Things we supposedly know about Bolt and gold
I didn’t ask which grass they were talking about.
I’ve heard that he wasn’t built for sprinting but he defied his genes and did it anyway. I heard that he comes from a parish where the dasheen is different and that’s responsible for his athletic prowess.
Someone who lives in the same parish swears by that. I heard that he can’t run long distance. He’s not trained for that but he’s still the fastest human alive.
I heard that he had no discipline.
Eventually success turned him into something resembling disciplined.
I heard he ate junk food. I heard that he hid in the trunk of a car to avoid training.
He’s a practical joker they said. I heard that his sense of fun added to his popularity. I heard people say he is a show off. He said he was simply having fun. I heard he never left Jamaica to train elsewhere.
I’ve heard about his records. I’ve heard him declare his greatness.
I’ve heard the many things the media reports. I’ve heard the things the man on the road says.
I’ve heard from here, there and everywhere that the man was great. I’ve watched him walk onto the tracks to receive his gold. I’ve watched him compete. I have seen his ease, I’ve seen his confidence.
I’ve seen and I’ve heard. But, there are silences.
I’ve never heard much about Bolt’s training regimen. I’ve never heard anyone talk about his sacrifices.
I’ve never heard anyone talk about his parents’ support. They seem invisible. I’ve never heard anything about his daily living. I’ve never heard about his joys and sorrows.
I’ve never heard about days that he wished he didn’t have to train. I heard that he has a physical disability, but I didn’t hear how he overcame it. We see, we hear, we silence the parts that we don’t want to be a part of our reality. We live in worlds of make believe. We live in worlds of hush hush too.
We hear things that are convenient for us. In parts. Rarely in wholes. And I wonder whether wholes can ever be achieved.
We celebrate the greatness in men. It’s all well and good. They inspire us to push harder. But what about moments of failure? How do we push past those? I wish those stories could be told. I wish the kids could know what to do when adversity hits them; how to cope, how to deal with it.
Not many of us have coaches to monitor us, not a great many have people who absolutely believe in us.
How do we navigate the turf? How do we know when to run barefooted? How do we know which training ground is best suited for us? How do we know what constitutes balance? How do we know which opportunity is best missed, which one is best taken? I saw him struggle through those last races of his career last week, saw him fall to the floor when that hamstring gave up, heard the accusations against the IAAF, read about how London didn’t deserve him. I heard that everyone else was to blame.
But this was Bolt. He had nothing else to prove. He is retired now to a string of medals and honours. His greatness will live after him.
But what happens when another athlete falls? What happens when another person doesn’t achieve her personal best? What happens when an injury sets you back and you aren’t the fastest human alive? I heard that the Government is now thinking against diversification.
I heard about Trinidad and Tobago’s gold, saw the race run and felt proud of the island.
The music died down fast in the oppressive humidity of the island.
I never heard much about the grass in TT . I now hear that we should support local. Ground provisions were on the Prime Minister’s list. I hear the air is polluted with Saharan dust. But the season passes and the wind will blow it further out for the time of pilferers and plunderers caulking cracks with our natural resources has passed.
The time has come now when we celebrate our own grass and dasheen.
About time that we guard our own gold.
(Note: I admit to loving Eliot Weinberger’s What I Heard About Iraq, Vol 27 No.3 · 3 February 2005).