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The Games that changed us forever? Not quite...
By HUGH MACKAY
Saturday 31 March 2001
It is exactly six months, this weekend, since the closing ceremony of the
Sydney Olympics. So it might be time to make a first, tentative approach to
the question everyone was dying to answer the moment the Games ended: did
they change us forever?
Every experience changes us "forever", in the sense that all our experiences
- pleasant and unpleasant - contribute to the endless process of shaping the
kind of people we are becoming.
But that answer obviously misses the point. People who ask the Olympics
question are toying with far grander concepts than that. They want to believe
the Olympics brought with them some mystical visitation that has transformed
our society in unique and lasting (and positive) ways. They want to cling to
the idea that pre-Olympic and post-Olympic Australia are two radically
different places, separated by the glorious experience of hosting the Games.
But what might "change us forever" actually mean?
Did the Games represent a symbolic growing-up for Australia? Are we united
now in ways never imagined before the Games? Has the cause of Aboriginal
reconciliation been immeasurably advanced, as claimed, by Cathy Freeman's win
in the 400 metres? Has our economy received the massive boost promised by
Games advocates? And here's a favorite: have the Games invigorated our sense
of national pride? Are we enjoying a heightened belief in ourselves and our
ability to take on the world?
I suspect the answer to all those questions is either "no" or "not much".
And, please, forgive me, but when I ponder the implications of the essential
question - have the Games transformed us? - I'm afraid my personal answer is:
I hope not.
Obviously, the 2000 Sydney Games were wildly successful (as the 1956
Melbourne Games were) and very enjoyable (just like Melbourne). People were
hugely entertained, and their memories were stoked by the experience of being
there.
The opening and closing ceremonies were sensational examples of pop culture
on parade. The fireworks on that Sunday night, six months ago, were the most
spectacular Australia, and possibly the world, had ever seen.
Best of all, the psychology of the crowd kicked in with the utter reliability
for which crowd psychology is justly famous. Huge gatherings of people in a
positive, hopeful, self-congratulatory mood always generate a powerful surge
of euphoria and goodwill. Some participants in the Olympic phenomenon felt as
though their lives had acquired a new sense of purpose.
All of that was to be expected. (Many Melburnians can still recall the pride
and euphoria associated with the 1956 Games, too.) The technical and creative
brilliance of the Games was also to be expected. An estimated $8 billion was
spent on the Sydney Games: how disgraceful it would have been if we had felt
we were not getting our money's worth.
And that's precisely why I hope we were not "changed forever" by the Games.
It would be tragic and pathetic if such a high-priced and essentially
commercial enterprise had the power to define, transform and sustain our
cultural identity to any significant extent.
Changed us forever? No way. To draw an analogy: the Games were the rough
equivalent of a family throwing a lavish party, or buying an expensive new
car, or installing a swimming pool in the back yard. Such things are
exciting: they fuel our expectations, build our hopes and fill our photo
albums. But they are not in the same league as falling in love, or having a
baby, or acquiring a new outlook on life through the pain of illness,
bereavement, divorce or retrenchment.
In terms of personal change and growth, they don't even come close to the
richness of friendship shared over a meal, a long reflective walk, or
immersion in a good book. Things that "change us forever" are usually felt
deeply (and often quite darkly); they can never be given a dollar value.
If you're looking for the kind of thrill that can be bought, then it's
probably true that the higher the price, the bigger the thrill (though that
rule doesn't apply to small children, untarnished by material values).
Exciting experiences and new possessions make us feel good for a while, but
you have to keep buying more and more - bigger and bigger, better and better
- if you want to prop up the thrill index.
It's certainly true that, at the time, many people believed the Games would
change us forever. Six months on, though, I'm struggling even to recall what
the changes were supposed to be. (I do remember one: we were all going to be
nicer to each other.)
But why search for more than you're ever likely to find? We have acquired
some pleasant memories. Shouldn't we leave it at that?
Hugh Mackay is an author and social researcher.
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