I was in the bar at the Hyatt hotel in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Both times. My girlfriend Jen and I were driving up from Baltimore to New York and dropping off two other wedding guests along the way. Jen and her friends sat down for some food at the end of the catered dinner, but I scarfed mine and headed for the bar. It was 10:10, and I knew I was going to see history.
This was the 100m butterfly, one of Phelps’ toughest tests. His qualifying time had actually put him 2nd to a swimmer named Cavic, not the 1st that he was used to. 100m means you only go up and back, and after the first 50m he was trailing pretty significantly. I had thought no one else in the bar cared, but as Phelps made the turn the sound started to rise. A pretty significant roar saw Phelps home in the last 50m, where he outtouched Cavic by the pencil width of .01 seconds.
But that was nothing compared to the next night.
We were dressed to the nines–it was an Indian wedding, and many women wore colorful silk saris as they danced to Britney (the bride’s favorite) on the dance floor. I had set up an ESPN.com alert for my phone to tell me when the race was going to start, but I didn’t need it. The race that could break Mark Spitz’s record for 7 golds in a game was going to be at 10:58, and by 10:30 I was checking my clock every 3 or 4 minutes.
At 10:45, I wandered across the hotel lobby from the ballroom where the reception was to the same hotel bar from the last night. Jen was supposed to meet me there in a few minutes. I noticed that several other people were doing the same, with the stealthy glances that could only be people leaving a social gathering to see a sporting event. By 10:55 the hotel bar was jammed with suits and saris, but still no Jen. I jogged back across the lobby to look for her on the dance floor to no avail. Then I saw one of her friends who told me where she was, in a corner of the dance floor I had missed.
I grabbed her by the arm with a stern glance–didn’t she understand that she was about to miss history? Her friends looked somewhat alarmed as I dragged her back to the bar. We got back just as the race began. I felt my intensity grow with the crowd, my shouts reflecting the general mood. The race was a 4×100 medley, which meant each American swam a different stroke. First up was Peirsol in the backstroke. I let out a few curt “C’mon, Peirsol!”s, but he didn’t need much encouragement, giving the US a good half body-length lead.
The second leg was Hansen, and along with the bar I grew quiet and tense as Peirsol’s lead slowly evaporated in the breaststroke leg. Then Phelps jumped into the pool for the fly. Like the night before, his first 50m was pedestrian, actually falling behind the Australians. But then the touch, and the turn, and he came on like a galloping, double-jointed horse. “C’MON PHELPS!” I started to scream, every five seconds or so, still constrained by propriety and the dignity of the tie around my neck.
Jason Lezak was swimming the freestyle leg, the anchor. The same Jason Lezak whose once-in-a-lifetime performance had caught the 100m freestyle gold medalist from behind and kept Phelps on track to eight golds. He jumped in the water with a slight lead from Phelps’ effort, with Australia right on his heels. At the turn he was still ahead, but not by much. Phelps’ 8 golds, one of the greatest feats in sports history, was hanging on these 50 meters.
At this point, all propriety went to hell. “GO LEZAK!!” I started screaming, so loud and so constantly that I felt my vocal chords ripple and fray from the effort. I clutched Jen in my right arm, who covered the ear I was screaming into with one hand and pumped the other in the air, cheering with abandon herself. Australia gained, but they wouldn’t catch Lezak, and when he touched and the NBC graphic of 1 – UNITED STATES went up on Lezak’s lane the bar exploded in laughter and cheers and wet eyes and hugs.
Jen looked in my eyes and said “Thank you,” a look of understanding passing between us. She went off to explain to her friends how I was not a terrible abusive boyfriend, and I went off looking for someone to share the enormity of the moment with. I wound up sitting at an empty table with an insurance salesman from New Jersey who at least knew his sports. We talked about Joe DiMaggio’s 56 games as possibly the next nationally cherished record that no one thinks will ever fall until it’s suddenly happening.
The thing is, where but sports is human achievement so simple, pure, and quantifiable? Generally in sports we like to cheer for two types: the underdogs and the dominant ones. But when a dominant athlete goes up against a seemingly insurmountable record like 7 gold medals in a single Olympics, he becomes the underdog as well. 7 gold medals. 8 gold medals. It’s simple, easy. One more is better. One more is the next level of greatness. Where does that happen in everyday life? There is clear victory in war, but then there are of course the lives that are lost. There is clear victory in elections, but then the guy you elected turns out to be just another politician. There is victory in life, love, and business, yet it’s never as clean, as uncomplicatedly glorious as that morning in Beijing, that night in the Hyatt in New Brunswick.
So I ask you, where where you when Phelps did it?
I was in Cleveland at my girlfriend’s 87 year old grandmother’s house. Even she was screaming (well, at least she was very enthused). It was pretty awesome.
I was perched on a stool in a bar, ready to go home.
I was at a bar too, listening to a band. I had seen him break record after record from my home, but it was even cooler to see a whole room full of people cheering in the middle of a song.