The Rookies

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“He laughs! We draw breath again, and wonder at this man again!”

And yet, Usain Bolt awes relatively few.

In Beijing in 2008, Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt were a story in contrasts. Phelps, having emerged as a star in Athens in 2004, was looking to slice past the greatest ever in the pool, Mark Spitz. His challenge was to best the highest titans of Olympiads past, and his quest for eight gold medals was the most prominent storyline of the Games; his triumph, then, was the best possible outcome for the average fan and the entities who want the average fan to watch.

Phelps is a freak of nature, gifted with a long torso and gullwing arms, capable of stretching swimming as conceived to its outer limits and going faster than anyone before him.

Phelps was also a neatly crafted all-American story, with a dedicated taskmaster of a coach, a loving mother, a biography that could start either in Baltimore or at the University of Michigan, a name that seemed tailored to wholesome nationalism, and, of course, generically good looks.

But Usain Bolt was and is better, I think, as both story and athlete.

He hails from Jamaica, and came from the middle class as the son of grocery store owners. He struggled to harness his natural talents for years, an impudent junior sprinter cruising on his prodigious gifts, as nonchalant in training as Phelps was diligent. He finally burst onto the world’s stage just before the Olympics, setting the world record in the 100 meters at the Reebok Grand Prix in May 2008, just his fifth run in the event as a senior sprinter. He entered the Beijing Olympics as the favorite in a crowded field in the short sprint events, then won Jamaica’s first gold medal in the 100 meters.

His triumph then was not the logical extension of development in his sport, but the defeat of it. Sprinters have shrunk to small balls of speed, built to get off the blocks in a blur and get to top speed immediately, but Bolt’s spindly 6′5″ frame, big enough that acceleration alone is a terrific feat, made him an anomaly. USA Today called him the “tallest world-class sprinter ever.”

In Beijing, though, he became something more than just a contradiction of convention.

On the track, he dashed past everything in his way, and did so more spectacularly that words can capture.

What’s more, his supreme confidence came as a welcome contrast to the false humility of the greatest athletes in the world. For an athlete to have physical talents of Bolt’s, or Phelps’, magnitude and pretend that he or she is not fully aware or sure of them rings hollow. Bolt, to his credit, did not.

“I just blew my mind,” he said. “And I just blew the world’s mind.” His candor and his celebrations (the point-to-the-stands-and-flex is now part and parcel of his ethos, and marketing) made him the fun counterpart to Phelps’ fiery competitiveness. Phelps wanted badly to win and assume his place as greatest Olympic champion, I sensed; even my sports-averse then-girlfriend could tell that Bolt was there to run fast simply because he’s unfathomably good at running fast, then dance around the track with the Jamaican flag on his back, posing, blowing kisses, and generally enjoying himself. For him, it seemed the event was not the culmination of a lifetime of work, but a chance to run, and beautifully.

Bolt did all that (and continues to do it) without as massive an assist from modernity as swimmers get, their suits fast enough to be outlawed, their water rendered “fast” by science. Bolt wears shoes marginally different from those that have been around for years, and, when last I checked, tracks and the Earth’s atmosphere were only minimally better for athletes in certain circumstances.

And, from a sporting perspective, his achievements are universal: Bolt is simply faster, running in a straight line for 100 meters, 150 meters, and 200 meters, than any human being has ever been. Anyone who has ever moved has a concept of the basic action Bolt must do; watching him move as fast as he does is cause for slack-jawed gaping. He does his one thing better than any other athlete on the planet does theirs.

But, even with all that charisma and athletic brilliance, Bolt is still a minor star in the sporting world, to the puzzlement of many. The reasons for that have little to do with his majestic talent.

His non-American background, in a sport that America has considered its domain for many years, does not help. His sport’s low profile, tarnished by its many performance-enhancing drug users (like, for example, a few of Bolt’s fellow Jamaicans), does not help. His noncontroversial personal life, which does not stoke fires in the media like a bong hit (the first auto-completion on Google for Michael Phelps is “Michael Phelps bong”), does not help.

Even given those obstacles, the sense that Bolt should be famous, lionized incessantly, his dominance covered like the reigns of Tiger Woods or Roger Federer, persists.

Perhaps, though, Bolt is better off without the eternal hype.

His preening and jubilation are fun in small doses, but it might be panned as an act if seen ad nauseum. He’s breathlessly exciting in flashes, but there can only be flashes of him, by virtue of his sport of choice. He’s been magical as a relative newcomer to track and field and its unquestioned star, but if the world knew more about Asafa Powell or Tyson Gay, it might realize that Bolt is probably more vulnerable than he seems.

Currently, Usain Bolt enjoys a mystique on the fringe of the sporting consciousness, celebrated for seminal seconds of brilliance and nothing more. Maybe it’s for the best.

After all, you can’t hear lightning. Seeing is enough.