The Beijing games came to a close with the dignity and gravitas that befits the world's greatest sporting event, as Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis promised to give the world every inch of their love. Actually I think they left out that deathless line from "Whole Lotta Love," but it was still pretty hilarious, trying to figure out what the phallic ur-metal anthem of my high school years had to do with the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics. Although if reports of the overheated libidinous behavior of the athletes at the end of every Olympics are true -- what do thousands of young men and women with perfect bodies who have just finished a competition they've been training for for four years do? -- we should be grateful that we weren't treated to "The Lemon Song."

In the rock finals at the Closing Ceremonies, 235-year-old guitarist Jimmy Page won gold easily over his Chinese rivals, outdoing Dara Torres to become the oldest medalist at these games

Closing Ceremonies are always a peculiar combination of Cecil B. DeMille spectacle, athletes cutting loose and rock songs from the Paleolithic Era, and Beijing's was no exception. The Chinese may have won the most gold medals and have demonstrated that their half-inspiring, half-terrifying state-communal machine can generate thousands of perfect athletes, perfect buildings, perfect fireworks, and perfect medal-ceremony beauty queens with identical bustlines, but they need work on their pop music. "Beijing, Beijing, I love Beijing" may set Chinese President Hu Jintao's knee a-jiggling, but it ain't going to bust the charts in New York or London. In the rock finals, 235-year-old guitarist Jimmy Page won gold easily over his Chinese rivals, outdoing Dara Torres to become the oldest medalist at these games. When China becomes free, loose and crazy enough to turn out some kick-ass rock 'n' roll, it will be time to hand it the keys to the future, kick back and enjoy the Eastern age.

For me, the fun part about Olympic Closing Ceremonies isn't the spectacle, but the sight of all the athletes pouring out together onto the vast field, hamming it up and laughing and taking pictures and embracing each other and nervously making friends with other young people who have just gone through the same incredible ordeal, who have done their best, have won or lost, and are now trying to take in this strange moment of international camaraderie that only happens once every four years. It's a silly, chaotic scene, but it always moves me. For it's an image of what the world could be like, if its wars were only on the playing field and flags were only brightly colored pieces of cloth.

And looking at the athletes, at their faces now goofy and relaxed and joyous, you think of all the faces you've seen in the last 17 days. Faces of utter concentration, of determination, of high seriousness. Faces that remind you what human beings look like when everything inessential has been stripped from them. Faces like prayers. Faces that lift up your heart, and break it, and put it together again stronger than it was before. The faces of the human race. Our faces, in those secret moments when we're at our best.

A gallery of faces floats up from these blazoned past two weeks. There are the faces of victory. The exultant face of Beijing Insta-legend No. 1, Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt, as he shattered the world record in the 100 meters, an intoxicating triple shot of youth and cockiness and sheer, untrammeled fun. Australian 100-meter hurdler Sally McLellan after she won silver when American favorite Lolo Jones clipped the next-to-last hurdle, leaping into the air in disbelief, an electric shock of joy running through her face, leaving a memory trail in the nerves that she will carry until the day she dies. The gut-clearing roar of Beijing Insta-legend No. 2, Michael Phelps, after teammate Jason Lezak stormed back to outtouch French swimmer Alain Bernard in the 4x100 relay, every buried ounce of passion pouring out of Phelps, only his teammate's deed capable of releasing it, not his own. The sobs of French gymnast Benoit Caranobe after he won unexpected bronze in the all-around, a bronze worth more to him than some athletes' gold. The ferocious warrior face of Cuban hurdling great Dayron Robles, his sensitive-professor look gone as he clapped his hands, puffed out his chest and shouted out "Ahora! Ahora!" before destroying his competitors and the world record in the 110-meter final. The guttural, monster-mash cackle of Chinese gymnast Yang Wei after living up to the expectations of 1.3 billion people by winning the individual all-around. The radiant, childlike smiles worn by every member of the U.S. men's basketball team after they beat a brilliant Spanish team in a thriller, 12 NBA greats with monster egos and salaries who played as a team, experiencing a different and perhaps deeper satisfaction than they had ever known before.

And the faces of defeat. The devastation on the face of Chinese 10-meter platform diver Zhou Luxin after his weak final dive, followed by a brilliant effort by Australian Matthew Mitcham, cost Zhou the gold medal and a Chinese gold-medal sweep in all eight diving events. The shell-shocked face of American gymnast Alicia Sacramone after she fell for the second time in the team competition, an almost unbearable glimpse into the agony of an athlete who knows she has let herself and her teammates down. The bitter disappointment carved on the face of Chinese hurdler Liu Xie, Athens gold medalist, the second-greatest 110-meter performer in history and the pride and joy of his country, after he had to withdraw because of injury -- and the tears that flowed down the faces of thousands of ordinary Chinese people when they learned what had happened. The heart-wrenching glimpse of Lolo Jones, standing alone, her interviews now done, sobbing uncontrollably after a mistake she only made once or twice a year cost her her Olympic dream.

