If you could put a pin through the epicenter of Australian sporting parochialism right now it would be here in Dordrecht. Cait and Hugh are supporting the Australian competitors in the Commonwealth games with a passion.
At every success, loud cries of aussieaussieaussie oioioi ring out through our apartment window and down our narrow cobbled street to the alarm of residents and pedestrians and cyclists.
Cait and Hugh are keen swimmers and TV poolside is where their greatest support is bellowed. Indeed, they have achieved their own modest success in the annual autumn Red Hill Primary School competition. This I attribute to their mother’s commitment to their training, which began when they were toddlers. She endured the noise, smell, heat and humidity of the indoor pool for years.
Cait’s, ahem, buoyancy gave her a distinct early advantage – she was unsinkable. Hugh was more like a shark – keep swimming or sink. These early attributes carried through to their competitive styles – Cait has a lovely, lazy, loping stroke, riding high in the water, which seems to part for her, while Hugh thrashes about like a paddle-steamer battling rising flood waters. Both styles have secured ribbons on their day.
It is excruciating and gratifying in equal measure for an Australian to watch Commonwealth games swimming through the one-eyed lens of BBC1. Oh, how they fawn over the occasional bronzes of pallid, panting poms. It goes almost un-noticed that gold and silver have been snaffled by us! I think the kids are oblivious to the reporting, focused as they are on those yellow caps bobbing up and down at the front of the pack.
I’m grateful for the games, because they are evidence that the southern hemisphere exists. It wasn’t there before the games and I doubt it will be there after.
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