AQUATICS: You like to think you're hard. You've never shed a tear watching Lassie Come Home. You sat stony-faced through the Tommy Gorman Roy Keane interview, and even laughed inappropriately at parts of it.
Yet there are moments at these Special Olympics that turn you into a big, quivering lump of jelly.
There was another one yesterday at the National Aquatic Centre. Mostly it was a humdrum morning at Abbotstown. Competitors were going through their paces in the 50 metres freestyle preliminaries with a competence that, for those of us who haven't fully mastered floating, despite numerous lessons, was vaguely annoying.
It didn't help that it was very warm in the centre. It was warm outside it yesterday, but inside, with the heated pool, it was sweltering. A sign in the media village warned that at least one person had been sent home with dehydration, and stressed the importance of liquid intake. "You'll need this," a volunteer said, handing me a bottle of mineral water and pointing upstairs to the press section, where the problem is particularly acute due to the heat rising (this is also a big problem in the Leinster House press gallery, but they never give you water there).
Bravely we sat through the 50-metres freestyle and the 4 x 100 metres medley, as the amphibious athletes did dolphin impressions, and made everything look easy.
Then the action switched to the shallow pool, for something called the "15 metres unassisted swim". As the title suggests, this involves competitors for whom it is a challenge to swim independently; although in each case, an assistant follows in the water, in case of emergency. Fifteen metres is deemed as much as participants can comfortably negotiate. In fact, in the three-person division three heat, Marlon Pierre (13) from the Seychelles survives a false start which sees him complete half the course before being hauled back, and still wins the race comfortably in 14.7 seconds. Behind him is Oscar Reyes of Honduras, completing in 17.97. And then all eyes turn to lane one, where the competitor appears to be stuck at the start.
As we only later find out, Hazel Zumbado, a slight 15-year-old from Costa Rica, is deaf and mute, and - out of the pool - confined to a wheelchair. She has the use of her arms, but her hands don't work properly. So she can swim, but as we clearly see, only with great difficulty. Yet now, slowly but surely, she is moving forward. Rising to her effort, literally, the crowd above the pool is also getting noisy. They're shouting, screaming, urging her every inch of the way; and her progress is measured in inches, as enormous effort translates into tiny advances through the water.
Suddenly the cheering gives way to a rhythmic hand-clap, as when a miler or 5,000 metres runner is chasing a world record. There are now four assistants around her in the water, encouraging, and ready to help if needed. But the swimmer is going to make it without their assistance, and with everyone in the packed gallery on his or her feet, applauding, she touches the wall in 1 minute 59.23 seconds. "It's great, isn't it?" says a woman, who has suddenly appeared alongside you. "Yeah, fantastic," you mutter, looking down, pretending to take notes while blinking you eyes repeatedly. "And the response from the crowds is wonderful," the woman adds.
"Irish people have really opened their hearts," the woman is saying. True, you nod, still not able to look up and struggling to shut the door on your heart before it embarrasses you any further.
Later, down at the side of the pool, it must be 40 degrees. "You'll need these," say the volunteers, handing over another bottle of water, a special media bib for pool-side interviews, strict orders about where you can and cannot go in the pool area, and tips on how to avoid drowning. Meanwhile, as Hazel accepts congratulations and poses for photographs, her coach is pointing out that the heated pool was an added handicap.
"In Costa Rica, she's used to swimming in cold water," he says, through an interpreter. Until last January, she still needed arm-floats, he adds, but preparation for the Games has transformed her in many ways. For one thing she is no longer "triste," like before.
The swimmer's mother, Aracelly Mora, says her daughter was inspired to compete by her older brother, a Down's Syndrome athlete with nine Olympic medals. Asked what they thought of the support from the gallery, neither coach nor mother needs the services of the interpreter. The coach traces tears running down his face, and Aracelly nods in agreement.
