My favorite sport-entertainers are the cocky artists from the US. They’re usually very scared. Afraid they will pass without notice.
So armed with big, fat brushes, dipped in loud buckets of pure American self-confidence, and with wide strokes, they paint big sketches of their capabilities and skills, regardless of what’s in their way. And sometimes because it's in their way.
This is very entertaining.
My favorite artist is Maurice Green. Inked with speed he painted colorful motives of the fastest man on the planet.
Back then, he was.
The thing is, the brush that American athletes’ use is very big and bushy. And it’s uncomfortable for other people. They don’t like the colors nor the motives. It’s smudging off and getting in their lanes or ahead of them in a sand box, big, stinky, spots of American self-confidence. It's everywhere but behind them.
These are the people that think a 13th spot is admirable and dream of reaching to qualifying round.
For them self-confidence is like a stain on their tightest pair of spandex gone twisted.
Keep it to yourself.
They whisper in the corridors, applauding their audience after a perfect zero-result.
Keep it to yourself?
If you’re better than someone else, you deserve the right to tell everyone. Interest is of irrelevance.
I pray this Olympic will be full of frightened Americans. Terrified they’ll be forgotten before they’re seen; they offer a show that’s unparalleled.
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