Olympic Preview: Part 2

While watching the incredible Opening Ceremony tonight, I remembered that I was supposed to expose my obsession love for Michael Phelps. So, despite the serious risk of alienating all my friends with my creepiness, I'll try my best.

By now, you know I love celebrities. Understatement of the century. You've probably also noticed that these infatuations come and go. One week, I love Jonathan Toews. The next, I'm obsessing over Michael Buble. This comes in handy when I need inspiration for Man Meat Monday. However, there is one celebrity that I've loved consistently since 2000. That celebrity, of course, is Michael Phelps.

As I've already mentioned, the Olympics are a big deal in my house. During the Sydney Olympics in 2000, an attractive young swimmer caught my sixth-grade eye. He placed fifth in the 200m butterfly, I learned his name was Michael Phelps, and I was intrigued.

Throughout my entire childhood, my dad competed in marathons, triathlons, and even a couple Iron Man competitions. As a result, my living room television was tuned into international swimming every summer. In 2002, that meant the Pan-Pacs in Yokohama. As intrigued by sports as ever, I sat down and noticed, yet again, Michael Phelps. Only this time, he didn't finish his race in fifth place. During those Pan-Pacs, he won three gold and two silver medals while placing his name front and center in the world of swimming. I was hooked.

Ten years and sixteen Olympic medals later (14 gold, 2 bronze), I'm still as enamored with Phelps as I was back then. I'm way too ashamed to take a picture of the stack of magazines with him on the cover that I've saved over the years. I remember screaming like a maniac when he barely edged out Serbia's Milorad Cavic by one-hundredth of a second. I have his dimensions, calorie intake, medal count, and facial expressions memorized. I've defended him with fierce tenacity against those who criticized his marijuana incident and lack of training in 2009. With a level of devotion not unlike that of a loving wife, I follow him every summer...and, in the case of one summer, I mean that in a literal sense.

A couple summers ago, I actually traveled to Baltimore to see the place where his path to Olympic superstardom began: Meadowbrook swimming facility. I walked around the pool, taking pictures like a paparazzo for TMZ and imagining him in a heated discussion with Coach Bob Bowman about projected times.

I absolutely did not cry when Phelps announced that 2012 would be his final Olympic games...*cough* Yes, I did *cough* I begged my parents like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory to take me to London for his swan song performance. The answer, of course, was a resounding "NO" because we aren't multi-millionaires. So, I settled with watching him swim in the Indianapolis Grand Prix in March.

It felt like the glorious culmination of a dream to finally watch him swim in person. Everyone in the crowd scooted to the edge of their seats and cameras started to flash as he shed his warm-up robe. The anticipation was palpable as he set up on the starting blocks, stretching and flapping his arms in his usual pre-swim routine. I held my breath as he dove into the pool for the first lap of the 400m IM.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. My eyes started to water as he shot ahead of the field in his signature stroke, the butterfly. I watched with a bit of trepidation as competitor Tyler Clary passed him during the backstroke. However, Phelps regained the lead with a strong breaststroke and just barely edged him out for first after the freestyle. That is my camera flashing at the finish.



As he stood on the medals podium, the water slowly made its way down the ridges of his carefully-chiseled abs. His body, glistening with a combination of water, sweat, and stadium lighting, took my breath away. On TV (even HD TV), his ridiculous body almost seems fake, something enhanced with the help of special effects. In person, however, his 6'4" frame became painfully real, something tangible and something very, very close. He looked like a masterpiece crafted after hours of painstaking work from a slab of marble. One hand rested on his hip as the other slid haphazardly through his dripping hair. He inhaled sharply, working to catch his breath, and, in my seat thirty feet away, I did the same.

This just became 50 Shades of Michael Phelps. Sorry I'm not sorry. I'm just passionate about him. This week, I will continue to cheer for him in his quest to become the most decorated Olympian of all-time. I will defend his honor against critics if GOD FORBID he leaves London with a medal that isn't gold. Mostly, however, I will cherish these last precious moments of watching him compete. I have watched Michael Phelps swim for half of my lifetime. It was an absolute privilege to watch him work his way into the history books. So, with a smile on my face and drool on my chin, I'll watch as my favorite athlete, one of the greatest athletes in history, ends his glorious career by making just a little more.