to watch a specific sport. It’s always been more about passing through the room noticing that, say, figure skating or Olga Korbut was on, and stopping to watch that for a bit before moving on to something else.
The longest I remember watching an Olympic event was over twenty-five years ago, during the winter Olympics, involving incredibly high ski-jumping — more like ski flying. There was one long shot after another of nothing but an airborne person on skis in mid-air, tiny and black with distance, framed by nothing but blue sky, first tilting forward gracefully, then upended, tumbling, and crashing into a snowy gulch in a cringe-inducing tangle of limbs and skis.
There would be a long pause to wait for the emergency helicopter to arrive while the announcer said something about bad headwinds, the shot of a tiny stretcher being borne aloft, and then another skier would appear, fly, and tumble. Imagining the thoughts of those skiers lining up so they could, one after another, soar and crash, was almost hypnotic. I believe I watched it until they ran out of skiers and went on to another, less harrowing event.
Pam Troy 