And the faces of sportsmanship and consolation. Chinese diver Qin Kai and Canadian diver Alexandre Despatie clasping hands after their duel was finished, that classic terse male gesture of respect, the kind that reveals that sports can be not just a game but a noble contest. Lolo Jones, who had fallen only moments before, interrupting her interview to embrace silver medalist Sally McClellan as she walked past and say, "Good job, hon." Kenyan 800-meter runner Wilfred Bungei gently approaching a disconsolate Yuri Borzakovsky after the Russian failed to qualify in the semifinals, first touching his back, then putting his right arm on Borzakovsky's, then leaning over and putting his head tenderly down next to the Russian's, the small black man comforting the tall white one.

These are some of the faces that we'll remember from these games. They're the reason we watch them. Because they show us the human striving for excellence -- and because they teach us that striving isexcellence. That's a lesson that endures after the records and medals are forgotten.

"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!" Hamlet delivered that glorious speech, the quintessential statement of Renaissance optimism, but he didn't believe it. What he really believed was this: "And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me."

Most of the time, most of us see the world the way Hamlet does. The earth is a sterile promontory, and man just an animal that wanders around on it. But there are certain things that offer a different view of what our species is capable of, and the Olympics is one of them. Past the hype and the commercialism, the drugs and the politics, you can still see him, that ancient and always renewed figure on an orange and black vase, running ahead of us, taking us with him.

This is where 12 days of Olympic fandom has taken me. I am plopped on a sofa, shoes being removed by two smiling hostesses in strapless gowns, in the chandeliered lobby of a giant massage parlor advertising something called "Mashed Medical Treatment," done up as a marble-laden Roman bath for VIPs, where I've been handed the following menu of services: "Shu Shi Jie Amorous Feelings" (the most costly, including manipulations a helpful host acts out in explicit manner), "Studtching Body for Important Guest" (but hopefully not too much studtching), "Aromatic Stone Eject Bad Mattels" and the dreaded "Open Superintending Raphe Treatment." Superintending is the last thing I needed at the moment, so I probe no further into what that extra "h" might stand for.

Like many longtime China watchers, I defend today's China to those who never saw the place as it was before, but challenge every Chinese I meet in the country to practice more truly independent thoughts and actions

This is actually my second stop of the last evening, for Beijing friends tried to escort me to an even more elaborate place, where foot reflexology came with a show of dancing girls and jugglers, ping-pong and a buffet at no extra charge. But I was spared all that, thanks to Olympic regulations that every place where a foreigner might even accidentally fall asleep requires passports my friends didn't have with them. (I suppose certain massages do constitute a crossing of borders of sorts.) In the end, I am happy to settle for the standardized Chinese processing that these days amounts to putting oneself through a human car wash. Eager male attendants hover too close for comfort at every point, removing and replacing underpants for you if you don't stop them, grunting and shouting in military manner to those who will receive you down the line, giving you a preliminary rubdown with a cloth that feels more like a Brillo scouring pad, next to a cold room where an even colder mistress administers a pressing all-points massage whose main point is to make victims scream in agony, then onto a soft armchair equipped with personal TV and headphones, to sip tea or watermelon juice along with a roomful of other cadavers in "recovery," and finally back downstairs for a variety of tubs and saunas as thoroughly and unbearably overheated as the Guangdong province economy. Healthful, it's promised. Relaxing, it's not.

I'm still trying to get over a last day of fandom in pouring rain -- which had turned my final trip to an Olympic venue into as big a disaster as the first. Even at 9 a.m., it seems that half of Beijing has jammed into the subway station at the Olympic Green. I'm elbowed at least 10 times. Stuck on stairs that climb toward an exit, though I don't see why everyone is in such a hurry, for all that waits is an hour trapped in lines through security barriers that leave me soaked to the bones (I have no umbrella because they are not allowed inside the various sites and the plastic poncho provided has torn in six places) before reentering the very same station we all had to exit. Even after the train, it's a good 15-minute hoof to the National Stadium, or "Bird's Nest" (maybe it really was designed for those who can fly) and the only food for miles in any direction is provided by sponsoring McDonald's. (Never in my life have I been so grateful to see an Egg McMuffin.) And all this to catch a couple of decathlon heats at great distance, and see some javelin throwers skittering across a wet track that barefoot volunteers try to sop up with wet rags. (Is this really the Olympics?) Later, wishing to witness the last of many pratfalls for U.S. athletes at these games, in this case the loss of the once-invincible women's softball team to some of the most muscular Japanese I've ever seen, the rain delays the game so long that I can catch but a few innings.

What's the difference? By now, I have accepted this Olympics "with Chinese characteristics," in which venues have been built on a massive scale for great show, and not for the convenience of those poor souls who actually dare to get in and out. Here, only the grand design counts, and the rest of us are mere cogs. Isn't that the lesson of a long history anyway, so why not learn it, and learn it well, right from the beginning? And this is not merely the whining of one critical young man turned grouchy middle-aged man. Nor is it some sort of "racism," a charge that would sure have surprised my first wife (a Beijing native), to point out that not enough post-event buses were provided (whether driven by an individual whose color is brown, white, yellow or blue). Nearly every foreigner to whom I speak -- while squeezed into a subway car -- shares the same set of complaints. But being a spoilsport at the world's biggest sporting event doesn't get you much traction.

