Oy, Oy, Oy, Let the Games begin!

Brad Alan Lewis

At the south end of the Olympic Stadium, just before the Opening

Ceremonies were to begin, a lone spectator stood up. He shouted at the

top of his lungs: “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie.!”

Thousands of natives in the crowd responded without a moment’s

hesitation, shouting back - Oy, Oy, Oy.”

After a moment the spectator repeated his plea: “Aussie, Aussie,

Aussie.” This time the response was deafening - over 50,000 Aussies give

their response, “Oy, Oy, Oy.”

The true spirit of Australia - or more accurately, of Australians -

was embodied in this brief, spirited, wonderful exchange. Oy, Oy, Oy,

loosely translated, it means “hip, hip hooray.” But taken to an

exponentially higher level, nothing less than a complete expression of

joy distilled into three simple syllables.

We, too, were carried away by this pure enthusiasm, welcome travelers

embarking on an Olympic journey.

In ancient times, thousands of devoted spectators traveled for days to

reach Athens, the site of the original Olympics. Travel is faster today

but far more arduous. Far. More. Fourteen hours is a long time to be

stuck in an elongated aluminum tube with 317 similary uncomfortable

people, The knowledge that a few first-classers are laughing, feasting

and sleeping blissfully only yards away makes one’s discomfort even

worse.

Between L.A. and Honolulu, as the jet engines drone on, time slows to

a snail’s pace. Time eventually grinds to a halt between Honolulu and

Fiji. “Wasn’t it just 8:00 the last time I looked at my watch? On the

last leg into Sydney, following Einstein’s theory of relativity, time

reverses completely.

As we approach Sydney, the downward angling of fuselage is the most

welcome vertigo known to man. At last the wheels kiss the ground and the

plane slows and then pulls into the gate. One last bit of travel-torture

- before we are allowed to de-plane. Several cans of potent bug spray are

tossed through a crack in the door, foul fumes billowing up. The door is

slammed shut and kept sealed until the cans run dry. Supposedly, the

spray isn’t toxic but wasn’t that an oxygen mask on a flight attendant?

The air clears and we are allowed to de-plane, dead bugs and beetles

crunching under our feet.

While we wait for our luggage a diminutive-but-eager Beagle on a very

long leash wanders around the passengers and their carry-on luggage

searching for a pound of cocaine, a few vials of EPO, or would he be

happy with a half eaten bagel?

Luggage in and passengers are subjected to a friendly-but-serious

grilling by a customs agent. The agent asks anything that might in any

way alter the pristine Aussie environment: plant seeds, banned drugs,

herbal remedies, and - literally - the dirt on the bottom of one’s

running shoes (this is no joke). Heaven forbid your last run took you

through a field of toxic seeds, - you’d be deported!

Once free of customs, passengers are greeted by the most cheerful and

colorful array of banners, posters and Olympic advertisements ever seen

on the face of the earth.

Any Olympic spectator who is a part of a sponsor group (a guest of

Visa, Kodak, M&Ms;, IBM) are quickly herded onto mammoth buses, bound for

high class hotels or one of the many cruise ships that line the port,

serving as temporary floating accommodations.

Several dozen pro-photographers also wait in the airport, scanning

each departing traveler through their long lens, hoping to sight someone

FAMOUS, someone whose photo might earn them a few dollars. My flight

contained only worker ants. The next flight though was a rich bounty,

including Russell Crowe dying for a cigarette after 10 hours of flying

smoke-free from L.A.

Scores of Olympic volunteers dressed in powder blue capes rushed to

assist anyone who hesitates for even a moment, even to tie one’s shoe.

All told, we tourists have arrived. The athletes are here. Hundreds of

media-types and officials are crowding the local bars and wandering the

notorious Red Light District of Kings Cross.

In the days leading up to the Games, every local newspaper reporter (a

merciless group across the board) has searched high and low for any form

of Olympic controversy. Most lately, the closest they could come was the

fact that two IOC officials were not allowed into the country because the

officials were strongly suspected of having criminal ties. This is proof

that Australia has come a long way since 1761, when every person entering

the country was a convicted criminal.

Any significant controversy failed to surface. That being the case,

all eyes have turned to the beauty of the Games, this once every

four-year celebration of the human spirit.

Hours before the actual Opening Ceremony were to begin, fans massed at

the main Olympic park. They gradually filled the stadium from 17

entrances. At one entrance, the VIP Gate, semi-secret service

security-types and uniformed police carefully watched as IOC officials

were chauffeured through the roped off entrance. Sniper-police,

positioned on the third level of the nearby parking structure, rested

cross-legged on the ground, their rifles held at the ready.

The Opening Ceremony - this was not your usual half-time show - far

from it. This was truly an Olympian effort, one that can be considered an

event within itself. From a simple but powerful act - a lone horseback

rider streaking into the center of the stadium - to the airborne aquatic

dancers - to the magical display by Aboriginal tribes, all the way

through to the immense marching band and the entry of the athletes, the

audience was taken on a journey through the heart and soul of Australia.

Any fan of modern mass sporting excitement had best get the next plane

for Sydney - despite the hardships you are bound to endure.

Like the spectators to the Athens Games, we have made the journey to

Sydney - hardships and all - in order to be transported by the experience

of seeing humanity at its best.

Oy, oy, oy”