I can still remember my first Summer Olympic Games -- as in, the first games that made any impression on me. It was 1988, and I was away from home at a weeklong overnight camp. Every afternoon during free time the counselors would roll a dining cart with a humongous TV outside, trailed by a 30-foot extension cord. In between soccer games and pool cannonballs we would collapse in front of the TV and see who was making history. Carl Lewis and Ben Johnson made all the headlines, world records and scandal -- a lot to take in for a 9-year-old. Ever since those games, I have been in love with the Summer Olympics: the spectacle, the athletic prowess, and the idea that if only my parents had tried harder and encouraged me more, I, too, could have triumphed on the uneven bars. Parents. Nowadays I watch the Summer Olympics holding my breath. From 8 p.m. until way past my bedtime, I can hardly inhale or exhale naturally. And all night long, I dream of floor exercises and iron cross...
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