In the end, I'll just rate these games from one to 10, compared with the others I've attended. Beijing gets a nine in pomp, spectacle and mind-blowing architecture. But it scores only a three in bringing people together and furthering world understanding, with heavy-handed security taking precedence over proper spaces and activities for friendly interaction. And in terms of transport, organization and the fan experience, I'd award only a two -- and I only give it that much because of the tens of thousands of volunteers straining for free to put a kind face on China. In human terms, my best Olympic moment came on one staggeringly hot afternoon when a family of peasants, country origins plainly indicated by their weather-beaten faces and dust-covered suits, each with a heavy, sleeping baby slung over their shoulder, refused to grab a taxi in front of me, insisting over and over that the foreigner's pampering should take precedence over their daily struggle.

Maybe I was too preoccupied getting from place to place, but it doesn't seem that these games yielded much in great athletic drama, either. China marched to predicted dominance, while Jamaican sprinters further sped a U.S. retreat from the top rung (one small development on the march to a more equal world). The biggest surprise to me is that, given the protests along the worldwide torch run, not one athlete lifted a fist, sported a symbolic headband or even tattoo, to show support for Tibet. Nor, as far as we know, did a single ticket holder rise to reveal an antigovernment slogan on a T-shirt, something that would have been awfully easy to do. Caution -- some might call it cowardice -- was the watchword of the day.

As for the rabid nationalism of Chinese fans, perhaps that, too, could be forgiven, as it was by my old acquaintance Ai Weiwei, artistic originator of the "Bird's Nest," with whom I finally got a spare minute on my last day. "It's like this is a first date with the world and of course on a first date you are going to be very, very nervous," observed this once-fierce opponent of the Chinese regime. "In the dark, with the lights out, you might be able to do it as good as anybody. But that first date can be really scary."

Does that mean we will soon have to go through this all over again? And what will China be like the next time it makes such a bid? "Waiting for the Olympics to come, waiting for the Olympics to go," was apparently a common new proverb around China, referring to the agonies of dealing with such a momentous, yet artificial landmark. Like most of the pundits now pouring out their "post-Olympics" postscripts, like the Chinese organizers themselves, I too believe these games were just the starting point in China's joining the club of so-called developed nations. Now they will face the real challenges of achieving such status: becoming less dependent on exports in a world headed toward recession, strengthening their internal markets and civil society, and dealing with their internal colonials (Tibetans and Xinjiang Muslims) in a more fair manner after a period of brutal repression that has probably engendered more potential terrorists than ever before.

When it comes to human rights, it also seems unlikely that all the prisons doors will suddenly swing open, and some, like dissident writer Ma Jian, predict the crackdown will only worsen when foreigners turn their gaze elsewhere. Still, the government could also use its newly gained self-assuredness to loosen the reins somewhat. Chinese history is replete with sudden, sweeping rebellions and surely one will come someday, though it seems unlikely to start among the youth of this Olympic generation, who seem as blindly apolitical as their counterparts in the West. Probably, China is headed toward the paternalist, one-party "guided democracy" practiced in that model of tranquil prosperity, Singapore. But I would place my money on the U.S. ping-pong team before I'd bet on any of the above.

Like many who have been watching China for a long time, I've led a schizophrenic existence: defending China's achievements, innovations and steady rise to those who never saw the place as it was before, but challenging every Chinese I meet in the country to practice more truly independent thoughts and actions. (For instance, even those young people who consider themselves enlightened Internet users invariably describe the Dalai Lama as a devil with two heads and six horns.) Maybe I'm a hard-ass, but having witnessed the fear and petty thuggery foisted on so many by China's Gong An, or Public Security Bureau, I will use this extra-governmental apparatus as my litmus test. It won't be tall skyscrapers or grand sporting events that prove to me China is a modern nation. It will be the disappearance of the Gong An, and its accountability for past crimes (like those of similar ilk in Argentina, South Africa, etc.).

At least, in the minds of many Chinese, like one Western-educated computer scientist I met on a subway ride, these Olympics have redressed certain perceived past wrongs, made up, in his words, for "the humiliation of the Opium Wars." Did this professor really believe that anyone in America today had even heard of the Opium Wars? In every Chinese paper, the Olympics were referred to as the fulfillment of a "hundred-year" dream. Yet how did that square with the legend promulgated by Olympic Web sites that Ci Xi, the empress dowager who ruled China, had no idea what the "Olympics" might be when approached back in 1896, and offered to send palace eunuchs to be China's "runners"? Maybe it's more than mere coincidence that the Olympics should be the one artifact of ancient Western culture embraced by a society so proud of its own antiquity. Come to think of it, the current-day Olympic movement makes a perfect match for the Chinese government. It's a top-down hierarchy, bound by strict rules, in which old men profit from the strong bodies of the young, all in the name of some vaguely humanist, quasi-socialist goals.

