It’s so quiet you can hear the chalk dust hit the floor in London’s North Greenwich arena. I’m watching a gripping drama play out alongside fellow gymnastics fans at the culmination of the men’s team event at the London 2012 Olympic Games.
Moments earlier, a cacophonous cheer erupted as Britain won its first men’s team Olympic medal for 100 years. Max Whitlock, Louis Smith, Sam Oldham, Kristian Thomas and Dan Purvis have finished their routines and currently sit in second position in the men’s team final. Second! An astonishing achievement considering making the final eight teams was the pre-competition target.
But now I’m transfixed, as arguably the greatest male gymnast ever, Kohei Uchimura, takes to the pommel horse. The last man to perform in the whole competition, we presume he’ll go through his routine cleanly, the accompanying high score enabling Japan to leapfrog Britain and likely finishing second behind runaway winners China, with our boys still in an incredible third place.
But, unbelievably, the man known for elegance and consistency despite crazy difficult routines, makes a mistake. Kohei uncharacteristically falls out of his dismount in an inelegant struggle, which is when the silence descends.
Moment in time
All eyes turn to the scoreboard, a stunned silence smothers the arena. Kohei’s score flashes up. It’s low and Japan drop out of the medals into an agonising fourth, Britain stay in second and Ukraine are now in third.
The crowd erupts, cheering the beaming GB boys who are jumping up and down, coaches slapping their backs, hugging and constantly looking back up to the big screen to make sure this is really happening.
It’s happening, fellas. I’m here, and I can’t believe it either. Grinning from ear to ear, tears in my eyes, I can’t believe I’m here to witness a waft-me-down-with-a-leotard moment in British gymnastics’ history.
I’m here on my own so peer at those around me, catching eyes with fellow Brits and spectators from other countries, smiling at everybody, which is reciprocated at every turn, all of us caught up in an I-was-there sporting moment.
Then I see the elderly Japanese ladies. Sat directly behind me, the four are statue-still, eyes glistening. My smile fades. I catch their eye and put my hand to my heart in an ‘I feel for you’ gesture. They smile weakly.
I turn back to the scenes in front of me a little subdued. Japan’s style of gymnastics is a joy to watch and the team deserve to be medal winners. Sport can be oh so cruel.
But there’s more…
Celebrations are ongoing for the home crowd but a murmur begins to ripple around the arena and the gymnasts have not left the building. Something’s afoot.
The Japanese coaches have put in a complaint about Uchimura’s score. They contend that the judges valued his dismount incorrectly. If the review is successful, Kohei’s score will be improved resulting in a change in the medal places. This is big.
I turn to the ladies behind me and tell them, via hand gestures to hold on – both palms raised towards them, then moving my hand horizontally side to side, and then pointing to the scoreboard – indicating there might be a change. They look hopefully towards the screen.
Waiting in the wings
I used to be a gymnast, I’ve watched the burgeoning sport all my life and I’m thrilled the Brits have just made history. I’m a happy bunny whichever way this goes.
I do have a soft spot for 23-year-old Kohei, though. He’s brought so much joy to gymnastics fans around the world and is a hero in his home country.
Just seven months after the devastating earthquake and tsunami that decimated Japan in March 2011, Kohei became the first male gymnast to win three consecutive all-around world titles, and he did it in Tokyo.
I was there too and sat smiling next to Japanese journalists who shoved laptops aside to watch, clap and cheer as Kohei smashed his final piece of apparatus – the high bar – providing a moment of solace in a devastating period for the country. So there’s an element of sadness to his error just over one year later, and the team’s current fourth place.
Ten minutes we wait. Ten long minutes as the judges huddle together and watch and re-watch the routine. Initially it adds to the excitement but then we start getting antsy, particularly the Ukrainians who are set to lose the most out of this decision.
It goes the way of Japan. Uchimura’s score is improved, the Japanese win silver and Britain a still sensational bronze. The Ukrainians, though, are gutted. They’re out of the medals.
I turn to the ladies, point at them, give them a double thumbs up and a big smile. The relief and joy among them is palpable as they turn and celebrate with each other. One of the ladies then turns to me and says, “Oooch-e-moora-mama, Oooch-e-moora-mama”, while pointing at one of the ladies.
I’m baffled. Then it dawns on me what she’s saying. I turn to the now smiling Japanese lady on the left who I now know is Kohei Uchimura’s mother. She bows, smiles, takes my hand and presses it to her face.
This post is also one of 13 short stories featured in my book, A Little Book of Sport Stories. The true life tales of my eventful sport fan life, also include That Time I Was A Stuntwoman In a Film and That Time Sport Saved My Soul.
If you like this post you may also enjoy…
My Olympic Odyssey (Part 1/15): It begins
My Olympic Odyssey (Part 2/15): Soul saved
My Olympic Odyssey (Part 3/15): Stars align
