****
I’m going to come right out and say it. Most of the commentators for the Paris 2024 Summer Olympics (and probably every other Olympics I have seen) suck. I’m speaking specifically about the “American” commentators, including those foreign accents who have found comfy seats among the American-English-speaking folks. [If you watch the Olympics in some other country and dislike your commentators, I’d be interested in hearing your story.] It doesn’t matter how velvety-smooth your voice is (I’m looking squarely at the stout, brown-skinned, bald man with glasses who is…everywhere…like a VISA credit card); you people cannot restrain yourselves enough to give your American athletes, your celebrities of choice, the very people you have to interview, more respect when they are in poor condition to respond.
Key words: in poor condition…and have to interview. We know you have to interview them because they’ve been advertised and sponsored better than cars in a NASCAR race or horses in the Kentucky Derby. But, interviewing someone when they are out of breath and probably don’t have enough oxygen in the brain to sensibly respond? That’s just dumb…and rude.
[And, flashing a pretty face while laughing does not excuse you, either, Miss Maria Taylor, miss late-night, golden-brown goddess, miss supermom. The laughter feels a little forced, canned, at times. But, you seem to have better luck with interviews, maybe because you get the night shift and “next day” moments and are not typically seen with athletes right after their events.]
If you DID have respect, you’d ask different questions and wait with them until the athletes can breathe easier. But, no, every damn interview has to include “What does this medal you just won mean to you and to your country?” [But, more importantly, your country.] And, you cannot wait to ask these stupid, repeating questions, as if someone is holding a gun to your head. [And, it’s not a starter pistol.]
The nerve you highly polished morons have to mistreat these fragile souls who risk their lives to get a medal for their countries. I’d like to put all of you through the paces and then jab a microphone and fifty cameras in YOUR faces. See how YOU feel in the hot seat.
In your haste, all you accomplish is getting the worst from your interviews. Sure, you probably curb some negativity, because the athletes are depleted. But, that’s also lucky and risky thinking. If I was in one of those interviews, gasping for air, dripping with sweat, I just might let a few words fly that wouldn’t sit well with broadcast TV. I might end up a news feed scandal for what I said. And, I’d have you careless jerks, with your pressed suits and bleached smiles, to thank for my scarring slip.
I have to wonder…do the athletes have the opportunity to refuse? Can they bypass the microphones and cameras waiting just a short distance from whatever they call a finish line in their event? Can they shake their heads and walk away, giving themselves time to regain strength and, maybe, tidy themselves before answering stupid, repetitive questions? If not, shame on the rules and/or customs of this venue. And, if the athletes repeatedly fall prey to the microphones, hoping they will be asked/told something reassuring just to hear the same tiresome, annoying dialogue they hear after every other “run” they take, that’s also very sad.
If you must talk to someone when they’re out of breath, try asking how good it feels to be done with the event. Ask something that helps relieve the athlete of their current exhaustion and/or distress. Offer some encouragement; say they are okay, now that the trial is over. Tell them to have some fun if they’re not required to compete again. Don’t give them some patriotic BS or expect them to wave the nation’s flag for you. And, give them a towel or water bottle!
Now, you might point out the interviews that take place some vague time after the events, when the athletes have had time to don fresh, dry, sometimes stylish clothes and groom their hair (if they have any). In those instances, sure, there is more respect. But, there is still the chance stupid questions will be asked. I think there is some dumb writer behind all of this who preps a carbon-copy list of questions some lousy high-school teacher would give his or her class. Every year, every group, the same questions get used.
The athletes seems more interested in how the medals contain bits of the Eiffel Tower, but you’d rather ask about patriotism. What do you THINK the medal means for their country?! It means a digit gets added to the damn medal count you can’t stop discussing!…as if medal counts mean everything or more than the bonding of nations. Good grief! The athletes offer you opportunities for unique discussions, and you throw recycled formal letters in their faces.
[‘No wonder interviews produce bile in throats, making those interviewed shift uneasily in their tiny, uncomfortable seats and roll their eyes. Yes, I said bile.]
I’m also extremely sick of the commentators who feel the need to judge every little move an athlete makes, down to the tenth of a point and the hundredth of a second. Let’s just say gymnastics is really, REALLY annoying to watch, in that way. I get excited watching a swimming relay; and then some technical jerk says the last swimmer for the team I favored lost by a hundredth of a second. I don’t want to hear that! What’s next? Losing by one thousandth of a second? Spare me. Spare the world that PTSD.