Leaving Beijing, I decided to try the new direct train line to the airport. It was quick, if crowded, and seemed to follow the old arcaded trail of straight, white-barked trees that had once so charmed me. But whoever planned the train station had failed to provide any escalators, or trolleys, or porters, so that everyone had to drag their luggage down three flights of stairs. This got me to thinking that all China was really like one of those Olympic relay races. One portion of the society was straining to pass the baton smoothly onto the next portion, but the various racing parts still weren't in sync. One area was sprinting too fast, another was still far too slow, one held the baton proudly aloft, while others dropped it, uninterested or unaware of where the finish line lay. That was what made it all so frustrating, and so fascinating.

When I got to the airport, I discovered that yet another typhoon had struck Hong Kong, leaving hundreds stranded and waiting in line for two beleaguered airline representatives to reschedule all of them. (At times like this in China, the so-called responsible parties are never to be found.) Experienced at the system, I bypassed the line and went straight into full heartless harassment mode until I'd gotten a seat on a nonstop back to my Bangkok home. Waiting for my flight, I also witnessed dozens of tearful goodbyes, as athletes and their parents or siblings set off in different directions -- proving the Olympics were still in the end about young people, perhaps too young for all the pressure. And later that sunny afternoon, I was treated to the first clear view below that I'd ever had in hundreds of takeoffs and landings. I could chart the full immensity of Beijing's new sprawl, I could spot bits of the Great Wall snaking through the bare Western Hills, and I could follow a deep brown line of pollution, like a stubborn bathtub ring, extending along the horizon for 500 miles. If only China were that easy to see.

I've been pondering the dust-up over Usain Bolt's record-breaking, chest-pounding, no-effort waltz across the 100-meter finish line since he did it a little over a week ago. As I watched the event, I screamed out loud, swept up in his joy and the sheer superiority of his athleticism. I love that he had one shoe untied as he slapped his chest before he even crossed the finish line. I love that he had a belly full of Nuggets at race time. And I love that he enjoyed himself before, during and after the race. The audacity!

Like the rest of us, athletes are full of all-too-human foibles -- weakness, egotism, sorrow, uncontained joy, anger, fear, regret and even spite

I do not share Bob Costas' view that Bolt's gesture was disrespectful to the other athletes as well as to the fans who came to see the best possible performance. If that wasn't the best possible performance a sprinter could put on, I'm not sure what would be.

Was he gloating? Perhaps a bit. Should he have? Why the hell not! He's the fastest man alive and he was barely trying.

I think the reason that Bolt's exuberant behavior has produced such exaggerated outrage is that we expect our athletes to be superheroes. We engage in idol worship, demanding that these mere earthlings fulfill our communal hunger for picture-perfect symbols of humanity. We require our athletic champions to do no wrong -- on the field and off. If they fail to live up to our grandiose expectations, we turn on them.

Politicians disappoint us. They cheat on loving wives sick with cancer, they're on the corporate dole, they renege on promises, they compromise. Corporate titans do the same. They steal the 401Ks from their employees to throw lavish parties and deride workaday plebes as unenlightened, stupid toilers.

In today's America, heroes are in short supply.

Thus we have come to rely on athletes to fill this primal craving, this need for awe-inspiring, larger-than-life illustrations of humankind. So that we can believe in ourselves. But really, athletes are just people. They are faster, stronger, more physically courageous and willful than most of us. But like the rest of us, they are full of all-too-human foibles -- weakness, egotism, sorrow, uncontained joy, anger, fear, regret and even a little spite at times.

Marion Jones took steroids. She's a cheater. 2004 gold medalist diver Laura Wilkinson broke into a bighearted, generous smile when she failed to medal. She's a real winner with a heart of gold! Mike Tyson bit off part of Evander Holyfield's ear during a fight. He's an animal! Surprised? He beats his opponents' heads in for a living. Is it really shocking that he has trouble controlling his rage at times?

Costas disapproved of Bolt's midrace behavior. But one could regard Shawn Johnson's constant avowal that she trains for only four hours a day, while her competitors all train twice that, as a similar affront. Her confession before and after the meet, which appeared in every media outlet known to man, could be construed to reek of arrogance. She's better than all but one of the competing Olympic gymnasts and she puts in half the training time, half the effort. It must make those poor little underage Chinese girls feel just awful about themselves. They train 10 hours a day, see their parents once a year, and the best any one of them could muster in the all-around was a pitiful bronze. And what about Alicia Sacramone? She hung in there after missing the Olympic team in 2004, trained long grueling hours -- and fell twice in the team finals. Ms. Johnson should stop showboating, cease the constant yammering about her languorous, halfhearted training schedule. She's making the other girls feel bad!

I have no issue with Shawn Johnson talking about her training schedule. And I fully understand why it is discussed so relentlessly. The USA Gymnastics machine is countering the negative press out there about gymnastics -- the injury rates are sky-high, the girls are generally very young when they engage in brutally rigorous training schedules, eating disorders are alleged to run rampant, these children train on broken bones and feel the pressure of being their coaches' second chance. Not Shawn Johnson, though.

Good for her, and I truly mean that, with absolutely no sarcasm whatsoever. I am merely drawing a comparison. Costas took no issue with Johnson's bragging about her moderate training schedule because it made her more superhuman, not less. It fed the myth of the athlete superhero. And on top of her athletic prowess, she acts like a gracious, dignified young lady, grateful for the silver medal, proud of her competitor Nastia Liukin. But Bolt's gesture makes him less of a hero. He's swift but arrogant, insensitive and gloating.

