Testing your Medal 

"America is too big, and Argentina is too small!"

That's the voice on the TV from the other room. I've just pulled the barbequed chicken from the grill and am really interested in eating. Goldilocks the TV commentator is interested in saying things just right.

He's said something right, because I put the chicken down, lick my fingers, and walk towards the light. I'm drawn by the same question that hounds me almost every time I leave a TV on in the other room.

What the hell am I watching?

The answer has gotten easier to swallow ever since I dropped the premium package. I no longer stumble into my office to the surprise of Cinemax softcore porn.

"Oh excuse me, wrong room."

Yeah it's almost like walking in on your folks--almost. This was nothing like that. America? Argentina? This was either a geography program (because we all know that Argentina is slightly less than 3/10 the size of the US. Their chief exports are agricultural goods such as soy and cereal goods.), or international midget wrestling.

Once again I'm wrong. It's neither. It's the Olympics. I'm watching beach volleyball. The commentator was right. The US is too big. The American at the net looks like the lead singer for Midnight Oil: tall, lanky, and bald. I think he could eat the Lilliputians on the other side of the net if he were feeling snacky. The Argentineans look slightly less than 3/10 his size, and right now their chief export is sweaty exasperation.

There's another American. You can barely see him past the glare off Ogre's dome, but he looks like my college roommate. I know, that doesn't mean much. It did to my roommate though. He spent hours in the bathroom perfecting the "I don't care what I look like" look.

The camera goes back to the Argentineans. They may be too small, but they look like tasty telenovella miniatures. I'm not into guys, but if I were hitting from the other side of the net, I'd be distracted. That's all I know about that.

What else do I know? I know that Argentina is bounded by Bolivia, Paraguay, Uruguay, Brazil and spanked by the US. At least that's what TV Man says. TV Man says a lot. I've noticed that in all Olympics. It's not about the thrill of the sport for the TV Man, but more about the US against them.

I listened to the disappointed women's gymnastics announcer sob in his rice whine because the American girls weren't going to beat the Chinese girls. I understand. I've seen guys walk out of porn booths for the same reason. Still, shouldn't he just be excited he gets to see fantastic poses and positions he'd never see anywhere else, even if the girls were on the other team?

In the meantime, we've switched over to the swim guys. They're so excited that there are splash spots on my screen and the camera is no where near the water.

"Oh My!"

I see the same thing in divorce. (Well, not the splash marks. It's no that kind of exciting.) Everybody stands behind the home team and cheers them on. It doesn't matter how pretty the Argentinean is, if he's not on your team, he'll always be on the other side of the net.

I still remember the winter Olympics from a few years ago. The Canadians got in this huge uproar over favoritism shown the Russian ice skaters. I saw the routine. I showed favoritism too. I thought the Russians skated better.

Canada stood behind their team though. Every famous Canadian came out of the closet, "I’m Canadian and I'm proud! And nobody skates like we do!" Even the Barenaked Ladies tumbled out on the ice.

"Well hell, if the Barenaked Ladies say it was fixed…"

And I'm not disputing that there might have been some dishonest actions by any judges towards either team, but I, the fun in the sun Californian, thought that the Russians presented a better skate. Ok, sure, I'm not a skater, but I am thinking all those people falling on their ass behind the Canadian couple aren't much better than I am.

So, when all the whiny mist cleared, the Russians skated away with the gold and a cart of rancid Canadian bacon with a bow and a card: "Congratulations!" It's the same as in divorce.

We all do it. We all fall to one side or the other. The problem is, what happens if we end up cheering for the wrong team? Sports and divorce are not like old westerns: you can't always tell the good guys from the bad guys just because of the light sequined costume they're painted in.

"He's evil!"

"She's a slut!"

Who's to say they're not both right?

Or even worse. What if your friend's divorce is like the cold war Olympics? Back then, the Russians and all the Eastern Bloc teams were our enemies. We'd had a bad break up after WWII and every team took sides the name toss.

"Commie!"

"Capitalist!"

That was until Gorby took Ronnie's hand and both sides got together and hugged it out. Now what about the rest of us who'd held arms and chosen sides?

"They're back together again?"

"Yeah, and now everybody's pissed at me because I called him a commie."

"You did? Oh, sorry. Look, I've got to go."

That's right. Choosing teams can suck even more for the backers than the teams. Just ask Euro Soccer fans.

"We're looting Manchester, want to come?"

So me. I like to enjoy the teams for who they are. I'll support the home team in my own way. If they're beat because they weren't on their game, or because they cheated. I'll be there to console. And if they win then, yea team! But I won't put down the other team, win or lose, because let's face it. We've all loved and lost, and we all know how bad it sucks to lose. Well everybody but Michael Phelps. He's a swimming fool.