I share with you today a poem written by Baron Pierre de Coubertin, the father of modern Olympics. It won him a gold medal in the 1912 Stockholm Summer Olympics for literature. At that time, medals were awarded for painting, music, sculpture, architecture and literature. Coubertin entered his poem 'Ode to Sport' under the pseudonym of Georges Hohrod and M. Eschbach which were the names of villages close to his wife's place of birth.
O Sport, pleasure of the Gods, essence of life, you appeared suddenly in the midst of the grey clearing which writhes with the drudgery of modern existence, like the radiant messenger of a past age, when mankind still smiled. And the glimmer of dawn lit up the mountain tops and flecks of light dotted the ground in the gloomy forests.
O Sport, you are Beauty! You are
the architect of that edifice which is the human body and which can become
abject or sublime according to whether it is defiled by vile passions or
improved through healthy exertion. There can be no beauty without balance and
proportion, and you are the peerless master of both, for you create harmony,
you give movements rhythm, you make strength graceful and you endow suppleness
with power.
O Sport, you are Justice! The
perfect equity for which men strive in vain in their social institutions is
your constant companion. No one can jump a centimetre higher than the height he
can jump, nor run a minute longer than the length he can run. The limits of his
success are determined solely by his own physical and moral strength.
O Sport, you are Audacity! The
meaning of all muscular effort can be summed up in the word ‘dare’. What good
are muscles, what is the point of feeling strong and agile, and why work to
improve one’s agility and strength, unless it is in order to dare? But the
daring you inspire has nothing in common with the adventurer’s recklessness in
staking everything on chance. Yours is a prudent, well-considered audacity.
O Sport, you are Honour! The
laurels you bestow have no value unless they have been won in absolute fairness
and with perfect impartiality. He who, with some shameful trick, manages to
deceive his fellow competitors feels guilt to his very core and lives in fear
of the ignominious epithet which shall forever be attached to his name should
his trickery be discovered.
O Sport, you are Joy! At your
behest, flesh dances and eyes smile; blood races abundantly through the
arteries. Thoughts stretch out on a brighter, clearer horizon. To the sorrowful
you can even bring salutary diversion from their distress, whilst the happy you
enable fully to savour their joy of living.
O Sport, you are Fecundity!
You strive directly and nobly towards perfection of the race, destroying
unhealthy seed and correcting the flaws which threaten its essential purity.
And you fill the athlete with a desire to see his sons grow up agile and strong
around him to take his place in the arena and, in their turn, carry off the
most glorious trophies.
O Sport, you are Progress! To
serve you, a man must improve himself both physically and spiritually. You
force him to abide by a greater discipline; you demand that he avoid all
excess. You teach him wise rules which allow him to exert himself with the
maximum of intensity without compromising his good health.
O Sport, you are Peace! You
promote happy relations between peoples, bringing them together in their shared
devotion to a strength which is controlled, organized and self-disciplined.
From you, the young worldwide learn self-respect, and thus the diversity of
national qualities becomes the source of a generous and friendly rivalry.
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