Every four years, around this time of year, I find myself watching more television in a two week span than I do during the other 50 weeks of the year combined. No, I haven’t fallen victim to a “Say Yes to the Dress” or “Long Island Medium” marathon. I would prefer to stare at the back of your head for two weeks. It’s the Summer Olympics, the Games of the XXXI Olympiad in Rio de Janeiro.

For those that are a bit rusty on their Roman numerals and geography, that is the 31st in Brazil…South America. The games and events being contested on the Olympic stage vary as much as the athletes competing in them. It is the athlete’s that draw me in, more so than the games they play, their stories, their struggles, their triumphs, their sacrifices. They are why I watch.

They are why I find myself out of my seat, arms raised overhead, cheering on people I don’t know, from countries I couldn’t find on a map. They are why I find my eye’s welling up with tears over and over again, while I watch their eye’s do the same, as they listen to their countries national anthem play for them and their accomplishments. They are why I feel a lump form in my throat when I see the competitors loved ones, that have traveled near and far to support them, overcome with emotion.

The competitors' family, friends, and loved ones know the story, know the struggles, and have most likely made sacrifices themselves to help these athletes' reach this level. For many of these athlete’s this is it, these Olympic Games are what they’ve worked for, and when the games are over we may never hear of them again.

My son and I were watching one of the swimming events, and the commentator mentioned that for some of the medalist this would be their first and last Olympics, because they had graduated from college and had careers to pursue. My son said, “They should be able to get two weeks off of work for the Olympics.” As if it involved little more than packing up your goggles and little rubber hat for trip to the cement pond.

I felt my eyes widen in confused disbelief as I launched into a mini-lecture on the four-year commitment, and hours and hours, of practice involved in preparing for these two weeks. This got the usual dismissive shoulder shrug, and grunt, that the majority of my mini-lectures are welcomed with. The spectrum of drive and ambition amongst teenagers is baffling. Some willingly endure torturous workouts, day in and day out, in pursuit of an Olympic dream, and others, well they have Pokémon to pursue.

We can’t all be Olympians, for various reasons, muscle tone like ball of mozzarella cheese, the speed and agility of a limp dishrag, or possibly an acute aversion to any physical activity that may produce nausea (other than tequila shots). Besides, as Syndrome in the movie “The Incredibles” said, “When everyone’s super, no one is.”

Someone needs to watch, someone needs to cheer, someone needs to tear up when a member of the synchronized swim team overcomes a childhood fear of getting water in their ear to lead Kazakhstan to a hard fought victory over Estonia. The drama…the pageantry.

Go Team USA!