Imagine failing to get a good grade in school or get the approval of your boss at work because you were a hundredth of a second late with your work. It’s no wonder athletes become edgy, paranoid, egostical. I’d have a breakdown, too, if I heard three or more people moan about me missing out on a medal by such a small margin. Give them a break!
She came in fourth! Okay? That’s all you have to say. You can kiss the precision of your modern metering technology or make detailed notes in your meticulous journals when the microphones are off.
Then there’s the tendency for commentators to become drunk with crowd noise and fumble their way through commentary. Words spurt from their lips in the heat of the moment, skewing reality, not always making sense. I’d be the same way if I had to talk about gameplay while playing any game. Maybe that’s a sign; maybe we don’t need comments on every single move athletes make. We don’t need to talk about how that female athlete’s legs bend or how her lead would look even more impressive if you took away the hurdles…in a hurdle-leaping race. [What sense does that make?] If you take away the hurdles, it would certainly alter the results. You don’t need to make the leader of the race sound like a goddess. She’s still human. Egos get shattered every day in athletics. Occasionally, environmental factors interfere.
[Hey, why don’t you ask the AI you keep pitching and supporting to comment for you? Oops. There go your jobs, struck down by the Salesforce. ‘Not impressive. ‘Most non-triumphant.]
So, I’m telling all of you commentators to back off and “slow your roll.” I don’t care what financial pressure is on your back. You tell your bosses to back off, too. Show these laboring athletes more respect. Because, if you don’t, you can dig out your fat wallets and purses and pay the medical bills of the people you hurt with your impatience and carelessness…and those annoying repetitive questions! Athletes shouldn’t have to invest in bug repellant to get rid of mosquitoes like you. Lindsey Vonn shouldn’t be in commercials for sleep aids. [She should be soaking up the sun at some beach with me! Ha. The Password is…companionship.]
What about Colin Jost you say? Well, in short, I’m not a fan. I personally think he’s very self-centered and privileged. He won a lottery to sit (and stand) in Tahiti, where he makes light of everything and continues to seek the pity of women (and gay men), young and old, for his…mishaps. Sure, what he has to say is better than the repetitive and meticulous stuff other “pros” are saying, but that’s more sad than good. Give me a microphone, baggy shorts and some sandals; I’ll serve you similarly slick and more witty lines with a less polished image (I confess) and less focus on myself. I might know even less about events like surfing and do less research while humbly soaking up as much culture as I can. I’ll ask athletes questions that open up their hearts, make them laugh and dry their tears.
What about Snoop Dogg you say? Well, he sure got the golden ticket, the all-access pass. And, sure, he comes off as a nice, humble guy…in a way. But, the commentary that comes out of his mouth is sort of like the babbling you do when you’re in a dream. It doesn’t always make sense; so I can’t classify it as an interview or satisfying. It’s like watching a cook sample food someone else made during their cooking TV show; they can’t quite speak clearly with their mouth full of delight (if they aren’t lying through their wet lips). He just keeps vocalizing some sort of feeling about everything he has been so blessed to experience. The visuals he shares (with the cameras) are more pleasing than what he has to say. I’m honestly a little envious…until I see all of the other celebrities in attendance, and then I start to wonder exactly how much access has been given to wealthy and otherwise famous faces.
I feel like the 2024 Paris Olympics is a lavish party I failed to attend, and, even if I did attend, I wouldn’t be comfortable around so much wealth and fame. I’m not exactly the sort who gets excited about acquiring autographs and photos with people who don’t know me and don’t likely give a crap. This event is bigger than any Oscars or Emmys night, with more than one large building full of “big names.” I’ll just keep admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower from the beach-volleyball setting and forget what was bothering me for a while.
I’m Writingbolt. This isn’t my job. It’s a sort of habit.
Okay, judges. What’s my score? A 4.95 out of a possible 5? And, yet, I missed the podium by one hundredth of a point? I don’t get a medal? Well, @*$&* you. I didn’t really need a score or medal, anyway. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be at some Nice beachside cafe, listening to the surf and dousing my irritation in something saucy and sweet.
