A modest proposal for turning down the sound or changing channels
I used to live across from a man whose sole civic function appeared to be shouting at children.
Whenever we were playing road hockey, building snow forts, or engaging in any activity detectable by human ears, he would emerge and declare:
“Hey, you kids! Shut up!”
At the time, we viewed him as the villain in a small suburban opera.
Now, watching the modern Olympics, I find myself sympathizing with him.
Not because children are loud.
Because everything is.
Curling has discovered heavy metal
Let us begin with curling.
A sport whose essential mechanics involve granite stones gliding across ice at contemplative speed has somehow transformed into an auditory siege.
The shouting is constant. Not directional calls. Not strategy. Just prolonged, high-volume vocal propulsion, as though decibels influence friction.
If noise improved stone trajectory, physics textbooks would look different.
Instead, we are left with the unsettling realization that a sport once associated with sweaters and tea has discovered heavy metal.
The announcer as emergency broadcast system
Then come the timed events.
Speed skating. Downhill. Moguls. Snowboard cross.
The announcers begin at full yell and escalate steadily, as if engaged in a competitive screaming event adjacent to the actual race.
By the finish line, the commentary has dissolved into pure alarm. Words no longer exist. Only urgency.
Apparently the viewer must be alerted that something dramatic is happening.
It is the Olympics. We know.
The rise of the Apex Predator Pose
Victory now appears to require a roar.
Athletes cross the line and immediately assume what can only be described as the Apex Predator Stance: mouth wide, arms flung backward like jet wings, torso lunging forward in mid-snarl.
It resembles either a lion claiming territory or a Marvel audition.
One misses the occasional quiet smile.
Apparently triumph must now be acoustically demonstrated.
The fall as premium content
More revealing is the broadcast treatment of falling.
An athlete crashes.
Within seconds, we are shown:
- the fall at full speed,
- the fall in slow motion,
- the fall from an overhead angle,
- the fall from a front angle,
- the fall again, just in case we missed its cultural significance.
The replay often exceeds the airtime of the winning performance.
Achievement is covered once.
Catastrophe is covered exhaustively.
The Olympic spirit once celebrated excellence. The modern broadcast appears equally committed to wipeout analytics.
The F1 compulsion
Then there is the curious insistence on comparing nearly every speed sport to Formula One.
Downhill skiing? Like F1.
Speed skating? Ice F1.
Short track? Human F1.
This analogy is repeated so frequently that one suspects a sponsorship agreement.
A Ferrari is an engineered combustion device with telemetry and pit strategy.
A skier is a human being who has spent twenty years training ligaments and lungs.
The metaphor is not illuminating.
The decibel arms race
What we are witnessing is not enthusiasm.
It is escalation.
Modern broadcasting appears convinced that silence equals disengagement. That tension must be sonically reinforced. That the viewer cannot detect drama unless it is shouted.
Sport does not need amplification to create intensity.
A downhill run at 130 kilometres per hour is already compelling.
A curling stone does not accelerate when yelled at.
The spectacle has begun to drown the performance.
Two suggestions for civilized viewing
Fortunately, reform need not begin with the International Olympic Committee.
It can begin at the remote.
One: Turn down the sound
The athlete still competes. The clock still runs. Gravity still operates. What disappears is the competitive shouting overlay.
You lose some commentary.
You regain your nervous system.
Two: Change the channel when someone falls — and immediately after the finish
The fall will be replayed. Repeatedly. You are not depriving yourself.
And once the race ends, you may exit before the lion routine, the howl, the winged torso lunge.
Medals are awarded later. You will survive not witnessing the full predator reenactment.
The real loss
This is hopefully not about being ‘curmudgeonly’.
It is about proportion.
When everything is maximum intensity, nothing is.
When commentary begins at crisis pitch, there is nowhere left to go.
We have taken competition — which already contains suspense — and layered it with audio panic.
The Games are extraordinary.
They do not require yelling to prove it.
A small act of resistance
There is something quietly radical about lowering the volume.
In the sudden quiet, you notice things.
The glide of a skate blade.
The precision of a landing.
The human effort without the broadcast crescendo.
The performance re-emerges from beneath the spectacle.
And you avoid becoming the man at the window.
“Hey you kids, shut up.”
Instead:
“Hey broadcasters — we’re watching.”
Turn it down.