Hammered

Last Monday, in the sweltering heat of an overcast Rio afternoon, Polish hammer thrower Anita Włodarczyk stepped into a seven-foot concrete ring. The atmosphere in Olympic Stadium Engenhão was sedate and the conspicuous patches of empty seats littered throughout the stands added further punctuation to the thundering quiet. All in all, it seemed hardly the setting one might expect for a sporting spectacle of Olympic caliber.

Still, perhaps the muted enthusiasm of the crowd shouldn't have been all that hard to understand. After all, the flagship events of track and field wouldn't be contested until later that evening and the celebrity-class athletes like Usain Bolt and Allyson Felix were nowhere to be seen. Anita, though not as conventionally glamorous-looking as her more famous peers, cut an inspirational figure as she assumed her starting position: feet spread, shoulders squared, eyes fixed icily ahead. From her gloved left hand, a thin, braided wire stretched to the ground where it was moored to a pitiless metal orb.

At an audio prompting from the officials' booth, Anita began her routine. At first, her feet remained firmly planted as she swung the hammer in tight circles overhead. As the implement began to reach terrible speed, Anita gracefully and expertly dipped her arms and followed its momentum into ever quickening spins. After just a few rotations, she released her grip and sent her hammer sailing through the steamy Rio air.

The release must have felt good to Anita because she immediately let loose a yell of gleeful jubilation as she turned to watch the hammer continue its flight. Another audio cue sounded. A white flag was raised. The throw was a good one. A world-record throw in fact. And Anita simply erupted.

Shouting uproariously, Anita bounded out of the throwers' pit with her arms raised high in triumph. Once the official numbers were displayed, confirming that Anita had indeed just made Olympic history, her celebrations were reified, and she began hugging everyone that she encountered. Here was vindication. Here was joy personified. In a few moments of technical perfection, Anita had accomplished an athletic feat unachieved by her nearest rival (herself). All of the blood, sweat, and tears shed over a lifetime of training had been redeemed in an instant and Anita was exulting in the rapture of the moment.

And yet, the corresponding reactions from the officials, spectators, and media still seemed a bit tepid compared to the frenzied outpouring of adulation that accompanied similar feats of athletic prowess. Photographers didn't follow Anita all the way around the track as she did a victory lap. Reporters didn't crowd around her to catch a snippet of her reflected glory. I mean, it's not like she had just finished a jaw-dropping gymnastic routine or run a race at super human speeds. All she did was take a nine-pound ball of implacable steel and throw it farther than any woman ever had before. For the record, I affirm and have no intrinsic problem with the reality that some sporting events are just simply more compelling spectacles than others. You wouldn't necessarily expect Phelpsian levels of media coverage over a one-time happening in a second-rate event like the hammer throw would you? Perhaps not. But what I do know is that somewhere in a different hemisphere, in a cubicle in an office in a building along the outskirts of Indianapolis, there was at least one individual who was deeply moved and who was cheering and celebrating right along with Anita in her moment of victory.

I watch the Olympics at work is I guess all I'm trying to say.

-Ryan