After Wimbledon, the Open, the Grand Prix, and the Paralympics, there was nothing left to watch. Withdrawal was hard, and night after night I found myself waving a flag and cheering in the bathroom, shouting encouragement at unresponsive tiles: a lonely supporter bereft of idols, deprived of the podium and national anthems. To people the void, I splurged on EBay: mascots from past events to gather a makeshift crowd, which eased the ache for a time. But then I hit the wall – hit it hard – and fell. Dizzy with hypoxemia, and craving the scent of events, I draped my shoulders in a Union Jack, and broke into the local swimming baths, just to hear the echo of my roar. And there I met them: hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands, of people like me, ranked in rows upon rows, intent upon each other, spectating the spectators, cheering and sighing at each cheer and sigh, gasping at each gasp, mirroring the cathartic spectacle of the panoptic mise en abyme. I gave it 110 percent. We all gave it 110 percent. I was over the Moon. I’d like to thank everyone back home.
.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor