Among the difficulties of this summer, apart from managing to choose a sunscreen that is both highly rated on Yuka and which does not pollute the life of the eleven fish remaining in the ocean (personally I opted for a thin layer of Brie de Meaux), there was also that of choosing the sport which, in the official competition of this first part of the Olympic and Paralympic Games in Paris, would thrill us the most.
Of course the synchronized diving had solid arguments, both by the great mastery of its choreographies and by the small size of its competitors’ swimming trunks (ciao Italia! Why did I do Spanish LV2 myself?).
In short, there were also slightly weird sports that could easily have won my heart, like this climbing discipline focused on speed, where men and women train for four years and can be eliminated in less than seven seconds for these ladies, six for these gentlemen. A beautiful metaphor for existence, thank you sport.
But no, I think that what I preferred during this fortnight, besides of course humming “Djadja” at regular intervals, choreography included, was this discipline that I had not seen coming, and in which I thought that France had no chance of qualification, even less of medals:
The Olympic Truce.
Frankly, when the man-who-thinks-that-when-you-have-less-than-100-deputies-behind-you-you-still-have-the-means-to-impose-your-calendar decided to suspend the political sequence under the pretext that there were qualifications for the javelin throw at 8:45 a.m., I said to myself: the guy wants to set the country on fire, and not just in one basin that floats above Paris with a balloon on top. But the magic of the games, the euphoria of people who discover that we can play rugby sevens or three-a-side basketball, without forgetting the presence on French territory of Queen Céline Dion: the truce has taken place.
For almost fifteen days and fifteen nights we have been vibrating, talking, enthusiastic and bickering about the three-point baskets that defy gravity at the end of the matches, about the breaststroke strokes of a young Toulousain envied by the porpoises in the four corners of the globe, or about the young men who are not even adults who win bronze medals in a sport that the rest of his fellow citizens do not practice. while waiting for the official aperitif time to the sound of cicadas. And so quite badly.
In short, this truce worked, and it will also be the nice surprise of these Olympics, apart from the number of medals whose curve has nothing to envy of that of inflation. But as its name suggests, this truce, like the flame above Paris, has a limited duration.
The flame will leave from the Los Angeles side.
As for the political atmosphere, the traveling brothel, the tensions within and outside the parties and other imbroglios on social networks, all remain in France.
And even without a flame, it will heat up quite a bit.
Come on Monday.
