I saw my neighbor Marie every day or two last week. She’s a retired nurse and stout, with a full head of short, pure white hair, a round nose, and a face that seems to blush even when it doesn’t. Her husband, who joined her on Sunday, is a gunsmith. He’s nearly deaf (not surprising, given his profession) and dogmatically old-fashioned. (In my opinion, living with him explains the abrupt and decisive side to Marie’s cheerful personality.) The two of us – each living by ourselves in the woods – quickly became “buddies.” She’d show up at my front porch carrying a chicken pot pie, or invite me over for dinner in exchange for photography lessons or computer help. On the night of the Olympic Opening Ceremony, she suggested I come watch with her.

Marie knows my parents well enough to guess that I haven’t had many chances to learn how to cook well. She has, therefore, resolved to teach me as many easy and wholesome recipes as she can before I leave for college. On the night I came to join her for the opening ceremony, it was a layered dip with cream cheese and chili. I took a trip into town after I finished the day’s work, then managed to roll my rusty minivan into its grass parking spot by the cabin with only two minutes to the start of the ceremony. Most of my groceries stayed in the car; I grabbed the bag of shredded cheese and a can of chili and dashed straight to Marie’s back door.

At this point, I think it’s basically a given that Olympic opening ceremonies are some of the greatest spectacles on earth. Watching it live – and trying to wrap my head around everything that went into making it – really opened my eyes to the significance of the event. First of all, around 10,000 Londoners volunteered to help, and a billion people around the globe watched it live. That is a hell of a lot of people. I rarely feel truly connected to the entire rest of my race (and I don’t think most people do, either – it’s usually their family or themselves or their political party), and this is one of those few times. It’s a really unusual sensation to watch a colossal event like this unfold and realize it means something very real; that it’s not just entertainment on a grand scale. There, in England, is an entire country coming together in its best way to show an entire planet what it’s capable of; what it’s all about. And there go thousands of the very best athletes nations in every corner of our globe can muster. There is an intense sense of singular significance. For so long my default perspective has been an assumption that somewhere in the world there is a bigger and more impressive version of basically everything. Then, as if a child again, it dawns on my that what I’m witnessing really is the best – the grandest – of its kind. This is the real greatest show on earth. This is it.

The cameramen follow every nation’s athletes as they walk out. The parade seems never-ending, and as country by country is called – striding out, waving their flags, faces alight (or nervous) – I start to wonder, with a twinge of impatience, how much longer all of it will take. An entire stadium is roaring with cheers and applause. Each new country’s name thunders out of the loudspeakers. With these announcements, though, something obvious eventually dawns on me: that the country’s names represent entire countries. Now I’m no ignoramus when it comes to geography, but just the fact that there even are that many countries in the world suddenly seems weightier than it ever did in school. Ghana. There goes an entire country’s hopes for these Olympics. An image flashed in my mind: the village where one of those young athletes comes from; a dusty room full of her family and friends and neighbors, bent around the television, cheering. Then I started seeing all of the athletes who passed in this light. There goes a stern-faced Iraqi. I imagined (inaccurately, no doubt, but true for someone in that long line) exhausting days spent on a decaying track, bent over with heaving chest under the gaze of a frowning coach, and near collapse. The runner would soon walk home to find his quiet mother leaning over a steamy stovetop. She turns her head and smiles at him, feebly. When his father arrives the man throws a dirty bundle of work clothes in a corner and starts in on his son, yelling about his lack of an honest job, his selfish sport. They sit down and eat a tense supper in silence. Later in the parade, a bubbling American passes. I imagine a young girl full of hope, driving to practice with her mother. It is a chore for her mom, and the woman acknowledges her daughter’s ambitious plans with mock enthusiasm. The girl turns to look out the window at the passing houses. Her father would have understood. He always did.

I tried to wrap my head around the vast number of incredible journeys the people on that TV screen had undertaken, and had braved. I couldn’t even come close to seeing those thousands of faces as individuals with their own unique stories, all at once. The sheer, genuine, deserved passion I felt present in the stadium at that moment was overwhelming, though. In a world as extraordinarily well-connected as ours (if you need help understanding, imagine having to travel for two weeks by horse to tell your grandparents in Kentucky that your job interview went well), I’ve grown into adulthood under the impression that humans (and especially Americans) were growing farther and farther apart. That we spend, on average, around five hours a day in front of a television – or that our in-person conversations have devolved to the point where we say “L-O-L” as often as we actually laugh – is evidence enough of this. Snow days no longer seem to mean romping about with neighborhood kids; they equal a chance to play Halo for six hours straight. You know what, though? I don’t even care if 999,900,000 of those billion people were technically still watching TV during the opening ceremony; the intense sense of connection was there, and it felt about as justified as anything.

At the risk of offending a hundred million Americans, I’d like to compare this event to another we hold near to our hearts: the Superbowl. It can bring tens of millions together on one night every year, but for what purpose? Many of the players on that field are there for money and fame. They are essentially bought and sold, and the only real differences between those in blue jerseys and those in red are their prescribed overlords – their highest bidders. There is no great cause or high purpose behind their battles. While I approve of the game as entertainment, those millions of screaming voices start to seem animated by animal instincts, indulging unfulfilled desires to love a group of men and hate their enemies. (I’m not saying enjoying the Superbowl is anything to feel poorly about, just that it is manufactured entertainment; that it’s part of an industry catering to these innate desires.) Half of us are cheering for red, and half for blue. It is something we have in common, at least – the cheering – but it amazes me in a hopeless way how those two colors can so thoroughly divide a nation at the same time drawn together.

One more example: America’s Got Talent (but it hasn’t got proper grammar, apparently). So many hopeful people baring themselves to an audience of millions, to be scorned and booed into emotional ruin or cheered into glorious tears by the approval of a charged crowd whose mouths seem to be moved as easily by those surrounding them as by the unique inclination of their owners. Three lounging, cynical judges sit before this cacophonous mass of people, meanwhile, with the power to sound a jarring red alarm literally at their fingertips whenever they disapprove of a performance in an art they sometimes have never seen, much less have real experience with. Yes, there is some legitimacy to this peculiar institution – the celebration of a few with remarkable ability – but, it seems to me, a startling portion of its attraction is the denunciation of those without the requisite amount of talent (or personal appeal). It brings us together, yes, but there is something about our love of judging – like, hate, like, like, hate… – that seems to render the show unworthy of the level of nationwide grocery checkout line gossip it receives.

The Olympics, on the other hand, is one of the few events that seems deserving of its attention and fame. Perhaps an argument could be made to the contrary, concerning the apparent lack of use such rapidly evolving society has for a few talented athletes, or the real source of the emotional response these games evoke (national and personal loyalty, innate tendencies as in the super bowl example). How can anyone discredit the impact a few national heroes can have, though? Maybe Ryan Lochte is just what a nation growing sedentary and indifferent needs.

-Wyatt