Olympic Games story 2012

For those of you who have not yet had the opportunity to read my competition winning story on the London Olympic Games 2012, here it is................

My index finger is playing absently with the stem of my wine glass, recently refilled with a South

African Pinotage. Almost unwillingly, my eyes flick once again to the large screen television in the 

corner of the bar, showing the magnificent Olympic Stadium. The camera is panning around facing

into the crowd, showing row upon row of excited faces. I sigh heavily and take a gulp of the deep garnet coloured liquid in the glass. 

“You couldn’t get a ticket either?” A deep, unknown voice beside me breaks into my melancholy. 

“I beg your pardon?” I ask as I look up into a pair of dark brown and friendly eyes, the owner of which has seated himself on the bar stool next to mine.  

He smiles. “I’m just trying to make conversation. You look as though you wish you were there.” He 

nods towards the T.V screen where I follow his gaze and can see the athletes have now entered the 

stadium and are walking along the track towards the start line for the four hundred metre final.  

I smile at the man but it is not a happy smile. “Yes, I do. My sister is running.” I can hear my words 

sound flat for simply saying aloud makes me sad. 

His eyes light up. “Your sister? Wow! Which one is she?”  

“Emma Edwards, in the third lane.” I can’t help but feel a little proud.  

“No family tickets?” He asks persistently. 

I shake my head. How can I explain to a total stranger why I would only be able to see my sisters finest moment on a television screen over one hundred miles from the event? 

Emma, my younger sister had always been an athlete and from an early age she had just run and

always wanted to run. As young teenagers, we would go out for miles, with Emma running and I 

would cycle alongside her, cajoling and encouraging her.  She had been in many school competitions,  county championships and nearly always won or at least had been placed. Slowly, it became apparent that the four hundred metre race was her emerging speciality. That’s when Emma came into her own and began to excel. She won every race she entered to the point of it almost being boring and she slowly, slowly shaved nano-seconds off her personal best times.

I look again at the screen and my heart leaps with unadulterated pride as I see my sister on her 

starting line, the rain staining her track suit a darker blue in the downpour. Her blond hair is tied

back severely to the nape of her neck and as the camera man zooms in closely to her face, I can see

her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. This is the moment she has been living for and had trained
for all her life and I am going not going to be there to share it with her.

I take a rather large gulp of my wine and the stranger beside me introduces himself as Michael and 

offers to buy me another drink. He can see I am troubled by something and that my drink is 

disappearing rapidly. I smile my thanks and appreciation at Michael but my sadness forces me back 

to the memories of two years ago when things began to get testy between us. 

Emma was living, breathing and eating her athletics. When I say eating, that maybe is an 

exaggeration for our doting parents had paid for a personal trainer for Emma, and Luca, the tall dark not very handsome Italian trainer had Emma on a strict eating regime that I personally didn’t think was overly healthy.  Emma’s doggedness was starting to concern me as I felt that she wasn’t doing some of the things she ought to be. I felt she was missing out on too many rites of passage such as  sneaking out of the house late to go night-clubbing, under-age drinking and weeks away on sunny, boozy package holidays with her girlfriends. None of this seemed to interest Emma as it did me and I felt we were drifting apart. I didn’t want to lose my little sister.

 But I knew this was Emma’s dream and I had to try and accept it somehow.

 The athletes on the television screen in Stratford are now limbering up, stretching their muscles to 

prevent the cool, wet evening air from stiffening them up, just like I’d seen Emma do a thousand 

times or more before. She is bounding up and down on the spot, her face now measured in 

concentration as she focusses on the next few minutes of her life.  These next few minutes that are 

the culmination of a dream of a lifetime for her; to compete in an Olympic final in front of a sell-out 

crowd in London,  her home town, in the London Olympics 2012.  I can’t possibly know how she 

might be feeling right now – she had shut me out of her life and I was no longer welcome.

This had been the case since we had a furious row over Emma not wanting to come out and celebrate my 21^st birthday, just over four months ago. My best friend had arranged a typical young woman’s party night out complete with a stretch limousine, a meal in a restaurant and entry into the trendiest clubs in London but Emma had said no.  I had pleaded with her to come just for the meal – she had to eat, right? But it was not part of Luca’s meal plan and she had steadfastly refused. My hurt was unimaginable that my own sister did not want to take part in this important event in my life and harsh words had been exchanged, ending with me finally hanging up the phone telling her I had nothing more to say to her. It was the last time we had spoken. 

 

Our parents had made several vain attempts to get us to talk, to be in the same room and try and sort out our differences but my pride, my silly pride had just got in the way and Emma was no better.  At this point in my life, I was flat sharing with a couple of girlfriends and away from the family home so we had no forced opportunity to make amends. Had we both lived in the same house and shared a breakfast table, who knows how things might have ended up and where I might now be sitting.  

The athletes are now being introduced to the capacity crowd and I swell with a mixture of pride and

sadness as Emma’s name in introduced. Even the crowd in the bar cheer for her as she is the only 

representative of the Home Nations in this race. The runners are now doing their final loosening up 

of ankles and thighs as they begin to hunker down into their starting blocks, the camera on the 

Jamaican runner who is the favourite to win; Emma though, gets her share of camera time.

 The starter shouts his first command – ‘on your marks’ – and the tension in the stadium is palpable

even through the TV screen.

‘Set’

A few seconds after this and the starter gun is fired. Emma gets off to a good start as do all of the 

runners. The crowds are cheering and I am sure I can hear them shout for Emma. As they all go 

round the first bend, Emma seems to be second but it is hard to tell as they are all still staggered.   

They race down the back straight and now my sister seems to have dropped back to fifth but I do not worry. She has a strong finish. I start to gently urge her on, almost under my breath and I hear 

Michael next to me call to her through the screen. They are approaching the final bend and all of the women in the race seem all over the place, it is difficult to tell what position any of them are in but as they start to go down the home straight, it is clear. The Jamaican is metres ahead and Emma is in fourth position and out of the medal position. 

 

But the camera zooms in close to her and the determination on her face is unbelievable; she looks as though she has rocket boots on! She races past the American to go third and with just thirty metres left until the finish line, she starts to gain on the Italian runner in second. I can almost see the steam coming out of Emma’s ears and she puts everything she has into those last few metres and gains slowly, slowly into second place. With half a metre to go, she thrusts herself forward with the last fraction of energy she has left and runs home in second place.

My sister.

The Olympic Silver Medal Winner!

I can feel the tears of joy start to fall down my face and I smile uncontrollably. The camera is on the 

winner, naturally but it then cuts to Emma, the British medal winner. My little sister.

The UK television crew are chasing after Emma to talk to her and when they catch her, she is 

breathless from the race and emotionally exhausted.

 “Emma! Emma!” They say. “Can you spare a minute?” They too are excited for her. 

She manages a nod.

“How are you feeling?” The female presenter asks her.

“Fabulous!” She manages. “This one is for my sister, Melanie. Mel, if you are out there, this one is

for you. I love you!” She is still breathless. She looks into the camera as if she is looking personally
for me.  

She has found me.