Two of the world's most prominent athletes are no longer bound for the tallest spot on the podium at the Tokyo Olympics. Tennis wunderkind Naomi Osaka, ranked No. 2 in the world, lost to Marketa Vondrousova of the Czech Republic, ranked No. 42, in a rattling upset. Simone Biles, by any measurement the world's most accomplished gymnast, stumbled her way through the first rounds only to pull out of the women's gymnastics final, citing a need to "focus on [her] mental health." Osaka's loss was a crushing blow to an already beleaguered Japan; Biles's withdrawal opened the door for Russia to snag gold from the long-reigning US team.
The losses were heart-wrenching. They were unexpected. But they were not, as many have tried to suggest, an affront to the sport. How many more of these public meltdowns will it take for us to understand? These women do not owe us a win at the cost of their lives.
There's a fascinating disassociation that happens when we adopt these athletes as our figureheads and our trophies. When they are on top, we lounge on our couches and profess inauthentic patriotism. We scream at them to do better, go faster, try harder, even though we cannot do better ourselves. We project our deeply held beliefs—that, for example, America
is the best nation—while, meanwhile, our country refuses to protect two women of color. And when these women dare to not disclose everything—when they refuse a press conference, when they step away from an event that is brutalizing their bodies and minds—we turn on them with a shocking viciousness, even smugness.
Weak.
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