Fiction

Carl’s got a problem. The problem, he’ll tell anyone who asks, is that the International Olympic Committee is about to cut the most entertaining sport in history from the Games. By Matthew Hooton.

Olympic lion taming

Carl’s got a problem. The problem, he’ll tell anyone who asks, is that the International Olympic Committee is about to cut the most entertaining sport in history from the Games. It’s true that Carl’s biased and that the event in question happens to be Carl’s event – the event he’s trained for his entire life. But still. This is what he’s thinking about the night before what might be his last performance. Well, this and whether the five billion sets of eyes that’ll be watching him tomorrow will notice his tired, sloping shoulders or his ever-expanding bald spot or that he only has 17 Instagram followers despite his status as three-time Olympian. So he’s got lots to stew on sitting in his cramped quarters in the middle of the cartoon nightmare that is Osaka’s Olympic Village – not a sharp corner to be found for miles, as if the whole complex has been childproofed by giants.

He texts Susan to see how shopping with her new friends on the Malaysian netball team’s going. She texts back and asks if he’s still sitting in the apartment sulking and stressing about tomorrow. He replies, Of course not. She replies, Don’t overthink it, babe. Your usual routine’s what got you here. He tags this with a heart, even though the Worlds were a total joke last year. Only seven teams. And Carl’s pretty sure the Bangladesh entry was a lioness with a mane superglued to its head. Not that it mattered – the creature’d refused to leave its cage, yowling and mewling like some undignified pet. Two more animals were disqualified when they lifted hind legs to mark the ring as their territory. One even took a swipe at the Belarusian judge. And yeah, Carl knows what you’re thinking: that maybe the IOC isn’t wrong to cut the event from the Games. It’s just too dangerous, they say. The animals are too unpredictable. Besides, let’s be honest, it’s not really even a sport.

It’s true, Carl concedes to the voices in his head, that history supports the cancellation. Vienna ’72 was where it first went badly wrong: lost nearly the entire Chinese badminton team. Half savaged, the other half traumatised. And this after the IOC lifted their ban and China stopped threatening to boycott. Then there was the Easy Rider Affair at Prague ’84: a four-time dressage world champion reduced to cat food in an instant when the Hungarian handlers and American equestrians got their wires crossed outside the now-infamous Barn 11. Didn’t help that journos caught every grisly second on film. This, Carl knows full well, is how they’ve reached the end of the road, so to speak. And now Olympic lion taming is set to go the way of sword swallowing, speed reading and kangaroo boxing.

Yet here he is preparing for one last chance to show the whole world, including those fat cats on the IOC, just what they’ll be missing once these Games are done. Of course, there’s only so much any tamer can control at the Olympics. Set design isn’t possible but there’s the outfits. Outfit, really. Daryl’s never performed well in fabric of any kind and he’s been surly lately. Besides, there’s something pure, Carl thinks, about the skin of a lion. Something that suggests the creatures are more… finished than humans. So on to the music. Most songs about lions don’t work at all – half are just plain nonsense. Why, he often wonders, is the lion sleeping tonight? And what happens if it wakes? And don’t even get him started on hakuna matata and all that. No, Carl’s confident in his selection: instrumental, no vocals. It’s only been a decade since the North Koreans blasted “Eye of the Tiger” at the Worlds in Antwerp. What a frickin’ mess that was.

Carl slows his breathing. Counts out exhalations. He is a strong, confident lion tamer. He’ll show the world something amazing in the morning. Something they’ll talk about for generations. He will, figuratively speaking, go on a lion hunt. And he will not be afraid.

He’s still counting exhalations but he picks up his phone and texts Susan that he’s thinking about The Move.

The what?

The Move!

Three dots. Then nothing. Just as he gives up, his phone dings.

JESUS CHRIST CARL ARE YOU SERIOUS YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN’T NOT EVER NOT AFTER WHAT HAPPENED TO VLAD AT THE WORLDS IN TEHRAN YOU FUCKING PROMISED!!!???

She’s not wrong. But here’s the thing: there’s only four teams. And sweet mother of all that’s holy, he can’t finish fourth. Not again. If he pulls it off, he just might win the whole thing. And if the world sees it – the bravery, the daring, the awe-inspiring moment that only The Move can generate – he might also save the sport that’s given his life purpose, from the day he ran away to join the circus to the day he first cracked a bullwhip as ringmaster.

Susan didn’t return to the apartment all night, despite his 37 texts, but that’s behind Carl now as he stands in the ring, tux inky in the dim lights, Daryl perched before him on a stand decorated in a collage of flags. The giant cat watches him without flinching as he removes his top hat. The music swells. His routine has been nearly perfect, aside from Daryl’s half sneeze at the four-minute mark, and he can feel it. It’s time. An off-book technical element that’ll give the judges no choice but to put him in the running for gold. He drops his hat and places his palms on each side of Daryl’s muzzle, avoiding the cat’s barely trembling foot-long whiskers, its meaty, possibly-past-the-best-by-date breath. His music pauses on cue. The crowd falls silent. The lion allows him to open its jaws as if he were a dentist – wider and wider – and Carl, ready for glory, for his new life as a global star, for a girlfriend who isn’t secretly sexting a golfer from Beirut, ducks his head past that lolling sandpaper tongue and those gleaming fangs into the warm and beautiful black maw of the universe. •

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on October 4, 2025 as "Olympic lion taming".

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