Games people play

Press, 9 October 1982, Page 13

Games people play

1

Ken Strongman

Sport is dominating the screen again: it is rarely away for long. Most days are now’bracketed by a frenzy of running, jumping, stretching, straining, pushing, and pulling. punctuated by grunts, groans, yelps, and shrieks of effort, disappointment and ululation. It is tense, neu-. rotic. precious and wholly* admirable.

In comparison with the Olympics and the European Games, there is something special about the Commonwealth Games. There is less of the tight professionalism about them. It is something to do with the vast range of size, shape, colour and. above all. ability, among the competitors. Anything can happen; one almost expects someone to be lapped in the 100 metres. It certainly makes for compulsive viewing. It is possible to become mesmerised by watching cyclists never catch one another. weight-lifters developing love-hate relationships with their bars, and swimmers who are distinguishable only by their bobbing caps. Opening ceremonies for these occasions go to ever greater excesses, these days usually involving a co-ordi-

nation of children which would be the envy of many a teacher. However, the Australian opening reached heights of elegance which will have given Queensland a place forever in the hearts of those who cherish form and style.

Their pemblem was a gigantic, winking kangaroo named Matilda. Having completed its lap of honour, this majestic model gave way to that other symbol of the Australian way of life — Rolf Harris. He added the final touch of grace to the proceedings. It brought a tear to the eye and a lump to the throat to hear him bellow

— “Wait for the key change" — and as he led the crowd through the lyrical complexities of “Waltzing Matilda." It was a magic moment, probably arranged by Barry Humphries’ cultural attache, Les Patterson.

The ceremony was not helped by the day, which gave the'lie to those seductive travel advertisements: the wind was cutting through their endeavours. Even Prince Philip walked off discreetly rubbing his hands. A lesser being would have been long gone, back to the royal yacht for an early bath.

Meanwhile. Mr Fraser stood frozen-faced, his wife by his side yawning with that lassitude which can overtake one on these occasions.

Such spectacles were nothing in comparison with the goggle-eyed concentration prompted by the garb of the flag-bearers. They have to have somewhere to put their flags, but only the Aussies could have given them modified athletic supporters strapped outside their trousers. Yet another first for Queensland.

The commentaries have been full of the usual delicious biases. New Zealand competitors have demonstrated great courage and fortitude against enormous odds. These odds have been described in terms which hint that it is somehow unjust that other nations have athletes with more ability or who have trained harder. On

the other hand, the sheer delight at a New Zealand success was infectious. Why should the television reporters always be professionally detached?

Such lengthy sessions of intensive commentary always provide some vignettes which linger in the memory. There was a truly poetic description of the way in which Australian backstrok-. ers spray their feet. This is supposedly to give them adhesive properties for the push-off. My guess is that it is for the olfactory comfort of the crowd.

One evening, sunken into a semi-comatose fantasy about what sort of training goes on in the games village at night, your ever alert viewer was jerked into attention. The announcement was made that somone called Patricia Bartlett was swimming for Trinidad and Tobago. Her costume was a plain brown wrapper. However, the gold medal for commentaries must go to the person who could not relinquish the phrase, “I looked up his personal details.” It’ was not only the frequency but also the relish with which he said it that was disturbing.