The quiet hangs heavy. The solitude is real. Stadiums are empty and soulless. Athletes are hiding behind their masks, and in their rooms, before sneaking out to compete. Barely a word is being spoken. The Silent Games.
Everyone’s masked-up. Muted. Alone. It’s every athlete for oneself. They have a list of Do’s and Don’t’s. Do: Nothing. Don’t: Do Anything. Separate podiums are on their way. No group photo on a shared dais for the medallists. No chitchat. No chanting or cheering is allowed for teammates. No discussions are allowed with the public. They’re alien citizens. They have no audience and therefore no verbal cues and crescendos for their performances.
All these vast and magnificent stadiums will be spectator-less, soulless, noiseless and hollow. Even the IOC toffs who get to take up their VIP seats will be told to put a sock in it. No one’s allowed to make a peep. Roars of approval, silenced. Hoots and hollers, silenced. Every man, woman, child and athlete, silenced.
The stillness is palpable. Medallists will have to wear masks during the presentation ceremonies. They’ll have to put medals around their own necks.
There will be no hand-shaking and no talking. What a thing. The greatest moment of your life and you have to keep your trap shut. You can’t even warble the national anthem. So much as a “thanks, mate” to the coach as you clamber out of the pool may get you two weeks in hotel isolation.
No freedom, verbally or physically. Just this relentless silent march from venue to village. No families and friends to speak to. Keep your distance on the bus. Compete and get out of there and if you win gold, be prepared for the sound of no hands clapping.
I looked at Jess Fox on Tuesday, an Australian gold medal prospect who’s as gregarious and chatty as they come. It was a formal interview, so she was allowed to speak, but her words were sort of muffled by her mask.
Talking was a breathless exercise, so she kept cutting her dialogue short. All you could see of Fox were her eyes and above. It was alarming to see such a friendly soul looking and sounding so trapped by her mask. She couldn’t stand too close to anyone, she had to refrain from handshakes, after the interview she put her head down and solemnly departed. She spoke only when spoken to.
I cannot fathom a Silent Games. The 100m final at the track is impossible to imagine without the traditional lullaby then cacophony from the stands. I watched a replay of Usain Bolt’s win at Rio. The symphony of noise was integral.
The anticipatory drum roll of human voices before Bolt walked out. The electricity came from the people, not from Bolt. It was part of the show. Bolt fed off the patrons. Gorged on their delirium. Pointed to all corners. Waved for more noise, more noise.
He looked at his arms as if marvelling at the size of the goose bumps. A chant broke out. Usain Bolt! Usain Bolt!
I remember that night. The walls shook. It was anything but silent.
An incredible silence fell on the stadium before the gun went off. Silence is powerful in sport. Wonderful. You can hear your own heartbeat. But the silence is only golden as the prelude to the explosion of noise after it.
Bolt wanted the stillness. He put a finger to his lips. Crossed himself, kissed his hand, pointed it at God. When the gun went off, bam, it was the cue for two things. For Bolt to run, and for the silence to be broken.
The thunderous, deep-throated din lasted the entire 9.8 seconds. The booming soundtrack to the greatest race at the Olympics. It went to a higher, ear-piercing pitch as Bolt hurdled a microphone and ran as close to the clamorous stands as he could get. It was bedlam. An absolute earbashing. Music to the ears.
Now? The 100m finalists in Tokyo will be like a Broadway cast walking onto a stage in the knowledge there’s no one in attendance. And no noise.
You forget what a role it plays in sport until it’s taken away. When they kick for home in the Melbourne Cup, you can hear it. When Ian Thorpe stole the 4x100m freestyle relay at the Sydney Olympics, you could hear it.
Cathy Freeman’s gold medal run becomes more ho-hum if you watch it on mute. It’s a bit sad, really, to contemplate the quietness on its way.
These Olympics were meant to be a celebration for humanity. The time when we found our feet and voices again. The war against Covid-19 would be over. Tokyo would be the symbol for moving forward. It would be a song and dance. A chorus of anticipation and excitement for the post-pandemic world.
But here we are. Stuck. Isolated. Masked-up. Banned. The spectators are absent. The athletes are quiet. The Silent Games.
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