Catching Phelps Fever

I just watched Michael Phelps win his tenth gold medal, in the 200 meter butterfly. It was pretty impressive, though admittedly not as incredible as watching his 200 meter freestyle, when I witnessed for the first time how he seemed to be in a close competition for the first 150 meters, only to see him jump into an incredible lead for the final 50, making it look so easy, like he was just teasing everyone else. In the butterfly, it was a little closer, at least leaving the semblance of competition, but impressive nonetheless.

So I just looked up his Wiki page, not five minutes after watching the race, and it's already been updated to include this tenth medal. Impressive wikiness.

But anyhow, as I was watching the race, the commentators kept talking about how Phelps is incredible, how you're watching history because he's about to win his tenth Olympic gold.

You know, I roll my eyes at most superstitions, but something about sports brings out the fear in me. Perhaps it's from years of being a Cleveland sports fan, when a flippant comment by an announcer about how the Browns' quarterback has not had an interception in ten quarters guarantees that his next pass will be picked off, or that an amazingly consistent kicker will shank a simple field goal attempt on a clear day in perfect conditions - if the announcer so carelessly jinxes him.

Perhaps it is as simple as the fact that I don't really pay attention to what the announcer is saying until he echoes my fears (or when my husband makes the exact same comment, with the exact same words, just moments before the announcer - a skill picked up, no doubt, from years of following Cleveland sports).

So as I'm watching Michael Phelps swim, listening to these announcers predict the future, and I worried. I know what happens. I know the rules. And I worried what would happen that might cause Michael Phelps not to win. It would have to be really bad, given how well he was doing and continued to do. A Charlie Horse? A leg cramp? An aneurysm? What would happen? Man does not have gills for a reason; we are meant to be on land. This fascination with being in the water, with challenging all that is Darwinianly reasonable, it's unnatural, I say. I seriously feared for him more and more as the race went on. And finally, oh what a sense of relief. I was happy for him, relieved for him, at least until next race when the announcers would once again put his life at risk.

I don't know if I can watch him race anymore. I am definitely thrilled for him, but this tension is just too much for me. Perhaps I could just turn off the sound while he races. Yeah, that'll do. Whew.