I like the Olympics.
I am a big fan of women's gymnastics, stories about the underdog athletes who overcame unbelievable heartache and odds, and the heat of the moment when another world record is broken. China must be bursting at the seams with energy and competition. I bet it's amazing to be anywhere close by.
But I am not an athlete. I have often wished to be, but God did not create me with the desire to keep score or the ability to catch things. I have long since abandoned any idea that I will be good at sports, and I'm thankful for one of the many luxuries of being an adult: nobody can make me try any more.
At athletic events, my favorite parts are the social dynamics. Imagine that.
So, as I watch the Olympics, I enjoy the events and I take in the fanfare, but I don't really identify with the glory of the win or the chase for the gold. I just don't get that.
But during this season of watching Michael Phelps win, win, win, I found someone to identify with: his sisters.
Every time he won a race, broke a record, or received yet another medal, his sisters were overcome. They caught his flowers as he tossed the bouquet to them. They cheered, and they cried. He won, and he was surrounded by press and breathless fans, but his sisters could not wait to get close enough to hug him. And he wanted to be close to them in that moment of glory.
His victory was their dream come true.
I get that.
I have been that proud of my brother. Gold medal or not, I have been beside myself over victories that are his that have made my dream come true.
I get that.