IN GREEK mythology, the Titans were the result of the copulation of earth and heaven. I wouldn’t doubt it — but if these men are truly Titans, it was their mother, the earth, they took after. They don’t look like their dad at all. Every four years, it seems, these creatures of the earth, these majestic trolls, step from their subterranean lairs and come blinking into the Olympic sun: jowly, big-bellied, chthonic creatures whose simple aim is to raise the earth above their heads.
They seek to do it six times in total, by two different methods, the vaguely indecent names for which — snatch, clean and jerk — somehow contribute the wonderfully gross, unapologetically earthy nature of the men’s superheavyweight weightlifting. The category in which there is not upper limit for weight. One of this event’s unique charms the is shape of the contestants. These men of earth and iron have no embarrassment about cloaking the mighty muscles in a generous covering of adipose tissue: bellies perhaps deliberately cultivated as a counter-weight.
But who needs a six pack when you can justly claim to be the strongest man on earth? Reza Zadeh Hossein was back. The Iranian giant walked his awkward pregnant-duck walk to the centre of the stage, shouted out a brief but heartfelt prayer, and proceeded to hurl the bar heavenwards all night. It was more or less literally a case of faith moving mountains; although muscles like steel hawsers certainly help. Reza Zadeh was the gold medal-winner in Sydney four years ago:
“Every time I lifted I called for help from God. I invoked the name of a prophet who was known for his warlike qualities.”
As a result of his victory, he was voted Iran’s champion of champions and they even named a bank after him, and Mohammed Khatami, the President, bought him a house in Tehran. They’ll have to buy him a palace or two now, and name all the financial institutions in the country after him. Because Reza Zadeh dominated the competition from first lift to last, and was already the clear winner with two lifts still to go. It was a demonstration of total dominance. Lord knows the other people in the competition are strong, but Reza Zadeh is in a different category.
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It wasn’t a great competition, for there was no one to compete with. But as a demonstration of one man’s iron control and unswerving will, it was a deeply impressive night. In weightlifting, you get three lifts by each method. Traditionally, you start with a weight you’ll certainly get, move on to a probably, and then if all goes well, finish with a possibly.
Reza Zadeh’s certainties alone would have been enough for silver. In the end, he beat Viktors Scerbatihs by 17.5 kilos. That’s just shy of the baggage allowance in economy class. Yes, and you always get a trolley. But Reza Zadeh wages his lone war on gravity and never allows it to get cocky. He had two lifts left with the competition already well won, always a slightly anticlimactic moment, especially as he dropped the first of these two. However, Reza Zadeh is not just a winner, he is a champion, and he had the need to finish like a champion. Winning would not have been quite enough.
And so the entry, the humble shouting of the holy name, the crouch, the prayer uttered in more or less conversational tone. And then the effort: standing now with the weight on his chest, and then the lifetime pause for the final element. And slowly he straightened under the massive load: 263.5 kilos, or about the weight of four comely women. He roared and the hall roared back. And at the achievement of the lift, the great potato face cracked in a huge V-shaped grin: God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world. The weight hit the floor with the sound of thunder, and Reza Zadeh was on his knees, forehead to the floor, in a silent prayer of thanks. God’s instrument had lifted the world once again — and his clean-and-jerk was a world record.
It’s not only the godly who achieve great things in sport, of course. Many, perhaps most, westerners succeed because they are sincere believers in the great religion of themselves: the sacred script of the training diary, the via dolorosa of injuries, the true faith in sporting ambition as the one important thing in life.
At the Olympic Games they measure success, and they don’t worry about the route you took to got there. The godly may not win more, but perhaps they have a better than average chance of treating triumph and disaster just the same. God may not always win you a gold medal, but for some, he can answer a lot of questions.