Cathy's dream goes off track

As for Hemery, whose 400 metres hurdles gold in Mexico remains a compelling image to this day, his eyes were lit up like lanterns. "What a night, eh?" he said. "What a night!" What a night indeed. We were all rather light-headed from the events in the stadium - Cathy Freeman primus inter pares alongside the British success and astonishing sprint finishes in the women's 5,000 metres and men's 10,000 - and I felt emboldened to ask what he thought of as he stood on the podium.

Were you aware, I asked, and a less polite man would have been backing away now towards the nearest exit, of being the repository of millions of people's fantasies? Yes, he said, he knew he was doing it for other people, but most of all he was doing it for himself.

A typically straight answer to a mildly pretentious question, then, and one that wisely avoided provoking any more rot from me by analysing the emotional cocktail that brings tears to the eyes of all athletes as they watch their national flag being run up the flagpole.

Maybe it was that proudly bristling blond moustache and the military gait, but whenever I think of David Hemery running, I think of the noble amateur. He looked such an awfully good sort, an absolute brick who ran because he loved it and trained like hell for Olympic gold because that's what a solid sort of chap ought to do.

What the reality was God knows but that's what it looked like, and in smallish dosages Chariots of Fire romanticism is just what the doctor ordered as an antidote to an Olympic age dominated by those whose ain't-no-other-country-on-earth-means-diddly-squat approach become wearing as each Games passes.

From the pool, where bi-jawed ape Gary Hall Jnr announced that the US team would break the Australians "like guitars" before losing the relay to Ian Thorpe, to the basketball court (where the nightmarish Dream Team earn at least £7-£10 million per annum a man), the Americans do their best to take the gloss off this sensational Games.

Last night, for instance, in a 400m hurdles heat, a certain James Carter raced for the line well ahead, turned his head to the rest of the field and waggled his hand at them to say "come on, suckers, catch me if you can." Several of Her Majesty's press, you'll be proud to hear, had a manual gesture of our own for Mr Carter, whose taunting bragadaccio seemed even more misjudged coming in lane six, Cathy Freeman's temporary home an hour before.

Today's coup de grace, meanwhile, came not at the track but at the Mercure hotel where we, Team Standard, are staying. It was thoughtful of US shot-putter CJ Hunter to hold his press conference for our convenience.

For all its hilarity, what followed did little to realise the vision of Baron de Coubertin. First his missus Marion Jones cried as she made a statement about his positive drugs tests, and then CJ conformed to the tiresome Hollywood cliche of the giant softie by sobbing during his. We thought that was as good as it got, but no. Standing in the wings, having seemingly materialised like some malevolent sprite, was Mr Johnny Cochrane.

With CJ snivellingly protesting his innocence - "Why would I do it? Why?" he kept asking; "For Olympic gold, you fat cheat, why else?" I should have shouted in reply - the spectre of the OJ trial was almost too obviously raised.

So soon after the wonderment of Super Monday, perhaps this abrupt journey from sublime to ridiculous was no bad thing. We none of us want to become sentimental ninnies, especially when we must return soon and start writing about the likes of Dennis Wise.

Nor would it be wise to join the Australian papers in believing that one run, however epic, by one athlete, however enchanting, can change the world. The consensus here seems to be that Cathy Freeman has single-handedly started a simple process of reconciliation with the Aborigine people this country has treated so diabolically.

Please God they are right, but a British colleague of Asian descent told me today of his journey home from Olympic Park. After he had tried for 20 minutes to hail a cab, a white friend stepped on to the pavement and raised his hand.

A car that had just shot past pulled over, and once in the front seat he asked irritatedly why the driver hadn't stopped for him. "Sorry about that, mate," said the cabbie. "I'm not being funny, but at night it's impossible to tell if you're an Abbo." Early days on the reconciliation front, it would seem, judging by this useful reminder about the limitations of even the very greatest sport.