We know D.C. Get our free newsletter to stay in the know.
When I saw the synch-swimming finals in Atlanta (Cheap Seats, 8/16), I was astounded at how the sport had advanced. Yes, it still carried some vestiges of its showbiz, Esther Williams roots—proudly and unself-consciously, which I found both courageous and endearing. (And my eyes just about gasped with pleasure at the ’40s-style, one-piece swimsuits—what a welcome break from the souped-up, breast-flattening Speedo aesthetic.)
The gold- and silver-medal performances by the U.S. and Canadian synch teams were nothing short of breathtaking. Nowhere in the Olympics did I see a more impressive display of sustained, intricate teamwork, sheer athleticism, and beauty. What I too had expected to enjoy affectionately, as a piece of cornball quasi-sport by plucky gals, totally knocked my socks off.
So when I see a piece like Dave McKenna’s, I wonder what’s going on. Not a real sport? What makes jumping over a stick or hitting someone a real sport, and precision movement through water not a real sport? Is this a gender-war, envy thing? At any rate, McKenna’s focus on warmed-over naysaying—and complete ignoring of athletic performance that has reached a level nothing short of fabulous—is lazy, out of time, and silly.
Or should I just say, c’mon guys! Yes, a showbiz movie babe invented a sport! Get over it! Or better yet, come on in. I suspect boys could be just as cool, in their own ways, doing this stuff. Beats boxing and Bosnia.
Takoma Park, Md.
Read more News stories
via the Internet
This isn't a paywall.
We don't have one. Readers like you keep our work free for everyone to read. If you think that it's important to have high quality local reporting we hope you'll support our work with a monthly contribution.