter, the strongest wrestler, and a demon at dodge ball. Basically, he won every competition that was held.
So at some point, our teacher asked him to sit out a few games so somebody else could experience coming in first. And while I suppose this is something of a triumph of mediocrity, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing—especially when it enabled me to, for the first time ever, to be among the top three finishers in the 600 yard run.
Of course, I know that the Olympic ideal is to celebrate the highest level of excellence in sporting achievement; if Phelps is the best there is at all nine, why not?
But what if by stepping aside, he were exhibiting an Olympic level of generosity?
posted by Professor Dave at 11:16 AM
1 Comments:
No way - there are leagues and categories for a reason already.
They put the strongest bicyclists in Cat 1 so slower people in Cat 5 can win.
But at some point, you can't keep dividing things into leauges - you'd eventually wind up with a leauge for each person. The Olympics is the top league, you can't sandbag the fucking olympics.
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