Words can’t begin to describe the joy of this Parisian celebration

I’m not someone who’s usually stuck for words. It’s a professional necessity to be able to shape thoughts, emotions and events into the confines of linguistic structure.

But there have been times over the course of the past week at the Paris Olympics, when the sports fan in 
me has found words to be too limiting, too lacking in texture and depth to fully encapsulate the visceral and emotional magnitude of the experience. On these occasions, we are at least blessed with primal instinct. When words are inadequate, they are no longer necessary, and a wrenched-from-the-gut scream of ‘Yeeeeesssssss’ is enough to say it all.

When Tom Pidcock finally made it back to the front of the mountain bike race after a puncture, and again when he manoeuvred past his French rival Victor Koretzky to victory: Yeeeeesssssss. When Alex Yee powered past Hayden Wilde in the home straight of a dramatically delayed triathlon to take gold and collapse on the line: Yeeeeesssssss.

When Simone Biles was the final gymnast to perform in front of a packed Bercy Arena in the women’s team finals, in what some are calling her redemption tour: Yeeeeesssssss.

Even when Antoine du Pont came on at half-time of the rugby sevens final and blistered his way through the second half as a home hero should, to deliver France their first gold of the Games, neutral fans everywhere took to their feet, surely: Yeeeeesssssss.

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You see, an Olympic Games is an unusual experience for us masses. For most of the rest of the four-year cycle, we’re a species cursed by cynicism and busyness – so caught up in the dramas of our own lives and dragged down by those of our political leaders that joy can feel like a forgotten feeling, buried somewhere in the hinterland of childhood and more innocent times.

But then, another Olympiad sneaks up and taps us jauntily on the shoulder, and when we turn to face it, we are smacked square in the visage with the full range of human emotion and our carefully protected hearts are prised out of their shells and exposed to the rawness of it all. And don’t we love it?

Every day on our rooftop studio for the breakfast show I am fortunate enough to host on Eurosport, Bonjour Paris, the excitement kicks in even before the 5am coffee.

TV studios are often quite serious and tense given the pressure of live TV. But at these Games, I’ve seen a new side to many of my colleagues, swept up in the momentum of so much live sport and remembering why we became fans in the first place. It’s created a kind of headiness leading to backflips in studio, walking handstands, and a spontaneous sense of glee that I have never experienced in my many years of live TV.

Down below, on the streets of Paris, too, the Olympic vibe is real. For someone who spent a short stint living in this city, who has visited for work, pleasure and love and who thought she knew every side of the French capital, it has been a huge surprise. Paris is known and beloved for many things; its achingly chic shopping streets, the picture perfect terraces, awe-inspiring but oh-so-serious museums and architecture.

Impulsive elation and unified joy are not usually top of the list of reasons for visiting the City of Light. And yet, one trip to the wonderfully visually incongruous Urban Park – the home of skateboarding, break dancing, BMXing and basketball in the heart of the majestic Place de la Concorde – changes your perspective of this city and what it can offer.

Crowds gather and cheer street dancers, children bust their own moves to the music pumping from different venues, grown-up kids stood on fountains craning to glimpse into the BMX park where Kieran Reilly picked up silver with his tricks and turns that few of us can name but we can all be delighted by.

This complete transformation of a city thus far steeped and sometimes stuck in a very specific version of its history and culture, has arguably been the organising committee’s greatest triumph so far. For the past week, Paris has represented joy. And that is something we have been collectively craving for a long time.

In these divisive political climes, bruised and battered as we still are from the pandemic, these Games have felt like a flashback to a time of celebration, awe, simpler shared fun.

There are those who believe we should treat all sporting excellence with suspicion, and in some ways they are correct, when applied equally across all sports. Cynics claim the intellectual high ground because, logic dictates, suspicion will be proven right by someone, somewhere.

But, if we’re allowed to enjoy a World Cup for what it means to us individually, then so too an Olympics, where the underdog can genuinely have their day. So no, I will not apologise for joining the celebration.

We’ve had similarly joyful Games in recent history, of course. But Tokyo took place in the thick of Covid, and Rio was blighted by the fact locals were largely priced out of the Games and, in the case of those living in certain favelas, lost their way of life to make way for the Olympic juggernaut. The last time a Games felt this joyful was London 2012 which, politically and culturally, feels an awfully long time ago. But in a city steeped in history, we are turning back the clock.

They say you never really know what you have until it’s gone. But I’ve realised this week that you also never really know what you’re missing until you get it 
back again.

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