“Games in the city or almost, but without barriers everywhere” – L’Express

1968. I am not yet 6 years old. The Winter Olympics are being held in Grenoble. I don’t know exactly what it is about, but I am excited. The whole region is getting ready, we live in a small town about fifty kilometers from Grenoble.

I already know how to read (I more or less taught myself, lucky to have parents who are teachers). I try to decipher the sports pages of the Dauphine Liberatedon all fours on the unfolded newspaper on the floor. The daily newspapers of the time were much too wide for a child’s arm span. The Games jumped out at me. Then came scarlet fever. A highly dreaded disease. I have very pleasant memories of it. Lots of little red spots everywhere, but no pain. And I was contagious. As a result: you absolutely must not go to school. Joy!

I remember bits of a refrain: “It’s better than getting scarlet fever, it’s better than eating rat poison” (information gathered, Ray Ventura song from 1936). Now I know: it’s better to get scarlet fever than to eat rat poison. Especially if it makes you miss a month of school.

That’s it for the fall of 68. And finally in the winter, the Winter Games!

One name came up three times: Jean-Claude Killy

We didn’t have a TV. Firstly because it cost an arm and a leg (the price of a 4L), but also out of militant conviction. Teachers were the last to install this device in their homes, considered by them to be absolute evil, until the advent of the Internet. However, for the extraordinary occasion, the parents had rented a television. Unless we went to watch the competitions at the neighbors’ house. I can’t swear to that. Reconstructed memories are the worst thing after reconstructed ham. In any case, I was amazed. I saw skiers emerging from the mist, without knowing if it was the one on the Chamrousse slopes or the Radiola in black and white.

One name came up three times: Jean-Claude Killy. He won the gold medal in the three premier categories: the downhill, the special slalom and the giant slalom. A feat never repeated since Killy. For my part, I heard “Jean-Claude who reads”. I attributed to myself an imaginary fraction of his victories.

One last memory, off topic, but it’s now or never. Mom sometimes nicknamed my little brother Ivan (born in 1964) “Jojo”. Because he was a horrible Jojo! Like all kids in fact. When the Games arrived in Grenoble, Ivan was certain that they were organized for him. He called them “the Jojolympics”. Then came spring. And a historic storm: May 68. The parents were both teachers, so on strike. Including me: banned from going to class. When I say class, I mean in class. When I say in class, it consisted of lining up cubes and tracing letters, in the last section of kindergarten. That said, the teacher herself may have been on strike.

Note for the youngest: in 1968, teachers were not yet designated as “school teachers”. As if these words were infamous, when it is perhaps the most beautiful job in the world. Go figure… Anyway. The year 1968, real and imagined, was the most beautiful of my short existence. Only the Olympic Games were on the calendar, so thank you Games! This Olympic passion has never left me. Hence this Why the Olympic Games?on sale in all good bookstores.

On stage with Yannick Noah and Manu Katché

London 2012. I was lucky enough to be able to spend forty-eight hours there, invited by Patrick Chêne, a leading sports journalist, at the time the boss of the Sport 365 channel, which he regularly asked me to take part in. The Games were in the city, or almost. But without traffic jams or barriers everywhere, with smiling London shopkeepers. Crowded restaurants. In the streets, an incredible kindness and an unstoppable organization. It makes you want to make sentences without verbs. Fluidity and ease. In my experience, it was the first time that we didn’t queue in front of a sports stadium. In front of each stadium, there were more than thirty queues. And since everyone was waiting everywhere, no one was waiting anywhere. A delicious paradox.

The first day, we headed to the Aquatis Centre, in the Stratford district, for the swimming events. I admit I forgot who was in the pool, but I was fascinated by the speed of the swimmers and the fervour in the stands. Splashed, that’s the word. Then came Judo, with the first gold medal for a young Frenchman: Teddy Riner. A phenomenon of power and control. The next day, 20 minutes Title: “London 2012: They lived through hell against Teddy Riner”. A delicious portrait in which it is the defeated who speak of him, and not the winner. First sentence: “His opponents of the day in London testify after their lost fight against the new Olympic champion.”

The night before, evening at Club France, a magnificent place with a view of the iconic Tower Bridge. Club France is a sort of temporary embassy where French athletes, officials, journalists, fans and other guests meet after the events. On the menu: medals, open bar, and good humor. In an improvised dressing room, I bump into Yannick and Manu. Yannick Noah, perhaps the best tennis player-singer-entertainer in the world, and Manu Katché, perhaps the best drummer in the world. I step forward: “Guys, there’s a stage, there are instruments, why don’t we play a song or two? You on vocals, you on drums, me on bass.

– Oh yeah? You know how to play? What level are you?

– I play everything except jazz. Badly, but I play everything.

– Bingo!”

“When I get up in the morning…”

We requisition the guitarist of the group scheduled for that evening. And we launch into Smoke On the Water by Deep Purple. Then comes a second song, then another, because the audience wants more. We play the standards: Elvis, Rolling Stones, Téléphone, Beatles, etc. Finally, we stay on stage for almost an hour. Magical. Noah is a unique showman, Katché a groove machine. Teenage joy: making music with these two giants. Thank you, Games!

In the sports chapter, there is only one regret: the poor performance of the French champion Frank Dumoulin, gold medalist in pistol shooting in Sydney 2000. He had disappointed in Beijing 2008. We thought he was discouraged. But no, he was fully motivated for London. On August 24, 2008, he confided his motivation to the magazine Gala : “When I get up in the morning, I always tell my wife that I still want to shoot.”

The Olympic form.