Usain Bolt may be faster than a speeding bullet but he's not Superman. He's just a guy. And I, for one, applaud when athletes show their humbling, mortal fallibility.

I am NBC's ideal viewer. I've watched just about every second of every one of its prime-time shows (OK, I may have fast-forwarded through an hour or two of synchronized diving). I became a dutiful info-ostrich, trying to avoid finding out what happened in the events before the broadcasts. (I was surprisingly successful: I think the first prime-time result that I learned about before NBC showed it was Shawn Johnson's gold medal on the balance beam. It helps to avoid all contact with the outside world.) I thoroughly enjoyed just about all of the events I watched -- in fact, I usually turned off my TV at 12:30 or 1 a.m. (the consequence of living in that despised province known as West Coastia) feeling emotionally satiated and thoroughly wrung out. As anyone who has read any of my hyperbolic ravings about sporting events I watch only every four years knows, I don't have a shortage of enthusiasm. I'm an Olympics dog, and I happily lap up whatever the NBC producers decide to put in my dish.

NBC will toss in a minute or two of coverage of the winning jump or the last decathlon event, but that's kind of like tearing out the last page of "War and Peace" and saying you read it

But with only a day-plus of these marvelous games to go, I have to say that NBC has really blown it with its prime-time coverage, especially of the second week. It's simply not showing us the classic Olympic events, like the decathlon, discus, hammer throw, javelin, high jump, long jump or pole vault. Yeah, it'll toss in a minute or two of coverage of the winning jump or the last decathlon event, but that's kind of like tearing out the last page of "War and Peace" and saying you read it.

These are great, epic events. They're the heart and soul of the Olympics. They are the central stitches in its vast historic tapestry. They connect us with great memories of past Olympics, of Al Oerter and Sergei Bubka and Rafer Johnson and Dick Fosbury. Even more than baseball, the Olympics are all about tradition and continuity. The Olympic record book isn't just a set of statistics -- it's a vast encyclopedia of memories. By all but ignoring the events that make the Olympics special, NBC is doing its viewers a great disservice. A young kid watching the Olympics for the first time on TV would really not understand what the games are all about. And that's a damn shame.

It's obvious why NBC has covered the games the way it has: Money. It's aiming to get the maximum number of viewers, and it has succeeded. Ratings are high. Lots of people are watching, and that's good. But what they're watching is not really the Olympics. I know, with only four hours in the prime-time slot, it's all about triage. But the Olympics patient has died in the waiting room.

I'm an unapologetic fan of beach volleyball -- men's and women's. I love watching it. But I would far rather have seen less of it, and more in-depth coverage of the pole vault or the long jump, during prime time. Same thing with diving. It's a great event -- and one with far more Olympic history than beach volleyball. But it's not in the same class as the high jump!

Of course, it's not easy to televise events like the high jump and the pole vault. They take hours to complete. But that's part of their appeal. You keep setting the bar higher and higher, and lesser competitors fall away. (Watching the dramatic battles for silver and bronze is one of the great joys of the Olympics -- but those battles rarely appear on gold-obsessed TV.) In any case, I think people would watch these events if NBC covered them. Partly that's because they are elemental: What's simpler than who can jump the highest? And unlike subjective sports such as diving or gymnastics, they're not judged -- either you clear the bar or you don't. Whether you win or lose is not dependent on the whim of some dude from Austria. I'm not dissing judged sports -- I think gymnasts may be the greatest athletes at the Olympics. But NBC needs to devote more time to the basics.

My other gripe is that we don't see enough "minor" sports like table tennis, badminton and shooting. These aren't in the same category as track and field, but they, too, are part of the Olympics. Would it kill NBC to show one less hour of beach volleyball or synchronized diving, and give us just a little taste of the dazzling variety of athletic activities that the Olympics offer?

And then, there have simply been inexplicable omissions. Why was the women's soccer final not on prime time? Even if you're making all your programming decisions based on demography and numbers, wouldn't the most popular women's sport in the country rate an hour and a half? All the more, from NBC's egregiously U.S.-centric perspective, because the U.S. women were in the game. NBC has done a good job with most of the track events, but unless I missed it, the 1,500-meter final was not in prime time. Huh? This is the metric mile, one of the most important races in the Olympics. But I saw it only because I happened to still be awake at 12:30 a.m.

Finally, speaking of U.S.-centrism: It really needs to be dialed back. This isn't just NBC's problem, it's a perennial problem. Maybe things were a little better in earlier Olympics -- I think they were, but I could be wrong. In any case, the heavy-handed focus on American athletes has gotten out of control. Just as NBC's scanting of the core Olympic events diminishes the games, so does its parochialism.

Before I say anything else, please, angry flag wavers, spare me the usual letters about how "you liberals hate the U.S." As a fan, I'm as pro-U.S. as the next dude. Rooting for athletes from your country is the most innocent tribalism there is. And I understand that for a broadcaster, striking the right balance between highlighting U.S. athletes, which viewers expect and is legitimate up to a point, and capturing the internationalist spirit of the Olympics is not easy.

