Walking back to harsh post-Freeman reality

An English mate decided the other day that he'd had just about enough of Sydney and its games. The opening ceremony felt like it had happened in another lifetime, the sun had disappeared, it was raining, and even the Aussies had started to moan. Might as well be in England.

Hate to admit it, but he had a point. When so many hardened sports heads declare without hesitation that Cathy Freeman running 400 metres on Monday night is the greatest thing they've seen, there's bound to be an almighty hangover.

Freeman's kicked in straight away, when she sat on the track and looked as if she might be physically ill with the realisation of what she'd just done. For the rest of us, it came about 12 hours later, when our stomachs decided we were physically ill from the effort of celebrating.

A couple of days on, the nation was still peering out of that man-made trench on the sofa waiting for something else to happen. And it was getting desperate.

Watching the "Leftover Olympics" has been a trying business. Wondering how CJ Hunter and Marion Jones ever got together filled in a day or so. Seeing a 16-year-old gymnast being shepherded up the steps of a courthouse like she was Myra Hindley was a novel distraction. But they don't give gold medals for drug busting (not yet anyway) and something with more of a sparkle was clearly required to get the punters back on board.

On Wednesday night, just as there was a collective rustling around for the summer's cricket fixtures, salvation arrived. The sports that coughed it up now know what it's like to be the dorky cousin who nobody talks to at family gatherings, until one day he wins the lottery.

Thank the good Lord for taekwondo. And sailing. And diving (the one where two of them do it at the same time).

A girl from Melbourne whose dad was a 60s pop star got things moving on the gold medal constipation front with a win in taekwondo's -49kg division, whatever that is. Nobody who watched Lauren Burns and her Cuban opponent scream like banshees and kick each others' legs for three rounds has a clue how they came up with the 4-2 scoreline. But who cares?

And that had nothing on yesterday. In the morning, the green and gold won two bronze - one for the girls, one for the boys - in synchronised diving. Along with beach volleyball and several other wacky events that the Aussies have medalled in, taking the plunge in pairs is on Olympic debut in Sydney.

Tactically, this has been a simple yet masterful stroke: win the rights to the games, then fill them with sports that you know you're good at. The scantily-clad shenanigans on the Bondi sand should surely be the prototype if London, Manchester or Milton Keynes ever gets the nod. It might not know it, but the Olympic movement is ready to officially embrace ticket touting as a medal sport.

But back to the real sport. With all that water out there, it would be downright un-Australian not to love sailing. Rich folk in silly clothes with big boats. Or small boats, like the ones those Aussie heroes (whose names escape me just now) rode or steered or sat to victory in the 470 class on Sydney Harbour yesterday. First the women, then the men. Gold, gold. Yep, you've gotta love sailing.

Of course it can't all be beer and skittles. Yesterday threw up a controversy so big they'll still be talking about it when Milton Keynes does get the nod. The mongrels dis qualified our walker. Admittedly, not too many people knew much about the walk yesterday morning, other than it being a last resort in getting home from the pub when you can't get a cab. But by lunchtime, we were right across it.

The trick is moving as fast as you can while keeping some part of your foot grounded at all times. The best way to achieve this, apparently, is to waggle your hips and swing your elbows in a Jagger-like fashion. To give the sport some spice, MCC gate attendants are positioned around the course to wag their fingers and tut-tut should anyone break into what is technically known as "a run".

Our girl Jane Saville seemed to have the subtleties down pat and was on her way into the welcoming stadium with a comfortable lead. Then, as she Jagger-ed down the tunnel, some old fool jumped out and red-carded her.

Denied certain gold by a jobsworth with a clipboard, Saville was inconsolable. "What do you need?" a TV reporter asked. "A gun - to shoot myself," she replied.

Take heart, Jane. There are several million of your countryfolk who were so starved of real sport, they actually got sucked in to caring. We're the ones who need the gun.

Taxi to the pub, anyone?