Who is more melancholy than a Swede? Lets ratchet it up a bit. A Swedish woman. OK, how about a collection of Swedish women who have just had their Olympic medal dreams ripped out of their hearts? After being vanquished in overtime Thursday, with the winning goal coming off the stick of their pillar-of-strength Captain Erika Holtz, Team Sweden crawled back to their locker room in a collective puddle of tears. Shattered, suffocating in sobs, inconsolable. Finally, some words from their coach, the only human able to speak. "You must all go to the mixed zone." Yes, the International Federation was insisting, get on that media conveyor belt and walk through every accredited rights-holding member of the media.
It was Bergman meets Night of the Living Dead meets Harry Potter and the Dementor's Kiss. The eyes of these poor souls were those of a frat boy who had just been making love to his smoking bong for several hours. Continuing the drug theme, their faces were ashen as heroin abusers. All the joy of sport and Olympic medals was instantly sucked out of the mixed zone, as a parade of zombies walked past. You could feel the death-like energy (or lack thereof) in this ghastly walk-by. Holst, the tower of strength throughout the tournament, stopped to talk to the Olympic News Channel. "You did everything right, back checking all the way to the goal line. There is an expression, 'no good deed goes unpunished'. Can you please take us through that final play?" the reporter asked as sensitively as he could. Holtz looked stymied, and managed a few words as the tears began leaking involuntarily. "No, I can't," she sobbed. Interview over, she resumed her death march.
The frail but marvelously skilled Elin Holmlov, stopped. Her eyes have an amazing faraway gaze of gray and blue, an ideal film subject for Bergman. They are the eyes of a gray wolf, seeing the world with much grander perception than a mere human. This afternoon they are ringed with rich, red circles. She states that being part of the best game of the tournament to date, a tournament desperate for competition, was small consolation. End of interview, she glided on with the other dementors. Death of spirit, the death of joy, had invaded the mixed zone. It lingered uncomfortably, surrounding every journalist. This toy department of life can be a cruel business. fortunately, the human spirit nearly always rekindles, but certainly not during that awful, ugly walk through the mixed zone.
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