But NBC has made almost no effort to strike that balance. It's all U.S., all the time. A whiff of quasi-official patriotism hangs over its coverage. It feels like the network has decided that any internationalist tilt would be un-American.

And that's too bad, because the Olympics are different. They're not an athletic war between the U.S. and the rest of the world. Of course every country wants to win. That's fine. But the Olympics are ultimately about sportsmanship and respecting your competitors. They're about affirming the brotherhood and sisterhood of athletes, which span the globe. They're much bigger than any one country. They're about humanity.

I hope most Americans recognize that. But NBC isn't doing much to help. As seen through their filter, the Olympics are compulsively entertaining and dramatic. But they aren't the real Olympics -- either in sports or in spirit.

Forget about ping-pong. China's national sport is reading between the lines. For decades, even centuries, official pronouncements and state-dictated reports have been carefully scanned for the implications of some critical omission, the leader whose name got left out, yesterday's slogan suddenly discarded.

For me as well, finishing up my Olympic coverage and another challenging stint in China, it seems that what I couldn't find, didn't see, was kept from hearing or reporting, looms larger than all the spectacle scalped tickets could buy.

This wasn't for lack of effort -- which took me out past the new Olympic city to the end of the new northern subway extension. Guided by an adventurous photographer from Philly recently settled in Beijing, I came to see a large enclave of unofficial "recyclers," perhaps a thousand or two former farmhands, all from nearby Henan province, who now saw better opportunity in picking, sorting and cleaning the capital's plastic bottles, cardboard, cotton rags, obsolete computers and other less palatable detritus. Trash was definitely a Chinese growth industry.

» Continued

Enough with the diving, NBC.

Fans of Peter Jackson's "Lord of the Rings" trilogy may remember the scene near the end when Frodo boards ship with the elves at the Grey Havens to leave Middle-Earth forever. His friends and comrades realize he's leaving only at the last minute. He embraces each of them in turn, his beloved Sam last, then boards the ship. And as he sails away, he looks back with an unforgettable smile, a smile that says: You were everything to me, and I will carry you in my heart forever. It is a perfectly full smile, brimming with all the bittersweetness of love and loss.

It was a smile that said thank you. A smile that said I have enjoyed it all. A smile that said, win or lose, I am content

U.S. diver Laura Wilkinson smiled that smile Thursday night.

The great U.S. diver, the heart and soul of the team, a gold medalist in the 10-meter platform at Sydney, was making the final competitive dives of her 15-year career at Beijing. She was beaten up, her 30-year-old body trashed after a decade and a half of throwing herself off the equivalent of a three-story building. And she wasn't going to medal. Unable to enter the water properly because of a triceps injury, she had badly misfired on several of her dives, including a disastrous back three and a half somersault that essentially took her out of the running. In any case, it would have taken a nearly perfect performance from Wilkinson to beat out the top divers, with China's Chen Ruolin winning gold with a gorgeous final dive over the fierce challenge of ice-cool Canadian Emilie Heymans. Wilkinson ended up finishing ninth, and she knew long before the end of the competition that this wasn't going to be her day.

So there Wilkinson was, standing on the platform high above the water, about to make the next-to-last dive of her long and distinguished career. Athletes usually wear their game face at such moments. But as she stood there, she looked down and smiled. It was a long, deep, loving smile, directed at her teammates and friends in the audience who were not so much cheering on their comrade as paying tribute to her. It was Frodo's smile.

And before her last dive, as her teammates rose to give her a standing ovation, she looked down and smiled again, that long, rich, loving smile. A smile that said thank you. A smile that said I have enjoyed it all. A smile that said, win or lose, I am content.

And then, having fully savored the moment, she dove for the last time. She hit it, she went out strong, but it didn't really matter what she did. Because that smile will stay in our memories longer than whatever score she got. It was a farewell smile, to herself as much as to her friends, and it showed us what it means to say farewell with love and without regret. It was gold.

The blog format really puts the squeeze on an old Olympic favorite of this column, the the hench item. So here's a few for this last weekday of the games, as we Americans lick our wounds from the track and field debacle.

Yeah, debacle: As of this writing, the United States had won 21 medals in track and field -- or athletics, as it's officially called. That's six more than the second-place nation, which is ... can you guess? Did you guess Jamaica?

Russia. Jamaica's well behind Russia's 15 with 10 overall. Those two countries share the gold-medal lead with six, one more than the U.S.

» Continued

― King Kaufman

The U.S. track and field team, apparently dazed and confused after being repeatedly humiliated by a team from a tiny country best known for reggae, ganja and rum running, lost its grip Thursday -- literally. In a hideous 30 minutes, first the men's 400-meter relay team, then the women's, bungled their final handoffs in their semifinal races with easy qualification in sight and were disqualified. Coming on top of U.S. failures in the 100 and 200 meters, Lolo Jones' heartbreaking mistake on the penultimate hurdle and numerous other bitter disappointments, it was a kick in the guts to the world's track powerhouse. Never before have both U.S. teams dropped the baton in the same Olympics.

