For me, it all began with the bold opening ceremony.

Did I cry when Stephen Spielberg appeared in his sneakers to speak about the interconnectedness of humanity, history, and the games?

Yes.

Did I gasp and squeal as my inner theater kid saw opera singers, heavy metal musicians, and hot-pink beheaded wigs in repeatedly striking Parisian tableaux?

Yes.

Did I cry once more as I watched the clumping of athletes floating in boats, bearing their flags with bright, wide grins, beaming with pride?

Yes.

How about when I thought of the unmapped beauty of places with unknown names like Nauru, Eswantini, or Togo?

*sigh*

The Olympics have somersaulted their way into my heart and, along with it, a wheelhouse of emotion. More than a spectator, I feel a proper speck in the sand of humanity, here to enjoy the show.

Judo has somehow become my sport of choice.

Maybe because the weapon is the body, so for some reason, I am not as scared.

What I’ve learned is judokas cower, twist, hunch, jut, trip, kick, and tuck. Grasping the collars and sleeves of their opponents’ robes, they attack and thrust themselves down to the ground, scrunching into the shapes of beetles. They defend. Somehow, each time, they each seem to bounce before they land.

Prominent medalists are from Japan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Brazil, Kosovo, Mongolia, Italy, and France.

The irony of it all, is I am watching TV. So much that I’ve ignored my body's impetus to move. I’ve become the flat-ass, Couch Olympian.

Anyway, cheers to poems that veil as newsletters, and hope you enjoy the games ;)

Nellen