I had just watched Jason Smyth winning yet another gold medal in the Paralympics when I looked over at one of our teenagers. The speed at which his thumbs were fluttering across his smartphone left me awestruck. When did he achieve such digital dexterity, I wondered? If texting was a sport in the Olympics, he would probably make the podium.
Not the first parent to think this about their teenager, I know, but it made me wonder: shouldn’t there be a new strand of categories in the Olympics to celebrate the everyday heroic achievements of those of us who have no natural talents to speak of? We triumph in small ways every day but get no recognition.
The non-sports Olympics would have to recognise the herculean effort it takes to get through a self-service checkout in a supermarket without having to wait for help. The seldom occasion when you make it to the finish line without the machine telling you there’s an unexpected item in the bagging area is a moment to savour. But unlike those lucky Olympians, there’s no cheering crowd lining the aisle to celebrate your achievement. It’s just you and your sad little shopping bag.
Has she ever correctly inserted a USB stick on the first attempt? I achieved this incredible feat last week
Boxer Kellie Harrington may have dedicated her life to winning gold at the Olympics, but does she have the dedication to binge-watch an entire series in two nights? I don’t like to brag but I achieved a personal best when I watched Mare of Eastown. There were times when I wanted to give up. The exhaustion was overwhelming, and the risk of dehydration was ever present but, from some deep reserve I found the steely determination to plough on. And it was all worth it when I rose from the sofa as the final credits rolled, utterly drained but also elated. It would have been just like the Olympics, really, if the national anthem was playing and I wasn’t wearing slippers.
Gold medallist at the Paralympics Ellen Keane has brought glory to Ireland more times than Dublin has won All-Ireland finals, but has she ever correctly inserted a USB stick on the first attempt? I achieved this incredible feat last week and I felt like doing several laps of honour around the kitchen. Shouldn’t there be an Olympic category for this sort of rare achievement?
The great Skibbereen rowers Paul O’Donovan and Fintan McCarthy did Ireland proud in the Olympics, to be sure, but how would they fare if you presented them with this challenge: Remove a new stapler and scissors from their hard plastic casings within 30 minutes. Where’s the Olympic category for that skill?
And before you say the rules wouldn’t cover such an event, may I present the Olympic charter? It indicates that, in order to be accepted, the sport must be widely practised by men in at least 75 countries in four continents, and by women in at least 40 countries in three continents. I rest my case.
Sadly, that rule excludes one of my favourite proposed categories – completing a phone-call with an Irish parent without hearing the phrase “you’ll never guess who died”. Let’s be honest, it would be very difficult to get enough competitors for this impossible feat anyway. It’s unattainable 98 per cent of the time, unless you ring one minute before the death notices are actually being read out on local radio.
Just when you think it's almost over, you round another corner, and you are surrounded by picture frames and mirrors
The Olympic charter would also exclude the death-defying feat of negotiating the Walkinstown roundabout in Dublin. If I remember correctly, at least 36 roads lead into it. The ninth circle of hell would cause less anxiety and would be an easier place to escape from.
But let’s focus on what I expect to be the most popular, and also the most harrowing, new non-sports event. Getting through Ikea with your sanity intact is everything an Olympic contest should be. Like the marathon, there are crowds everywhere, and it feels like it goes on forever. You hit a wall around the rugs, but you force your way through the pain.
And like every great sports event, tears will flow at some stage. Then, just when you think it’s almost over, you round another corner, and you are surrounded by picture frames and mirrors.
But like any good Olympian, you put your head down and make that final burst for the finish line at the checkout. You are utterly broken and dishevelled. You have a new blister on your heel, but you are so elated that you don’t even care. It’s over. It’s really over.
And then, as you skip out to the car park with your trolley, you remember you have to assemble all the furniture you bought. Now that is a whole other category of competition.
For extremely elite athletes only.