The U.S. track team, which has won only four gold medals, is now in danger of turning in its worst top-of-the-podium performance ever

It was a shocking display of ineptitude, and revealed the U.S. track and field team to be in serious meltdown. One drop is a nightmare, but forgivable; two can only be due to either poor coaching or unprepared athletes or both.

What makes the drops all the more galling is that the U.S. is supposed to own this distance. The U.S. men have won 15 of the 22 400 relays in Olympics history, although they are now in by far their worst long-term doldrums ever, having won only three of the last seven Olympic relays. (I was in Athens in 2004 when Great Britain beat Maurice Greene and company by .01 second, and I think there are still some lager louts holed up somewhere hoisting pints over that epic takedown of the cretins from the Colonies.) The women have won nine of 18 and, not counting the 1980 Moscow Games that the U.S. boycotted, had not missed a final since 1948.

But that history meant nothing as the U.S. sprinters handled the baton like a drunk trying to thread a needle.

For the top U.S. male speed-burner, Tyson Gay, his botched exchange with Darvis Patton means that his Olympics are over and he'll go home with nothing. For Lauryn Williams and Torii Edwards, their game of oopsie is truly nightmarish: Both women had already been involved in blown handoffs, Edwards in 2000 and Williams in 2004. (The former mistake resulted in a bronze medal, now stripped because of Marion Jones' participation in the relay; the latter resulted in the U.S. women's being disqualified.) Now both will forever be known as double-droppers -- not the label you want stuck on an illustrious athletic career. (Memo to U.S. Track and Field: Was it really a good idea to have these two women handing off to each other?)

Asked what happened, Williams resorted to stereotypes even more offensive than the ones I opened this column with, saying, "I have no idea, somebody somewhere has got a voodoo doll on the United States." Later, she accused the stick of possessing malevolent cognitive powers. "My hand was there. The stick was there," she said. "What I'm telling people is that the stick had a mind of its own. It's not my fault, it's not her fault, it's not either of our fault."

Uh-huh. And I guess that same evil stick forced Williams to start running too soon in Athens. Her theme song should be Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)." At least the American men didn't try to blame their drop on objects containing toenail scrapings that do not obey the laws of physics: Both took the blame. (NBC commentator Ato Boldon, who has turned out to be a terrific, knowledgeable analyst, blamed Patton, and replays appeared to confirm his opinion.)

But it doesn't matter. All that matters is that the U.S. track team, which has won only four gold medals, is now in danger of turning in its worst top-of-the-podium performance ever (it won six golds in 1972 and 1976). For the first time ever at the Olympics, the U.S. has failed to win gold in any of the six short sprints -- the men's and women's 100 and 200 and both relays. And America managed only Walter Dix's bronze in the men's 100. (Dix, a fierce competitor whose tough-guy face seems to belie a complex personality, had one of the great post-race lines after being smoked by Bolt in the 200. When NBC's camera caught someone, I believe his agent, congratulating him on medaling after two runners were disqualified, you could hear Dix say, "Hey, I still lost.")

But the U.S. collapse shouldn't take anything away from the truly mind-boggling accomplishments of the Jamaican track team. The Caribbean nation of fewer than 3 million people has now won nine track medals -- five gold, three silver and a bronze. (The U.S. has won 20 -- four gold, eight silver and eight bronze.) With the U.S. self-destructing out of the 400 relay field, Jamaica is likely to add to its totals.

And not only is Team Irie winning, it's dominating. (This is not really a surprise to anyone who has ever been to Jamaica and seen Jamaicans run. They can book.) Usain Bolt is the story of these games, but Thursday the great Veronica Campbell-Brown thoroughly whipped U.S. rival Allyson Felix in the 200, just as she did in Athens. And, of course, the lightning-fast Jamaican women swept the 100, the first time one nation has ever collected all three medals in the 100. The U.S. women were never in contention.

The U.S. did sweep the men's 400, but the race -- one of the most highly anticipated in the games -- turned out to be a letdown. In yet another of the now-familiar cases of U.S. favorites not holding form, Jeremy Wariner, aka That Ridiculously Fast White Guy, ran out of gas down the stretch and was easily blown out by his rival, LaShawn Merritt. It's been a bad two days for all-time great Michael Johnson, who first saw Bolt break his "untouchable" 19.32 200 world record, then watched as his protégé Wariner, who was supposed to threaten Johnson's 43.18 world record in the 400, turned in a mediocre performance on the world's biggest stage.

It's dark days for those of us for whom the U.S. track team is one of our great, innocent sources of national pride. But they'll be partying in Negril and Ocho Rios and Kingston tonight. And whatever it is those celebrants are smoking down there, they should blow some of it toward the Bird's Nest. Maybe it'll get that evil baton so loaded it won't be able to move.

OK, I admit it: I like beach volleyball. In my circle, that's kind of an embarrassing confession, like telling strangers at a dinner party all about your current collection of Playmate of the Month pinups. The assumption is that anyone who digs this sport is a sad-sack butt man, a voyeuristic loser who wanders around town in a dirty raincoat hoping that some incompetent window display clerk has left a naked mannikin facing backwards. "When did they start playing in bikinis?" one friend suspiciously asked me after I admitted I liked the sport. "What's up with that?" My "friend's" not-so-veiled meaning: If you like beach volleyball, you're not a sports fan, you're a bottom feeder.

