With all this Olympic stuff going on, I thought it would be time to share some insights into my sporting ability.

Like the day I scored the runs that won the grand final for the team of also-rans who were never given a chance against their more fancied opponents.

Or the time I scored the try that sealed the match for the team of has-beens who were never given a chance against their more fancied opponents.

Or the time I swam the ...

Oh, forget it! They never happened.

I have had some sporting high points over the years but none of them worth even thinking about, much less mentioning.

But then there was the time I spent with the Russian rowers.

I don’t want to bore anyone who’s already heard it ... but I’m willing to take the risk.

It was 2000 and I was editor of the paper in the northern NSW city of Grafton, which had been chosen to host the pre-Olympic camp for the Russian rowing team.

As I was a “local dignitary”, my wife and I were invited to a civic dinner to welcome them.

We were seated with four members of the Men’s Eight crew, none of whom spoke any English.

Of course, we didn’t speak Russian either, but after 20 minutes of uncomfortable silence I launched into some long joke about a bishop, two kangaroos and a gay Russian who share a taxi.

Before you can say “hello comrade” we were having rambling conversations using Russian, English, a fair chunk of Aussie slang and hand signals.

My wife believes that if someone doesn’t speak English, the best way to communicate is to speak very slowly and loudly.

“AAAARE YOOU ENJOOOYING YOOOUR VISIT?” she was soon yelling, with
appropriate hand gestures and facial expressions.

“ISSS IT NIIICE WHEEERE YOOU LIVVVE?”

And so it continued until it was time for us to leave but as we neared the door, one of the team’s interpreters grabbed my arm.

“So, 12 o’clock is okay?” she asked.

“Huh?” I said in my usual monosyllabic style.

“Tomorrow at 12 o’clock – for lunch,” she pushed on.

“Huh?” I repeated.

“WIIILL 12 OOO’CLOCK BEE AAALL RIIIGHT TOO PIIICK THEEE BOOYS UUUP FOOR LUUNCH TOOMOORROOW?” she said, reverting to my wife’s tried and true communication methods.

It seems that somewhere between my Russian joke and dessert we’d agreed to take the rowers to lunch the next day.

So we headed for a local pub with these four blokes and had a lovely time.

It was so enjoyable that we caught up with them many times over the next few weeks, despite having to dodge some shady men in dark suits who tried to keep a close eye on everything they did.

Seriously, these characters calling themselves “managers” had to give permission for the guys to leave their motel and had a habit of suddenly arriving wherever we were – no matter how obscure the location.

Between dodging the KGB and keeping the team’s little coxswain off the grog and out of my cigarettes, we had a great time.

We nearly lost one of them in an unfortunate jet-ski incident and I think a few of them developed drinking problems but, all-in-all, there was no harm done.

Or so we thought.

As the team packed up to head for Sydney, the boys took us aside and presented us with a bottle of Russian vodka and a silver medal they had won at the Greater Moscow Regatta.

“Damian, Jan - we will wave at you when we win gold medal,” one said in very broken English.

“We say ‘hello Damian, hello Jan – look how good we do’.”

I was deeply touched but, sadly, it never happened.

Despite the fact they were supposed to be among the world’s best, the guys performed so dismally in Sydney that they were a plane back to Russia almost before their boat was dry.

It was one of the great mysteries of the Olympic competition and experts were left bemused.

We never heard from the boys again and our attempts to contact them hit brick walls.

But we’ve still got the silver medal they gave us.

And I’m willing to bet they still have a taste for Aussie beer.