Olympic pride

THE Stride family has been buzzing, the television a blurry constant — everything from the hockey to the high jump, from the tennis to the tiddlywinks — we've roared at it.

Even my three-year-old daughter has asked which one is our runner, jumper, rower or swimmer. My wife took our young girls to see the qualifiers for the hockey and the water polo and even though they will not have fully understood and will soon forget — at least they were there. There to witness what has become a collective national triumph.

The high point was Super Saturday when we ran, rowed, leapt and in rather un-British style, wept and screamed our way to an astonishing six of the 24 gold medals contested that day.

At the time of writing we are third in the medals table and, yes, I know that the Olympics is meant to be more about taking part than winning — but isn't it great to be coming out on top? To see our boys and girls on the rostrum and our anthem rising to greet our flag?

And last week I finally got my own chance to visit the Olympic Park — to watch the 400m men's final. Seeing the park is an extraordinary experience. The stadium packed with 80,000. The spectators on the far side so small to the eye that they barely appear real — like far off avatars in a high-tech movie.

I watched the runners, the vaulters, the steeple chasers, the shot putters and the hurdlers. I adored every minute — but most of all I just felt pride — pride in the success of our athletes of course but something greater still: pride that it is our country that has staged all of this for the whole of the world.