The assumption is that anyone who digs beach volleyball is a sad-sack butt man, a voyeuristic loser who wanders around town in a dirty raincoat hoping that some incompetent window display clerk has left a naked mannikin facing backwards.

My esteemed colleague King Kaufman, also not a fan, raises a less ass-centric objection: He just doesn't find the sport that interesting. As he points out, it's much slower than hardcourt volleyball, and the play is repetitive.

King is right that the sand game is slower and more predictable than the hardcourt version. I've seen them both at the Olympics, and watching hardcourt after beach is like sticking your finger in a socket. It's a completely different game. A novice could wander into a beach game at the Olympics and get humiliated 21-0. If you wandered into a hardcourt game, you'd get killed.

But that doesn't mean that beach volleyball isn't a terrific sport. Because there are only two players, and because you can't run fast in sand, positioning and defense are key. There are way more touch shots and cut shots than on the hard court. Both players must be supremely versatile, able to dig and spike. And above all, teamwork is crucial. Both players must know where the other one is going to be at all times. They must know how to deliver a set to the other one in their sweet spot, the way a second baseman feeds the shortstop to start a double play. And they just have to have "it" -- that special teammate chemistry.

Plus, it's one of those sports that everyone can relate to. It's audience-friendly. There's a little-kid-at-the-beach quality about it that is endearing. It feels playful.

And there's another reason why I like it. Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh play it. And watching these ferocious competitors and selfless teammates play just never gets old.

Yeah, their butts are pretty great, too. But I'd watch these ladies play in burkas. Because what you're really looking at when you see them play is heart, and guts, and the indomitable will to win. And those aren't assets that can be shown off by any bathing suit.

In the gold medal game, May-Treanor and Walsh faced a talented and athletic Chinese duo, Tian Jia and Wang Jie. Tian and Wang were the last team to beat the Americans -- sweeping them, no less. Wang is taller than Walsh and a powerful spiker and defender, and Tian has an excellent all-around game. They are both stronger servers than the Americans. The Chinese were playing in front of their frenzied fans. And just to add a wild card into the mix, the match was played in a pouring rain. A strong Chinese start, a few aces, a slippery-ball mis-hit or two, a couple of errors, and the U.S. team could find it all slipping away.

And for a few minutes, the Chinese team and their screaming supporters may have thought that was happening. May-Treanor and Walsh fell behind 4-2 in the first set when May-Treanor missed an easy shot. Both Chinese were playing well and keeping the ball away from the lethal-spiking Walsh. And as usual in the tournament, the Americans were basically spotting their opponents a point or two a game on service alone.

No problem. The tide had risen, but it was about to run into an 80-foot-high sea-wall named May-Treanor and Walsh. May-Treanor started making play after play, driving the ball past the taller Chinese, showing off her dazzling assortment of cut shots and knucklers, and always coming up with critical digs when they were needed. Walsh started to get her kills. You could feel the well-oiled machine revving up. At the timeouts we saw the two women talking as they've done a thousand times before, unfazed, wiping their eyes of sand and sweat, discussing what they needed to do. If Shawn Johnson was America's adorable daughter, these two women were our rocks, our partners -- our sisters, best friends, wives. Only with better spikes and saves.

The Chinese were tough and stayed in the set, helped by two aces in a row, but after 16-16 the Americans brought the hammer down. They outscored the Chinese 5-2 to close out the first game, winning on a May-Treanor kill down the line.

The second set presented an opposite problem for the Americans. They were a gimme May-Treanor shot from taking a 4-0 lead that would have buried the Chinese, but she missed, and the Chinese ended up storming back. When China went ahead 15-14, you had to wonder if the squandered opportunity would come back to haunt the U.S. team. But May-Treanor and Walsh aren't hauntable. They stayed focused, kept playing their game. If you wanted to know how much respect these women have from their athletic peers, you only had to look at the intense face of all-time NBA great Jason Kidd, who, like Kobe Bryant and LeBron James before him, had come out to support the U.S. women. Kidd, May-Treanor's idol when she was young, looked like he was dying on every point.

But May-Treanor and Walsh weren't going to let him down. They're about as likely to crack under pressure as U.S. Grant.

The tide turned when May-Treanor made a crazy save of a Chinese kill, the kind only she routinely makes, to save 16-15 for the U.S. And a few points later when Tian rashly tried a playground shot, trying to lob a quick first shot beyond May-Treanor, the American made her pay, easily catching up with the insulting junkball and starting a play that made it 19-18. The Chinese never scored again.

When the last ball had smashed into the sand on the Chinese side, the two Americans fell into the sand, screaming and laughing and hugging each other, four years' worth of hard work and dedication paid off. That moment of pure happiness looked all the sweeter because they got to share it with each other. And as happens about four times a night during this nonstop emotional H-bomb they call the Olympics, I got choked up as these two grown women ran giddily around, the long years falling off them like dead leaves until they were just children again, hugging everyone in sight and shrieking and saying they were just happy it was over and suddenly jumping up and down with joy because they just remembered that they had done it, had kept their promise, had done the incredibly difficult thing they set out to do a long time ago.