Skeet shooting is a fine sport

At the Olympics, Finland feels smaller than anywhere else

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By Saska Snellman in Athens
     
      I would never have believed that one day I would wring my hands in anxiety while watching how a man brings down clay pigeons with a shotgun.
      If someone had asked me only a couple of weeks ago whether skeet shooting really is a sport, I would have answered without a moment's hesitation: No.
      And if skeet shooter Marko Kemppainen had been pointed out to me, I would not have guessed him to be an athlete. The numerous statues of athletes at the archaeological museum in Athens definitely do not resemble Kemppainen in the least.
     
But there I sat, at the Marcopoulo shooting centre, nervous about the fate of Finland's first medal at the 2004 Olympics.
      But I was also afraid. I was sure that Kemppainen would suffer the same fate as trap shooter Petri Nummela, hammer thrower Olli-Pekka Karjalainen, judoka Timo Peltola, sailor Sari Multala, or one of the many other Finns whose anticipated success I had eagerly looked for, only to return to my hotel each day feeling a bit more drawn and exhausted than the last time.
     
There are as many Olympics as there are countries participating. For the Americans, the games are a stage for their superstars, for the Indonesians the Olympics are a great badminton tournament, and the Georgians regard the event as a mammoth judo competition.
      We Finnish reporters can naturally peek at the Olympics from any viewpoint - for example, join in the joy of the Iranians over the success of Quran-quoting weightlifter Hossein Reza Sadeh - but at the same time we are well aware that if we do not watch and report on the Finnish athletes, certainly no one else will either.
      Therefore, we must take the bus to the early-morning qualifying rounds of shooting, or sit in the judo centre wondering what the difference is between a koka and a yuko - and why the Finns cannot seem to achieve either score.
     
Finland does not feel smaller anywhere else than it does at the Olympics. There are simply very few of us Finns, and little success comes our way, especially in sports that anyone is interested in.
      And Finland does even not rank among those countries that evoke pity or compassion in others. We are not Iraq or Palestine, not even the tiny sympathetic island of St. Kitts and Nevis, where sprinter Kim Collins hails from. We are boring Finland, a minor sporting nation.
      During the games, reporters from different countries check the International Herald Tribune to see what has happened in those sports that they do not have time to follow themselves. Have any new stars or interesting phenomena been born?
      Finland has been mentioned in the paper twice during these Olympics: the first story was a lengthy report on Finns travelling to Estonia to buy cheap liquor, and the other was a small snippet of news about a Finnish airline pilot arrested while drunk in London.
     
An extraordinary feeling of togetherness has surfaced between the Finnish athletes, reporters, and tourists at the Olympics.
      Afterwards, when everyone has returned home, it may feel strange to recall who exchanged thoughts with the President, or who enjoyed a beer with Finnish Athletics Chairman Ilkka Kanerva. When we are over here, we are united by the same hope: if only the Finns would win. At least something.
      The President and the cabinet ministers would much rather beam at medal celebrations than answer questions concerning the pathetic performances of the Finns. They easily catch a bit of the dissatisfied general mood.
      The number of team leaders is tied to the number of athletes that qualify for the games, and the appropriations of different sports are linked to their success at the Olympics.
     
The athletes themselves naturally have the most on the line: great hopes, hard work for years on end, everyday concerns for making ends meet.
      But for us reporters, it would also be quite important to get to write articles about the successful performances of Finns. Otherwise, the sizeable investments it takes to send employees to cover the games are hard to justify in the long run.
      I recall that I previously wondered why reporters do not briskly demand from shot-putters if they have used banned substances, ask medal favourites who fail to achieve a qualifying time or distance what the fate of the tax-payers' money that has been invested in them is, or suggest bluntly to team leaders that they resign after poor performances at a competition.
      A couple of weeks spent here wipe all such ideas away. We dream together with the athletes and truly feel sad when those dreams crumble. We do not need to hit those who are already down.
     
Back home, the expectations, disappointments, and explanations dominate the fans’ view of the Olympics, but while at the scene one sees the human drama. There are also quite a few interesting characters in the Finnish team who do not usually make any headlines.
      I happened to meet judoka Timo Peltola immediately after a match he lost, and he calmly told me about his injuries, his cardiac arrhythmia problems, and his dream of getting back in shape and finding the funding to get one more chance.
      Not to mention long-distance runner Kirsi Valasti, an art therapist who exudes an air that she has seen quite a bit more of life than just the track. At the press conference Valasti answered a reporter's question on her apparent weight-loss: "No, it was just that I had bigger tits while I was breast-feeding."
     
The most impressive moment of the games to me was the finish of the 50 kilometres walk, which took place in extremely hot weather. After the finish line, regardless of how they placed in the race, the athletes laughed, cried, celebrated, hugged each other - and crumpled onto the turf of the infield. When Finland's only semi-conscious Jani Lehtinen was led away to rest by two men, we reporters were silent, for once.
      After the job was done, we gathered at a taverna to ponder how Finland's sporting success could be improved. Someone suggested that all the money should be directed to small niche sports, such as women's wrestling or the modern pentathlon.
      Another felt completely the opposite, arguing that we should be like Lithuania, whose basketball team is seen on television and in the newspapers from one day to the next.
     
After one particularly lousy day at the games, I noticed that I was seriously considering the proposal that "Concerned Reader" had sent to the Helsingin Sanomat staff: Kari-Pekka Kyrö should take over responsibility for coaching the Olympic team. Kyrö was the head coach of Finland's cross-country skiers when six of them tested positive at the Lahti World Championships in 2001.
      By the end of the Olympics, flags draped over shoulders, the beating of drums, and the boasting of various nations started to be too much. Each country seems to be interested only in its own business.
      When the packed stadium called out Kostas Kenteris's name before the men's 200 metres final, I was ashamed for Greece. When a group of Mexicans sang their national anthem in an Athens square with sombreros on their heads and fists on their hearts, I was forced to contain my anger. And it was not a question of jealousy.
     
Helsingin Sanomat / First published in print 29.8.2004


Previously in HS International Edition:
  Medals haul represents lowest point in Finnish Olympic history (30.8.2004)

SASKA SAARIKOSKI / Helsingin Sanomat
saska.saarikoski@hs.fi