The 2000 Olympic Games in Sydney are the seventh version to take place in my lifetime, and not since the Commie Games, as people called them back in 1980, have I been this uninterested. This is a complete 180 in my attitude from four years ago. In 1996, I had just graduated college and was wallowing through a summer of confusion in Florida. Not much was going for me during those hot swamp months when I eventually decided to become a writer, but I watched the Olympics (which were taking place a half day's drive away in Atlanta) as much as I could. The fact that people pushed themselves to their physical limits for one shot at glory appealed to me. Cheap therapy. But not this year.

The first problem with the Olympics this time around is that the events have already occurred by the time I see them. While I'm an avid sports fan, I don't watch games that I already know the outcome. I don't tape football games if I'm somehow detained from watching my team play. If the game is over, I want to know who won, not pretend that I can control time through video tape and suspended disbelief. There's a certain delirious thrill to be had by getting up at 3:00 in the morning to watch the 100m dash. Thanks to NBC, that is not an option, and I lose no sleep in the spirit of patriotism.

Another problem is the splicing of action with commercials. I understand that companies are paying big money to advertise during the Olympics, but it is sacrilege to cut the middle of a soccer match to learn that McDonald's loves to see me smile. I watched the 1500m freestyle finals, or rather, I watched the first 400m, a few commercials, and the final 300m. Oh, the suspense built with every tire advertisement, because so much is riding on my tires.

Some of the disinterest in these games is my own doing. I think I have finally grown out of my crush on female gymnasts. These girls used to mesmerize me with their cute, flexible, elfish bodies. When I was a kid, girls who could do flips turned me on something fierce. Even during the last Olympics when I was 22, I fixated on their powerfully curved legs, eagerly waiting for the girls to bounce themselves off the mat. In the last four years, my infatuation for female gymnasts has faded. They look like kids to me now. More importantly, they look like kids I shouldn't fantasize about. I think it has something to do with me reading Lolita last year.

For the most part, I've popped on NBC a few times to peek at what's going on, and seventy percent of the times, it's nothing athletic. It's either a commercial, Bob Costas, or some teaser about the person about to win the gold medal in the upcoming event.

I've pretty much resigned myself to finding out about the Olympics through the newspaper. I find out who won, who was supposed to win, and any sort of controversy that happened. And that's that. It would have been more entertaining to watch the actual event, but I'm not in the mood to sit around two hours to watch a ten second event that has already taken place long before I woke up in the morning.

I still root for the Americans to win a bevy of medals. If I can't root for my country, then who can I root for? I'm not being un-American, but I am being un-Olympic. It's partly my fault, and it's partly NBC's fault. Maybe that little peacock with the five rings the network has displayed at the beginning of every show for the last two years has had an adverse effect on my subconscious. Maybe I'm just not in the mood.

The great thing about athletics is if one sport or competition lets you down, there's always another one around the corner. The baseball playoffs start in little over a week and...

Chris Jungle was the fastest kid in fifth grade at his elementary school. No medals were awarded.