Citius, altius, morbidius

Luata prea literal, deviza olimpica (CITIUS, ALTIUS, FORTIUS = mai repede, mai sus, mai puternic) poate duce la excese daunatoare sanatatii. Un editorial din The British Journal of Psychiatry arăta că sportul de performanta, asa cum este practicat el astazi, devine mai degraba un factor de risc pentru sanatate.

Mai multe studii au aratat un risc crescut de accidente, epuizare, moarte cardiaca subita, deficit de fier, alergii, zaharat, tulburari de alimentatie (anorexie sau bulimie), depresie.

1 din 6 sportivi si 1 din 3 sportive au o tulburare de alimentatie (anorexie sau bulimie); in medie, severitatea tulburarilor de alimentatie aparute la sportivii de performanta este mai mare decat la alte persoane afectate.

Reactiile depresive legate de esecul sportiv sau de accidentari sunt frecvente, 10-20% dintre sportivii de performanta avand simptome serioase, justificand interventia terapeutica.

Editorialul a aparut inaintea Jocurilor Olimpice de la Londra si s-a vrut a fi unsemnal de alarma asupra unei probleme foarte serioase peste care interesele comerciale uriase pun surdina de cateva decenii bune. Initiatorii miscarii olimpice au dorit (si au reusit in prima faza) sa promoveze, la nivel de masa, un stil de viata sanatos  si valorile umaniste. Amatorismul a fost un principiu esential pentru atingerea acestor obiective. Profesionalizarea sportului mai degraba descurajeaza sportul de mase, iar pe sportivi ii transforma in niste lucratori intr-un mediu hipercompetitiv, dominat mecanisme de piata.

Cursa continua sub deviza CITIUS, ALTIUS, MORBIDIUS (mai repede, mai sus, mai nesănătos). Rezultate asteptate: mai putini amatori in parcuri, mai multi oameni in fata televizorului (pentru a urmari mai multe transmisii sportive care alterneaza prezentarea de recorduri sportive nesanatoase cu reclame la produse nesanatoase).

Une réflexion sur “Citius, altius, morbidius

  1. Se poate să înțelegi sportul și altfel:
    « There was this Czech soldier, a gawky dweeb who ran with such horrendous form that he looked “as if he’d just been stabbed through the heart,” as one sports-writer put it. But Emil Zatopek loved running so much that even when he was still a grunt in army boot camp, he used to grab a flashlight and go off on twenty- mile runs through the woods at night. In his combat boots. In winter. After a full day of infantry drills. […] he never timed
    himself. […] One of Zatopek’s favorite workouts combined all his loves at once: he’d jog through the woods in his army boots with his ever-loving wife riding on his back.
    Zatopek treated competition like it was speed dating. Even in the middle of a race, he liked to natter with other runners and try out his smattering of French and English and German, causing one grouchy Brit to complain about Zatopek’s “incessant talking.” At away meets, he’d sometimes have so many new friends in his hotel room that he’d
    have to give up his bed and sleep outside under a tree. Once, right before an international race, he became pals with an Australian runner who was hoping to break the Australian 5,000- meter record. Zatopek was only entered in the 10,000- meter race, but he came up with a plan; he told the Aussie to drop out of his race and line up next to Zatopek instead. Zatopek spent the first half of the 10,000- meter race pacing his new buddy to the record, then sped off to attend to his own business and win.
    Zatopek found a way to run so that when he won, even other
    teams were delighted.
    You can’t pay someone to run with such infectious joy. You can’t bully them into it, either, which Zatopek would unfortunately have to prove. When the Red Army marched into Prague in 1968 to crush the pro-democracy movement, Zatopek was given a choice: he could get on board with the Soviets and serve as a sports ambassador, or he could spend the rest of his life cleaning toilets in an uranium mine. Zatopek chose the toilets. And just like that, one of the most beloved athletes in the world disappeared.
    At the same time, coincidentally, his rival for the title of world’s greatest distance runner was also taking a beating. Ron Clarke, a phenomenally talented Australian with Johnny Depp’s dark, dreamy beauty, was exactly the kind of guy that Zatopek, by all rights, should hate. Despite breaking nineteen records in every distance from the half-mile to six miles, “the bloke who choked” never managed to win the big ones. In the summer of ’68, he blew his final chance: in the 10,000- meter finals at the Mexico City Games, Clarke was knocked out by altitude sickness. Anticipating a barrage of abuse back home, Clarke delayed his return by stopping off in Prague to pay a courtesy call to the bloke who never lost. Toward the end of their visit, Clarke glimpsed Zatopek sneaking something into his suitcase. “I thought I was smuggling some message to the outside world for him, so I did not dare to open the parcel until the plane was well away,” Clarke would say. Zatopek sent him off with a strong
    embrace. “Because you deserved it,” he said, which Clarke found cute and very touching; the old master had far worse problems of his own to deal with, but was still playful enough to grant a victory-stand hug to the young punk who’d missed his chance to mount one. Only later would he discover that Zatopek wasn’t talking about the hug at all: in his suitcase, Clarke found Zatopek’s 1952 Olympic 10,000- meters gold medal. For Zatopek to give it to the
    man who’d replaced his name in the record books was extraordinarily noble; to give it away at precisely the moment in his life when he was losing everything else was an act of almost unimaginable compassion.
    “His enthusiasm, his friendliness, his love of life, shone through every movement,” an overcome Ron Clarke said later. “There is not, and never was, a greater man than Emil Zatopek.” ( Christopher McDougall – Born to run )

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