These memories are golden

The memories are a little fuzzy, but I think I like them that way.
I'm 5 years old and I'm sitting in the family room inside a couch fort I built with my brother and two sisters and we're watching a small black-and-white television.
The gymnastics competition is on. Or maybe it's basketball. Or track. I can't remember and it doesn't really matter since we're just happy to be watching the Olympics and we don't yet know about cable. And besides, pretty much anything beats going to bed early on warm nights in August.
It's 1984, and in between watching the swimmers and the divers and the weight lifters, we're stacking the couch cushions at the bottom of the steps and jumping off the top of the staircase onto the cushions. My parents have long since given up on trying to settle us down.
The names are a little fuzzy, but I think I like them that way. Everyone knows about Mary Lou Retton, but almost everyone else blends together, which has a little to do with the number of medals that America is winning and a lot more to do with being 5.
And in between the McDonald's commercials (is there a more wonderful place on Earth for a 5-year-old than McDonald's?) and the fights about whose turn it is to jump off the stairs (boy, my brother seems to get a lot of turns) and the trips to the kitchen to get some popcorn and some pop (is there a more wonderful meal for a 5-year-old?), we'll sit back and watch.
And dream.
And picture the day when we'll be winning a gold medal.
Because we're not yet old enough to realize it's impossible and, hopefully, we never will be.
Our own Olympics
The sports seem a little funny, but I think I like them that way.
Fencing? We can do that. Just grab a couple cushions and start pounding each other on the arms and legs and face. I get bonus points if I make my sister cry.
Wrestling? We can do that. Just throw a couple cushions on the ground, jump on my big brother's back and wait for him to pick me up and throw me down. I get bonus points if I don't cry.
Diving? We can do that. Heck, the cushions are already stacked at the bottom of the staircase. All we have to do is dive off and make sure our heads don't hit the ceiling. We get bonus points if we can jump off the top without hitting stairs on the way down.
And when we wake up the next day, we gather all the neighborhood kids and race each other around the house or around the block or around the swing set.
And in the middle of every run, we start singing the Olympic theme song (DUM, DUM, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum) and we're not worried about losing, because we're Carl Lewis and Carl Lewis never loses. (Everyone knows that.)
And when the races are over and we're tired and sweaty, I run inside to show off the Olympic beach towel my grandma bought for me. It's big and blue and it's got Sam the Eagle on it. Everyone knows about Sam because he's in all the McDonald's commercials.
A whole new world
The other countries seem a little funny, but I think I like them that way.
Turkey? Is that a real country? Don't they know that's a food?
Hungary? Is that a real country? I bet they eat a lot.
Netherlands? Is that a real country? Does Peter Pan really live there?
And no one talks about steroids. And no one talks about BALCO. And no one talks about terrorism or cost overruns or security.
If I were a few years older, I might know about things like the Soviet Union and communism and the Cold War. But when you're 5 years old, you don't worry about stuff like that. I'll learn about those things soon enough.
And every time one of America's athletes stands at the top of the podium (gee, this seems to happen a lot, doesn't it?) and they play our song, my parents smile at me and say, "You know what Joey? You live in the greatest country in the world."
And when I look around at your couch fort and my TV and my popcorn and my pop and my beach towel and my family, I believe it's true.
Twenty years later, I still do.
XJoe Scalzo is a sportswriter for The Vindicator. Write him at scalzo@vindy.com.