Writingbolt's Creation 
Sometimes…Olympics Commentators Suck
Tags: 2024, athlete, athletes, athletics, broadcast, celebrity, commentators, comments, condition, editorial, exhaustion, fame, France, interview, judge, judges, judging, media, Olympics, opinion, Paris, press, PTSD, respect, sportscasting, stress, summer olympics, technical, television, therapy, timing
****
I’m going to come right out and say it. Most of the commentators for the Paris 2024 Summer Olympics (and probably every other Olympics I have seen) suck. I’m speaking specifically about the “American” commentators, including those foreign accents who have found comfy seats among the American-English-speaking folks. [If you watch the Olympics in some other country and dislike your commentators, I’d be interested in hearing your story.] It doesn’t matter how velvety-smooth your voice is (I’m looking squarely at the stout, brown-skinned, bald man with glasses who is…everywhere…like a VISA credit card); you people cannot restrain yourselves enough to give your American athletes, your celebrities of choice, the very people you have to interview, more respect when they are in poor condition to respond.
Key words: in poor condition…and have to interview. We know you have to interview them because they’ve been advertised and sponsored better than cars in a NASCAR race or horses in the Kentucky Derby. But, interviewing someone when they are out of breath and probably don’t have enough oxygen in the brain to sensibly respond? That’s just dumb…and rude.
[And, flashing a pretty face while laughing does not excuse you, either, Miss Maria Taylor, miss late-night, golden-brown goddess, miss supermom. The laughter feels a little forced, canned, at times. But, you seem to have better luck with interviews, maybe because you get the night shift and “next day” moments and are not typically seen with athletes right after their events.]
If you DID have respect, you’d ask different questions and wait with them until the athletes can breathe easier. But, no, every damn interview has to include “What does this medal you just won mean to you and to your country?” [But, more importantly, your country.] And, you cannot wait to ask these stupid, repeating questions, as if someone is holding a gun to your head. [And, it’s not a starter pistol.]
The nerve you highly polished morons have to mistreat these fragile souls who risk their lives to get a medal for their countries. I’d like to put all of you through the paces and then jab a microphone and fifty cameras in YOUR faces. See how YOU feel in the hot seat.
In your haste, all you accomplish is getting the worst from your interviews. Sure, you probably curb some negativity, because the athletes are depleted. But, that’s also lucky and risky thinking. If I was in one of those interviews, gasping for air, dripping with sweat, I just might let a few words fly that wouldn’t sit well with broadcast TV. I might end up a news feed scandal for what I said. And, I’d have you careless jerks, with your pressed suits and bleached smiles, to thank for my scarring slip.
I have to wonder…do the athletes have the opportunity to refuse? Can they bypass the microphones and cameras waiting just a short distance from whatever they call a finish line in their event? Can they shake their heads and walk away, giving themselves time to regain strength and, maybe, tidy themselves before answering stupid, repetitive questions? If not, shame on the rules and/or customs of this venue. And, if the athletes repeatedly fall prey to the microphones, hoping they will be asked/told something reassuring just to hear the same tiresome, annoying dialogue they hear after every other “run” they take, that’s also very sad.
If you must talk to someone when they’re out of breath, try asking how good it feels to be done with the event. Ask something that helps relieve the athlete of their current exhaustion and/or distress. Offer some encouragement; say they are okay, now that the trial is over. Tell them to have some fun if they’re not required to compete again. Don’t give them some patriotic BS or expect them to wave the nation’s flag for you. And, give them a towel or water bottle!
Now, you might point out the interviews that take place some vague time after the events, when the athletes have had time to don fresh, dry, sometimes stylish clothes and groom their hair (if they have any). In those instances, sure, there is more respect. But, there is still the chance stupid questions will be asked. I think there is some dumb writer behind all of this who preps a carbon-copy list of questions some lousy high-school teacher would give his or her class. Every year, every group, the same questions get used.
The athletes seems more interested in how the medals contain bits of the Eiffel Tower, but you’d rather ask about patriotism. What do you THINK the medal means for their country?! It means a digit gets added to the damn medal count you can’t stop discussing!…as if medal counts mean everything or more than the bonding of nations. Good grief! The athletes offer you opportunities for unique discussions, and you throw recycled formal letters in their faces.
[‘No wonder interviews produce bile in throats, making those interviewed shift uneasily in their tiny, uncomfortable seats and roll their eyes. Yes, I said bile.]
