Every fourth summer, I go into what I call “Olympic hibernation.” I am simply obsessed with the Olympics. Gymnastics, swimming, beach volleyball, ping pong, tandem springboard diving—I could (and often do) watch this stuff all day. I’m drawn to people who ride that fine line between passion and obsession, and Olympians are the ultimate examples—they dedicate their entire lives to perfecting the minutiae of their chosen events on a level that 90% of spectators can comprehend. (A sample gymnastsics commentator from last night: “Did you notice she was an inch too close to the bar on that release move?” No, not even slightly, but I’ll trust you on it.)

I love everything about the Olympics. I love the rivalries, I love the last second upsets. I love the athlete back story segments, which inevitably begin with a shot of the athlete, arms crossed, standing in front of the waving flag of his or her country while choral music builds in intensity.

Swimmer Dara Torres, age 41, begged her doctor to let her start training just weeks after giving birth so she could be a contender in her fifth Olympics? Fascinating. Gymnast Nastia Liukin is coached by her dad, Valerie, who was the Soviet gold medalist in 1988—the first man to do a triple back flip on floor and both a layout reverse hect and a Jaeger with full twist on high bar? Amazing.

Part of the fun of the Olympics is that the whole world is watching. Although really, that’s just not true. On Saturday night, I was walking down Avenue A with two Crucial Minutiateers who shall remain nameless. As we passed a sports bar, I noticed Michael Phelps on the bar’s oversized flat panel screens. He was standing on a podium as an anonymous person slipped a medal over his head. “Michael Phelps won his first medal!” I exclaimed, thrilled to know that when I got home, the 400 IM race would be waiting for me on my DVR.

“Who?” said Crucial Minutiateer #1.

“Michael Phelps,” I repeated, assuming I just hadn’t spoken loud enough.

There was no light of recognition on either of their faces.

“Um, the best swimmer in the world, possibly ever,” I said. “He won 6 medals in 2004 and is going for 8 medals this year,” I said.

Crucial Minutiateer #2 looked totally unimpressed.

Somehow, I feel like it’s my duty to bring the uninitiated into the fold of this global soap opera. So Minutiateers #1 and #2, the picture above is for you. Sure you might not be impressed with his swimming achievements, but I’m hoping that you can at least appreciate the torso.

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You Can’t Make This Stuff Up is a weekly column by Kate Torgovnick. She is also obsessed with cheerleading—read more at Cheerthebook.com.
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PS: Michael Phelps, please call me.

PSS: To anyone who is going to give me grief about objectifying Sir Phelps, I got whistled at by several construction workers this morning, so feel totally justified in doing so. You’re lucky I didn’t crop his head out of the photo. I considered it.