Deja Vu

August 21, 2008

Wi Likkle But Wi Tallawah

Tags:

Aeneid,

China,

Jamaica,

Olympics,

sports,

Virgil

“9.69 + 19.30 = HISTORY,” Jamaica Gleaner, Aug. 21, 2008.

BEFORE YESTERDAY, Jamaica had never won more than two gold medals at any one Olympic Games.

In Beijing last night there were two in just 15 minutes. Usain Bolt, on the eve of his 22nd birthday, produced another electrifying performance with another world record, this time in the 200 metres.

Then a brilliant 400-metre hurdles run, in an Olympic and national record 52.64, by Melaine Walker pushed Jamaica’s medal tally here to seven, including a table-topping four gold in track and field.

As the saying goes ‘wi likkle but wi tallawah’. Jamaica on top of the world in athletics, leading the mighty United States, Russia and host country China at the Olympic Games.

At least four minutes after the Glen Mills-coached Bolt completed his record 19.30 run, which shaved two-hundredths of a second off the 19.32 mark held since 1996 by the great Michael Johnson, many journalists here stood in bewilderment, unable to utter a comment. They were absolutely dumbstruck by both his speed and his power.

The Aeneid, by Virgil (trans. Robert Fagles), c. 20 BC.
Upon landing in Sicily, Aeneas presides over a series of athletic contests held in honor of Anchises, his father. The second event is a foot-race, won by Euryalus, but not without some controversy.

The ship-race over,
good Aeneas strides to the grassy level field
ringed by hills with woodland sloping down
to a vale that formed an enormous round arena.
There he went, the hero leading many thousands,
And took his own seat on a built-up platform
mid the growing crowd. And here, for those
who chanced to long for a breathless foot-race now,
Aeneas stirs their sprits, setting out the prizes.
Trojans mixed with Sicilians come from all directions,
with Nisus and Euryalus out in front. Euryalus radiant,
famed for the bloom of youth—Nisus, for the pure love
he devoted to the boy. Following them, Diores,
sprung from the stock of Priam’s royal house.
Then Patron flanked by Salius, an Acarnanian,
one, and one an Arcadian born of Tegean blood.
Then two Sicilian youngsters, Helymus, Panopes,
hunters used to the woods, and friends of old Acestes,
and many others too, their names now lost
in the dark depths of time.

Among the crowds,
Aeneas addressed them all with: “Hear me now,
mark my words and fill and fill your hearts with joy.
Not one of you leaves and lacks a gift from me.
I’ll give two Cretan arrows with polished iron points
and a double axe embossed with knobs of silver.
The same honors await you, one and all.
But prize trophies go to the three front-runners,
brows crowned with the wreaths of braided golden olive.
First, the winner, shall have a horse with dazzling trappings.
The second, an Amazon’s quiver bristling Thracian arrows,
slung from a sweeping sword-belt starred with gold
and clasped with a brilliant jewel.
The third can leave content with this Greek helmet.”
Soon as said they take their mark, ready, set—
a sudden signal—
go!—

and they break from the start,
pouring over the course like a stormcloud streaking on,
all eyes fixed on the goal, with Nisus far in the lead,
shooting out of the tight pack and faster than wind or
the winged lighting—second, second at quite a gap,
comes Salius—next, and a good long way behind,
Euryalus coming third, and after Euryalus, Helymus,
then Diores flying hot on his heels and closer, closing,
watch, breathing over his shoulder and if there had been
more track to cover he would have caught and passed him
or run him a dead heat. Now down the stretch they come,
the exhausted runners closing on the goal when all at once
unlucky Nisus skids on a slick of blood they’d chanced to spill,
killing bullocks, soaking the turf and green grass surface,
here the racer, elated—victory won—pressing the pace
he stumbles, pitching face-first into the filthy dung
and blood of victims. But he won’t forget Euryalus,
his great love, never, up from the slime he struggles,
flings himself in Salius’ path to send him spinning,
reeling backward, splayed out on the beaten track
as Euryalus flashes past, thanks to his friend
he takes the lead—the victor flying along,
sped by the roaring crowd, with Helymus next
and Diores wins third prize.

• Email /
• Print /
• Comment now