I’m also extremely sick of the commentators who feel the need to judge every little move an athlete makes, down to the tenth of a point and the hundredth of a second. Let’s just say gymnastics is really, REALLY annoying to watch, in that way. I get excited watching a swimming relay; and then some technical jerk says the last swimmer for the team I favored lost by a hundredth of a second. I don’t want to hear that! What’s next? Losing by one thousandth of a second? Spare me. Spare the world that PTSD.
Imagine failing to get a good grade in school or get the approval of your boss at work because you were a hundredth of a second late with your work. It’s no wonder athletes become edgy, paranoid, egostical. I’d have a breakdown, too, if I heard three or more people moan about me missing out on a medal by such a small margin. Give them a break!
She came in fourth! Okay? That’s all you have to say. You can kiss the precision of your modern metering technology or make detailed notes in your meticulous journals when the microphones are off.
Then there’s the tendency for commentators to become drunk with crowd noise and fumble their way through commentary. Words spurt from their lips in the heat of the moment, skewing reality, not always making sense. I’d be the same way if I had to talk about gameplay while playing any game. Maybe that’s a sign; maybe we don’t need comments on every single move athletes make. We don’t need to talk about how that female athlete’s legs bend or how her lead would look even more impressive if you took away the hurdles…in a hurdle-leaping race. [What sense does that make?] If you take away the hurdles, it would certainly alter the results. You don’t need to make the leader of the race sound like a goddess. She’s still human. Egos get shattered every day in athletics. Occasionally, environmental factors interfere.
[Hey, why don’t you ask the AI you keep pitching and supporting to comment for you? Oops. There go your jobs, struck down by the Salesforce. ‘Not impressive. ‘Most non-triumphant.]
So, I’m telling all of you commentators to back off and “slow your roll.” I don’t care what financial pressure is on your back. You tell your bosses to back off, too. Show these laboring athletes more respect. Because, if you don’t, you can dig out your fat wallets and purses and pay the medical bills of the people you hurt with your impatience and carelessness…and those annoying repetitive questions! Athletes shouldn’t have to invest in bug repellant to get rid of mosquitoes like you. Lindsey Vonn shouldn’t be in commercials for sleep aids. [She should be soaking up the sun at some beach with me! Ha. The Password is…companionship.]
What about Colin Jost you say? Well, in short, I’m not a fan. I personally think he’s very self-centered and privileged. He won a lottery to sit (and stand) in Tahiti, where he makes light of everything and continues to seek the pity of women (and gay men), young and old, for his…mishaps. Sure, what he has to say is better than the repetitive and meticulous stuff other “pros” are saying, but that’s more sad than good. Give me a microphone, baggy shorts and some sandals; I’ll serve you similarly slick and more witty lines with a less polished image (I confess) and less focus on myself. I might know even less about events like surfing and do less research while humbly soaking up as much culture as I can. I’ll ask athletes questions that open up their hearts, make them laugh and dry their tears.
What about Snoop Dogg you say? Well, he sure got the golden ticket, the all-access pass. And, sure, he comes off as a nice, humble guy…in a way. But, the commentary that comes out of his mouth is sort of like the babbling you do when you’re in a dream. It doesn’t always make sense; so I can’t classify it as an interview or satisfying. It’s like watching a cook sample food someone else made during their cooking TV show; they can’t quite speak clearly with their mouth full of delight (if they aren’t lying through their wet lips). He just keeps vocalizing some sort of feeling about everything he has been so blessed to experience. The visuals he shares (with the cameras) are more pleasing than what he has to say. I’m honestly a little envious…until I see all of the other celebrities in attendance, and then I start to wonder exactly how much access has been given to wealthy and otherwise famous faces.
I feel like the 2024 Paris Olympics is a lavish party I failed to attend, and, even if I did attend, I wouldn’t be comfortable around so much wealth and fame. I’m not exactly the sort who gets excited about acquiring autographs and photos with people who don’t know me and don’t likely give a crap. This event is bigger than any Oscars or Emmys night, with more than one large building full of “big names.” I’ll just keep admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower from the beach-volleyball setting and forget what was bothering me for a while.
I’m Writingbolt. This isn’t my job. It’s a sort of habit.
Okay, judges. What’s my score? A 4.95 out of a possible 5? And, yet, I missed the podium by one hundredth of a point? I don’t get a medal? Well, @*$&* you. I didn’t really need a score or medal, anyway. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be at some Nice beachside cafe, listening to the surf and dousing my irritation in something saucy and sweet.