SO at the end of a week of anguish, tears, bitterness, recrimination, medical reports, false starts, world records and golden shoes, the most astonishing event by a long way was the arrival of Sonia O'Sullivan in the RTE commentary booth for the 1,500 metres final.
I would have happily bet my house on her being already home in London and either crying her eyes out in self-pity or kicking the cat around the flat in frustration. Maybe both.
But there she was, sounding as composed and chipper as you might have expected had she already won gold in the 5,000m and then opted out of the 1,500m; a satisfied world and Olympic champion, content to watch from on high as her lessers battled it out.
At the end George Hamilton asked the right question: what was it like? "I couldn't get myself emotionally involved, looking at other people," she said. "It took me out of the race."
It was an extraordinary performance, and was either evidence of an incomparable resilience or testament to the self-deluding mind games to which we all have recourse occasionally.
What do you think? Was it in her head or in her body? John Treacy and Eamonn Coghlan, who have been there/done that, had little doubt: she choked. John felt that even if she was, physically ill, the illness was psychosomatic, brought on by the pressure.
Tom McGurk seemed willing to accept that, but later Bill O'Herlihy wasn't having it. What's wrong with the simple proposition that the poor girl `was sick', he insisted. `Maybe', said John, and Eamonn nodded, but more in hope than conviction.
Whatever the truth, Sonia's disappearance down the tunnel, and her embrace of her father on Wednesday, was the most unutterably sad piece of televised sport in a long, long time. Since Hillsborough, I suppose. But here, at least, as the impressive John O'Sullivan said famously, nobody died.
MUCH less impressive were those charged with looking after our athletes. Neither Nick Davis, in an early interview outside the stadium, nor Pat Hickey, first at that press conference and then in a link-up with O'Herlihy on Saturday evening, were convincing.
A deeply unsavoury business with business the operative word. And Uncle Bill gave Dr Pat a surprisingly easy ride on Saturday. Despite his obvious anger through the week, the hardest points Bill put to Hickey were that the claim from both camps that their real interest was in the athletes rang "hollow" and that the decision to give accreditation to a Reebok official and Sonia's agent smacked of "commerce at all costs".
But this one will, as they say, run and run: it's Big D time for Irish athletics. Just ask Pat.
AWAY from our in-fighting, the Games continued to produce the goods. Saturday's football final between Adidas and Nike - sorry, Argentina and Nigeria - was a cracker, with Africa finally coming of age courtesy of a dodgy goal in a deserved win.
The gymnastics gala was a treat; the (male) coach of the Russian women's volleyball team was a comic book tyrant, all bulging eyes and tufts of hair in his ears; Merlene Ottey approached the line in the 200m like a woman already resigned to second place; the platform divers are still insane - do you have any idea how hard that water is, how it hurts to get it wrong in training?
"I got my beads in my hands now," said Damaen Kelly's mam, whose son was admirably gracious in defeat; Shane Healy was like a schoolboy as he gave the thumbs-up before the start of the biggest race of his life; Catherina McKiernan absolutely glowed as she explained after the 10,000m final, "They were much better and faster. I tried my best."
Michael Johnson was a joy; Mike Powell crawled out of the jumping pit like a monster from Pompeii; Oh Canada was more glorious and free than any time since the Stanley Cup.
FINALLY, back in Montrose, and the boys there should be ashamed of the ludicrously maudlin package they put together on Sonia. "For us, she'll always be a champion," said Uncle Bill as the strains of You're a Victim of the Game, from Mister Waterworks himself, Garth Brooks, oozed out.
Back at the track, and George couldn't let the opportunity slip: "It's the typical, inscrutable Chinese," he said of Wang, and, in case we missed it, tried again: "Wang as inscrutable as ever". As predictable as ever, George.
"Boxing," the fine Mick Dowling told Bill, "can be a game of chess. . . chess with two guys with gloves on," which was a lovely image.
And, after a fortnight, Tracey Piggott had become more caught up in all the atmosphere than she probably realised. On Saturday she left us with these words: "Goodnight, y'all."
