Jiayou

Every true man is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design; and posterity seem to follow his steps as a train of clients.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (from "Self-Reliance")

As I read that phrase along the shores of Crystal Lake yesterday, my mind immediately went to Michael Phelps. The forest hike was a brief respite from my Olympaholism, in which I’ve sat staring at my non-HDTV for days on end – fascinated by virtually everything. Women’s volleyball? Go Bownes. Will the Kiwi bloke win in single sculls? Darn, relegated to the Silver. Thanks for the inspiration, Dara. There is no age limit on dreams.

I sat zombified in front of the Women’s Marathon for two and half hours last night, even though our local hero Deena Kastor pulled out early with a foot injury. I’m rethinking my judgement of Kobe’s arrogance and believing that Olympic spirit is magically transformative. It certainly was for Jonathan Horton the night of gymnastic team finals.

But when it comes to Mr. Phelps, I’m at a loss of words (sic). How does a human channel every mouth drawn breath toward excellence? It’s tough to imagine a life so insular and mundane. If I were to possess such single-mindedness – what couldn’t be accomplished? Yet I savor life’s banquet like Alice Waters in an herb garden. I choose not to subvert variety in the quest for achievement. Does this make me a loser?

The Olympics force us to confront our unrealized dreams. And turn those willing to forsake everything save one goal into heroes. Or in Michael Phelps case: eight goals. In the most unbelievable and surprising way, he met every one. He is a man, cause and a country – and we celebrate his achievement as though it were our own. There is no doubt posterity will shadow him.

For the rest of us, mortals that we are, will we find our cause? Stay tuned: the Redeem Team highlights are on at eleven.