These Olympics have been a treat. To have as many as 12 TV channels bringing different events from Tokyo into the living room has been an unprecedented feast for someone who doesn't enjoy watching sport on personal devices.
Some sports I wouldn't normally watch – or not for long- turned out to be unexpectedly engrossing. The high jump for example. We switched to it because a screen alert told us a Kiwi was about to contest a final.
A tall young athlete in black, Hamish Kerr, was one of 13 jumpers going for the medals and we followed his progress until he was the fourth to be eliminated. By then we were thoroughly absorbed, having gleaned the rules of the game.
It wasn't as simple as three strikes and you're out. If you failed to clear the bar in one or two attempts before you succeeded at that height your failures were recorded and could count against you in the end.
That made things more interesting when just four or five jumpers were left. Two of them had no failures, two others had missed a few times and had nothing to gain by making another attempt at a level the leaders had cleared.
So they had the option of forgoing a possibly fatal further attempt at that height and staying alive when the bar went up a notch. These permutations can make even a repetitive sport fascinating. We were still absorbed as the clock moved past midnight.
Maybe it was because that option worked so well for their game that high jumping administrators decided to introduce another, more dubious, option – introduced so recently the commentators were unaware of it.
It came into play when the bar reached the Olympic record height of 2.39m and none of the remaining three jumpers could clear it. We were informed that one with previous failures would get the bronze and there would be "jump-off" between the other two for gold.
But then those two, one from Italy the other Qatar, put their heads together, embraced each other, and came to speak to an official. After a brief conference, the commentator announced they had decided to share the gold medal. What?
Mutaz Barshim, left, of Qatar and Gianmarco Tamberi of Italy celebrate on the track after the final of the men's high jump at the 2020 Summer Olympics. Photo / AP
"No-oo," I wailed at the screen while the Italian rolled on the ground in ecstasy and the Qatari, who had looked the more effortless jumper and more likely to win, appeared just as happy. We had sat up well after midnight - for this? I went to bed feeling thoroughly cheated.
It turned out not everyone felt that way. A report online in the morning declared, "It was a heart-warming moment and fans around the world were enamoured by the Olympic spirit shown." Were they? Was that the Olympic spirit?
I'd always thought the Olympic spirit had something to with fair and friendly but no less fierce competition for the most glorious prize in usually unglamorous games. At least I was not alone. "What the hell?" tweeted Australian broadcaster Andrew Long. "The athletes get to decide they can share the gold medal? Seems a very strange process but both of them did very well. Just staggering for a casual observer is all I'm saying."
In Britain, a sportswriter for The Telegraph said, "The final, often cruel, separation is intrinsic to sport." But the Guardian celebrated "a display of sportsmanship that delighted Olympics spectators around the world. The reaction on social media was swift," it reported, "with some describing it as the best moment of the Games."
According to the Guardian it was the Qatari, Mutaz Barshim, who suggested to his rival, Gianmarco Tamberi, that they share the prize. Once the official confirmed they had that option, the Italian slapped Barshim's hand, jumped into his arms then flopped down on the track, rolled around and screamed, "I can't believe it."
No wonder. Barshim had looked the more natural jumper. He was a cool dude, loping up to the bar and flopping over with ease, all the while wearing big dark glasses that fell off as he came down. Between jumps he'd lie flat on the grass under his shades.
Tamberi was a complete contrast, highly strung, always pawing the ground with his feet before starting his run and looking mightily relieved to get over the bar. Barshim called him, "One of my best friends, not only on the track but outside. We're always together almost.
"This is beyond sport," the 30-year-old Barshim added. "This is the message we deliver to the young generation."
Friendship between competitors is not unusual but sport, like any craft, has its own integrity. Friends at the top of a game usually feel a duty to their craft. They ask spectators to believe a contest matters. If sport becomes a spectacle of friendship and sharing, I'll go back to my book.
