Michael Phelps Takes Baltimore on (Excellent) Emotional Rollercoaster: A Love Letter

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Dear Michael,

When I read on Saturday that you’d come in fourth in the 400-meter individual medley, your first event in your last-ever Olympics, I have to admit I felt extremely something that starts with an s — sorry, stifled, ssss… Okay, sad. Briefly, but I felt it. This “S” emotion took me by complete surprise because I’m not a rabid sports fan nor a committed viewer of the Olympics even. And I’ve never been a faithful Phelps follower, despite finding it mildly intriguing that the often idiotic media has seen fit to celebrate U.S. swimmer Ryan Lochte’s sex appeal as winning the competition over your own. (This type of superficial analysis couldn’t have helped your day-one morale, not that it wasn’t entertaining to read and weigh in on personally here at Baltimore Fishbowl.)

Upon learning last night in The Sun of your silver medal co-victory in the 400-meter freestyle relay, with team participant Lochte lagging as the anchor leg, and you, “easily the fastest American in Sunday’s relay,” as Jean Marbella noted, I felt momentarily g-g-glad. Good. Okay, giddy. Thanks for swimming so well. And thanks for making our state — and our States — look great yet again. Thanks for the sexy lift. I’m not saying anything remotely snarkful when I point out that your own sex appeal doesn’t enter into enter this Olympic equation; you enter the pool, you play the “games,” that’s all that matters here.


Surprised by My Own Olympic Interest, or rather, Hijacked by Heart’s out-of-Character Confession of Patriotism

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