The Olympics have always been a time for hero worship and myth-making. Back in ancient days, the winners at the Olympiad were treated as living gods. Today they are treated as commodities, teasers between commercials. “Stay tuned. Don’t touch that dial. Michael Phelps in 44 minutes.”

One can’t watch the Olympics today without wondering what it would be like without all the hysteria and hoopla and hyper-marketing. I seem to recall that in my childhood the Olympics still retained an aura of sanctity, of being above crass commercialism, if not, alas, politics. One expected nations to push their athletes, and even in some cases to force them into training. That came with the territory of staging an international competition, especially in the Cold War. But somewhere along the way the line between sportsmanship and pop entertainment has been blurred. The biggest mistake was allowing professionals to compete against amateurs. I understand the reasons behind the change, but honestly, what’s the point of Kobe Bryant being on an Olympic basketball team? It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. We’ve lost something basic and wonderful about the Olympics: the beauty of innocence and authenticity. Today it’s the media that create the myths, leaving it to the viewer to look behind the hype for the reality of these heroes’ lives. (Photo below: Jonathan Horton, current US gymnast.)

The first time I recall seeing the Olympics with any understanding of what I was watching was in 1968. I was eleven years old. Held in Mexico City, the Olympics were splashed on television in what used to be called “living color.” (As opposed to “dying color”?) Even then I knew I was drawn to the Olympics for my own personal reasons. I enjoyed watching these handsome athletes compete against each other. The beauty of some participants was obvious to me, but it was their achievements which dazzled the eye and inspired the imagination. Who can ever forget the famous Fosbury Flop in the high jump? Dick Fosbury proved that doing things ass-backwards can sometimes work out in your favor!

Bob Beamon’s spectacular long jump of 29 feet, 2.5 inches was a record that lasted 22 years (thanks in part to Mexico City’s altitude). It seemed to me in watching him perform that he was in fact not human. His accomplishment went beyond the possibility of normal man. That same Olympics was tainted, announcers informed us, by the behavior of two African-American athletes, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, who raised their fists in support of black power during the awards ceremony. Both were banned for life from participating in the Olympics. Today it seems inconceivable (at least to me) that such a minor protest could cause such an uproar. And I can’t help but admire their willingness to risk everything for a purpose greater than themselves.

As the Olympics progressed, heroes emerged who became for me icons of grace and physical perfection. Bruce Jenner seemed like a demi-god in the Decathlon — an All-American hunk who brought to mind images of Apollo. His image would be tainted later after he appeared in the high-camp Village People movie Can’t Stop the Music, cavorting in painfully revealing hot pants. Jenner graced Wheaties boxes as well as the cover of Playgirl. His vanity got the best of him, however, when he got a terrible nose job. The man who had looked like a demi-god suddenly looked like just another dumb mortal.

Mark Spitz was another one of these gods-on-earth. His golden haul in the Munich Olympics was one of the only bright lights to balance the tragic turn of events there after 11 Israeli athletes were massacred by Palestine terrorists. Announcer Jim McKay deserved a medal of his own for his compassionate yet trenchant coverage during the ordeal. Watching Spitz compete was like watching Omar Sharif from Lawrence of Arabia throw off his robes and dive into an oasis. He is one of the lucky ones who did not see his reputation tainted by scandal or poor choices in show business, if you discount his appearance on the Sonny & Cher Show when he appeared as stiff as a diving board. Another star of that Olympiad was young Olga Korbut who transformed gymnastics from a dull routine to a dazzling display of impish charm and Russian chutzpah.

One of the great icons of the Olympics, at least in my book, is Kurt Thomas who brought men’s gymnastics into the fore. His boy-next-door good looks and his tight muscular physique captured the hearts of young girls and countless boys the world over, making him one of the first Olympic teen idols. Today he is also remembered for starring in Gymkata, a gymnastics martial arts flick which some consider to be the worst movie ever made.

Another of the great hunks of gymnastics was Mitch Gaylord, who vaulted to stardom in 1984. Armed with matinee idol looks and biceps the size of watermelons, he became an instant icon. Soon he was appearing in Soloflex ads, replacing Scott Madsen. He also leaped to the big screen in a film called American Anthem which was kind of like Flashdance on a pommel horse. His later films did not do as well at the box office.

No Olympian, as far as I’m concerned, was as mesmerizing as Romania’s Nadia Comaneci. She wowed audiences with her elegance, grace and astonishing athleticism. She was the first female gymnast to score a perfect ten. And in my opinion, no other athlete has ever come as close to perfection as she did. This summer they’ve changed the scoring system and eliminated perfect tens. But no one can take away what Nadia did for the sport.

Another perfect ten was Greg Louganis, who did more for diving than any athlete before him and who was the first Olympian (I’m pretty sure) to come out of the closet. Louganis, despite his soap opera private life, did more to help gay rights than all the protesters in Act Up put together. I was lucky enough to interview him once at his home in Malibu. He was absolutely friendly but not the most talkative of interviewees. I later learned he had dyslexia which is why he let his lover manage most of his business transactions. That proved to be a mistake. Louganis went on to become a staple of television, promoting AIDS awareness, but somehow has managed not to tarnish his image. He remains a powerful role model for us all.

Today’s hero-du-jour is without question Michael Phelps. With size 14 feet and a chip-toothed smile, he is a kind of goofy super-hero: part Aquaman, part Cecil, the sea monster from the cartoon “Beany and Cecil.”

My only quibble with him and how he is being presented is the frenzied focus on the medal count and his speed. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but it should be enough to simply win the competition, rather than to turn every event into a race to enter the Guinness Book of World Records. The focus should be on the thrill of victory, not on the stats. But then again, who am I to talk? I’m the one who just mentioned his size 14 feet! As for those controversial NASA-designed Speedo swimsuits, why not do as the ancient Greeks did during races? Strip down and compete in one’s birthday suit! Then no one can complain of an unfair advantage.

Which reminds me. Alexandre Despatie, above, is due up today. A brilliant diver from Canada, he rocketed to fame in the Athens Olympics four years ago. His sparkling eyes and devilish smile guaranteed him prime time coverage on the web.

Bloggers around the world posted images of this promising young man. He won a silver medal in Athens. No doubt the pressure on him to perform big time was intense. Let’s hope he pulls it out this go-round and comes out on top.

(Addendum: Well, Alex managed to win another silver at the Beijing Olympics despite stiff competition from the Chinese. Considering what he was up against in He Chong, Despatie’s coming in second was a major surprise and he deserves tremendous kudos for his terrific form!)