Olympics make Universal Experts of us all

"Oh, that's going to cost him!" The Olympics commentator groaned, and we at home groaned with him, sadly aware that the gymnast whirling astride the pommel horse had lost any hope of a bronze medal.

The curl of a toe... the .005-degree variation off true when entering the water... three strands of tail hair slightly askew as the horse clears the hurdle. Regardless of the sport, suddenly, everyone in our house was an expert. That includes the kids: "Daddy, I don't think that flippy girl is going to win. She bent her legs."

Olympic fever swept through our house and left us changed, imbued with strange new powers of observation. Sports that we'd channel-surf right past on a lazy February Sunday suddenly became intensely interesting, and we could see each tiny degree of difference separating the divinely perfect from the merely superhuman.

Blame the proliferation of cable channels. What once were mere pastimes, hobbies, leisure activities, have been transformed into competitions, art forms, adjudicated parts of life. Sports, arts, and matters of taste have become competitive, kibitzed events. It's no longer enough to simply enjoy something; now you must compete at it and be the best.

There have always been elites comparing and defining good, better and best. The rarefied circles of haute cuisine, haute fashion, literature, music and arts have for centuries been the province of the wealthy, and largely incomprehensible to meat and potatoes folks like me. Restaurant critics and "foodies" employ a language, a grammar of presentation, juxtaposition and "statement" extending far beyond "mmm, that's good, mom." Wine snobs, beer snobs, yes, even water snobs, all probe delicately for taste distinctions untraceable by common palates.

But thanks to cable and "Iron Chef", now we're all experts in competitive cooking. Not the Pillsbury Bake-Off, not the Best Pickles at the County Fair -- no, we honor "the legend of Kitchen Stadium," for cry-eye-eye.

And on it goes: the entire range of x-treme sports, once simply fun to do, now big-money competitive circuits. Wakeboarding, skateboarding, kiteboarding, sailboarding, snowboarding, board boarding, competitive house-building, competitive fashion design, competitive home makeover, televised high-stakes poker. Too many cable channels.

Each endeavor has grown its own ecosystem of tools, experts and fans. As our hobbies slip away into hyper-professionalism, their costs increase. A pair of cheap sneakers will never do; now we choose a shoe for each activity. A Speedo? Puh-leeze: our casual weekend fitness swims henceforth require the ultra-suits that transmogrify normal swimmers into dolphins. (Aside: has anyone else noticed the resemblance between Michael Phelps and Patrick Duffy, the Man from Atlantis? DNA testing for fish genes better be in place for 2012.)

No matter what the hobby, of course, there's good kit, better, and best. My family knows all about it: last year, my talented mother-in-law launched a business selling premium knitting needles. Who knew that millions of knitters needed better tools? Apparently, all the knitters; these beautifully crafted items are flying off the shelf. Golfers drop a bundle on their tools; auto mechanics, wood carvers, fishermen, historical reenactors pay top dollar for authentic, pro-grade equipment. Why not the knitters? And yes, they have contests, too; last year, my wife met the World Speed-Knitting Champion. Yes, you read that right. World. Speed-Knitting. Champion.

You know you're in the company of an expert when the conversation suddenly veers into terminology and personalities wholly unfamiliar to you, but name-dropped as if they were renowned as Brett Favre. "Rukay Ulini totally shimmed that Norcross, don't you think? It's like the Nationals all over again." Nod. What's she talking about, I wondered, but didn't wish to be found wanting.*

Not that I should kvetch. I myself am a nationally recognized expert in the barbershop quartet world. Yes, really. I've travelled and lectured across North America and have been generally understood to be among a handful of experts in my niche field of communications, public relations and web development for barbershop groups. OK, it seems like a weird niche, and maybe hard to sell outside the circle of Barbershoppers, but it's mine, OK? And I earned expert status the hard way, buddy, in the years before YouTube, a free blog or a column in the Sunday Kenosha News, could make a recognized expert out of anyone.

We should distinguish here between "experts" and "extremophiles." Dick Buttons is a skating expert; Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons is an extremophile whose body of knowledge extends across not only the entire Marvel and DC Universes, but also encompasses the Star Wars Galaxies, the Star Trek Federation (and most of the Alpha and Delta Quadrants), the Ringworld, the Lensman, and, ummm... Nothing. Never mind. Not that I, ahem, know anything much else about them. But it does explain why my son can go on at dizzying length about the varying Masks of Life wielded by the Bionicles, while I go to my happy place.

These limited-scope experts pale in comparison with the Universal Experts we meet each day, devoted followers of Saint Clifford of Clavin. No conversational topic reaches their ears without being swiftly rejoindered with a complete history of its genesis, leading practitioners and hidden stratagems. Their soul mates, the Toppers, carry it still further, insisting the only "real" way is the way they themselves did it in the old days, with leather helmets, bare knuckles and a driving rain blinding them.

And yet they in turn stand in awe of the One, the True, Universal Expert: Alex Trebek. Oh, the naysayers may tell you his sole talent is in phonetically reading opera names in foreign languages, but the Faithful know that he possess True General Knowledge. Not trivia, please. Trivia is "unimportant facts"; general knowledge is little-known facts about important things. Alex is the King. Ken Jennings is the Prince.

I'd tell you more about being an expert, but I'm getting the sense that you're just not really into it, you know?
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* confession: I totally made up all of that. But that's just how it makes you feel, doesn't it?