One doesn’t have to be a Francophile to have enjoyed the Paris goings-on during these two weeks. As I write this, four more days of excitement await. For me, it’s truly breathtaking… I have to calm down after the evening races just to get to sleep.

The television coverage certainly gave the gymnastic and swim teams excellent coverage, perhaps at the expense of other competitions. But I just don’t know how many people are really interested in the badminton finals.

Believe me, the network and the advertisers know full well which contests pull us in. I read that the total number of participating sports is 45 divided into 329 events. That is overload even for a sports couch potato like me.

I tune in every day, anxious to see the result of years of the strenuous training it takes to be here… in Paris, and on my screen. That is why it is so heartbreaking to watch the small turns or little accidents that shatter the dreams of some of these world-class athletes.

Many of them are participating in sports that risk serious injury. I sit chewing my lip or my cuticles watching the rapid seconds clock, or the 4-inch bar, or the total, flat-out exhaustion of the 1500-meter swims. I have never known anyone who has been an Olympian. However, this year Frederick Richard, a young gymnast on Team USA is from Stoughton, Mass., my hometown. I don’t know him, of course, but I’m proud my little burg produced such a talented winner.

As always, the musculature of the male gymnasts is awe-inspiring and Fred’s guns are no exception. His intricate, demanding routines helped his team win a bronze. But it is his charisma and personality that will bring along another generation of youngsters into the sport. I look forward to watching the 20-year-old University of Michigan student competing four years from now at the next summer Olympics

The past two days, I have been watching track and field. Table tennis doesn’t intrigue me, I’m not a basketball fan, and sadly, for me, soccer is like watching paint dry. I was interested in the up-close soccer careers of my grandchildren all through those elementary school Saturdays, but the size of their field fit my ability to watch.

Intellectually, I embrace international soccer. Physically, I sleep through most of it. I was wide awake, however, for the surfing. The huge waves are breaking in Tahiti, the French territory halfway around the world that is hosting the surfing events. I tried surfing once. Only once. A thousand years ago. Whadda mess. I coughed salt water for an hour and used Neosporin on my sand abrasions for days. These champion surfers are really cool and they make it look so easy.

And speaking of tropical islands, I was so happy for Julien Alfred from tiny St. Lucia in the Caribbean. She won gold for the 100-meter sprint, what we call a dash, and followed it with a silver in the 200. Her island has never won an Olympic medal and she brought home 2. I always root for Team USA, but something about this gracious young woman and her pure joy at winning tugged at my heartstrings.

Another non-USA winner I was happy for was Leon Marchand, the French swimmer. The quiet, shy champion won five medals. four of them gold, for his home country, the hosts. Good for him. I liked him. And lastly, I have to wax rhapsodic about the amazing Simone Biles. In her final individual events, she turned in a fourth place and a silver – a bit off her game. She was philosophical about it. Sensible. After all, she had already won three golds to add to her collection. I watched her deal casually with cameras routinely stuck in her face and understand why she can’t smile every second. She has been dogged by paparazzi for a very long time, so yes, she has earned every scrap of her bronze, silver, and gold collection. Brava!

Sometimes our television sets really earn their place in our homes. I take mine for granted most days, but when I can watch an Olympics in Paris, including the surfing in crystal clear reception from Tahiti, I still marvel at the genius of it all.

How lucky we are, able to be arm-chair present at Wimbledon, St. Andrews, Indianapolis, The World Series, the Super Bowl, and yes the Olympics, wherever they are.

This past two weeks, I have had no worries about baggage claim at Charles DeGaulle airport, no jacked- up hotel prices, no crowds, and no struggling with my limited French language abilities. I’ve reveled in the pure pleasure of full-on Olympic spirit here in my small den.

“Oh, Richard, are you making French toast for breakfast?”

He’ll serve it in front of the television. I have some Olympic standards of my own.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.