Turin, si: Torino, no

I am an Olympic Games junkie. I am not sure if it is because I enjoy and appreciate the various disciplines, or because it give me a legitimate reason to sit and be a couch potato.

One of the great joys of living across the river from Canada is access to CBC television. Unlike the American networks, who generally show taped coverage in the evening, CBC is on the air most of the day. You have to hand it to those Canadians: they support their athletes through thick and thin. If an American wins, we watch the edited version of his event, including the human interest story. If a Canadian is in twenty fourth place, we watch his race from beginning to end. Even if it is that race where a man skis for twenty-two miles, yanks a rifle off his shoulder and shoots at something and then skis back another twenty-two miles, we follow him. Every. Single. Mile. And then there’s curling.

I applaud the Canadians for announcing that the games come from Turin. No Torino for them. They have enough trouble getting people to speak French and English. Forget Italian. I’ve got to go now and rehearse singing “O, Canada.” Now that Torville and Dean are no more, I won’t have much opportunity to sing the National Anthem. Unless Eddie the Eagle comes out of retirement . . .