The Thorpe Ascension
In the 90s and into the new century, I ran a weekly footy tips comp + sports commentary for my family and government colleagues under the nom-de-plume Curly Bells, which a few hacks used to write under in the Townsville Advertiser in late 70s/early 80s. Curly Bells is the NQ name for bench-style spectator seating.
Below is what I wrote in a special Curlympian edition on 18 September 2000 on the Ian Thorpe ascension. Times have changed for the old mate, but hey, he’s worth a buck or three and still maintains a high profile so it can’t be all, bad!
* * *
Ian Thorpe knows he has made it. It wasn’t the moment he looked up at the chronometer to see he’d set a new world record for the 400m free. It wasn’t the puffy eyes of his proud parents and it was before some obscure foreigner placed the gold around his neck.
Ian was walking from the pool towards Linley Frame’s inevitable “how do ya feel?” interview when the moment of realisation pulled him up in his tracks.
It was the stuff erections are made of. A few blokes started the slow Hill/scoreboard end/Bay 17 chant: Thor-pee, Thor-pee and within seconds the cauldron’s crowd caught the cadence: THOR-pee, THOR-pee, THOR-pee.
Thorpie knew full well the significance: he’d been ordained. The gold, the record – at that stage, only one – are but statistics, photographs, dusty memorabilia.
To be up there with LIL-lee, HEAL-lee, WAL-lee, ZO-ee is the culmination of every athlete’s’ dreams.
The moment also brought tears to Curly’s eye because – as it’s unlikely the crowds, nor indeed individuals, anywhere will ever chant CUR-lee, CUR-lee – Thorpie was fulfilling my dream, too.
And when he’s on his final lap, he won’t remember standing on the dais all over the world watching limp ensigns and mouthing innate girt by seas, he won’t remember the squealing, gooey-knickered girlies, he won’t even remember his first beer.
He’ll only hear the beckoning call: THOR-pee, THOR-pee, THOR-pee.
Thorpie, mate, mate you’re a dead set champion.
Footnote: Commentator Cometti noted that Thorpie was probably heading off to do a lazy 1.5km or so to keep warm for the upcoming 4x100m relay. Shit, I can’t even say fourhundredmetres without getting puffed.
Below is what I wrote in a special Curlympian edition on 18 September 2000 on the Ian Thorpe ascension. Times have changed for the old mate, but hey, he’s worth a buck or three and still maintains a high profile so it can’t be all, bad!
* * *
Ian Thorpe knows he has made it. It wasn’t the moment he looked up at the chronometer to see he’d set a new world record for the 400m free. It wasn’t the puffy eyes of his proud parents and it was before some obscure foreigner placed the gold around his neck.
Ian was walking from the pool towards Linley Frame’s inevitable “how do ya feel?” interview when the moment of realisation pulled him up in his tracks.
It was the stuff erections are made of. A few blokes started the slow Hill/scoreboard end/Bay 17 chant: Thor-pee, Thor-pee and within seconds the cauldron’s crowd caught the cadence: THOR-pee, THOR-pee, THOR-pee.
Thorpie knew full well the significance: he’d been ordained. The gold, the record – at that stage, only one – are but statistics, photographs, dusty memorabilia.
To be up there with LIL-lee, HEAL-lee, WAL-lee, ZO-ee is the culmination of every athlete’s’ dreams.
The moment also brought tears to Curly’s eye because – as it’s unlikely the crowds, nor indeed individuals, anywhere will ever chant CUR-lee, CUR-lee – Thorpie was fulfilling my dream, too.
And when he’s on his final lap, he won’t remember standing on the dais all over the world watching limp ensigns and mouthing innate girt by seas, he won’t remember the squealing, gooey-knickered girlies, he won’t even remember his first beer.
He’ll only hear the beckoning call: THOR-pee, THOR-pee, THOR-pee.
Thorpie, mate, mate you’re a dead set champion.
Footnote: Commentator Cometti noted that Thorpie was probably heading off to do a lazy 1.5km or so to keep warm for the upcoming 4x100m relay. Shit, I can’t even say fourhundredmetres without getting puffed.
