An Olympic Loss
It's not that I haven't enjoyed the Winter Olympics. They've been fine, even great at points. I've cheered for the cute American teenagers as they've barreled down the half pipes. I've grown used to falling asleep at night watching curling. I've learned that no one can pronounce Zagitova or Medvedeva correctly, and we are all okay with that.
But I can't fully enjoy the Olympics because I keep thinking, where's Bob?!
I understand that Bob Costas can't host the Olympics forever, but without him there, things don't feel right. What makes it worse is that I never got any closure. I was alarmed when I didn't see Bob on the first day of the Olympics, but I held out hope. A pit formed in my stomach when he didn't make an appearance on the second day. On the third day, People.com confirmed what I had suspected: Bob wasn't coming this year. Or any year, for that matter. Bob had retired.
We should have been given more warning! If Rio was going to be the last Olympics with Bob, I should have been told so that I could mourn the loss appropriately. I could have baked a Costas cake, or buried a time capsule with videos of my favorite Bob moments, like when he contracted an aggressive case of pink eye in Sochi.
Am I mad at NBC? Are they to blame? Or am I really mad at Bob? After all, he's the one who left without saying good bye.
In time, I will learn to love Mike Tirico. But he'll never wear a blue suit the way Bob does.