It is one of the many things about the Olympics that doesn’t quite make sense: why is a landlocked country such as Austria into beach volleyball? It follows that the Brazilians go nuts for a sport that requires sun and sand and skimpy outfits – they even have the naming rights to the wax that keeps competitors’ private pelts in check. But Austrians? Their national anthem is called Land of Mountains, Land By the River. They climb up stuff. They ski down the other side. But apparently they also play beach volleyball.
Clemens Doppler and Alexander Horst had the honour of christening the sand on the Copacabana on Saturday, playing the Italian duo, Alex Ranghieri and Adrian Carambula. Unfortunately, hardly anyone turned up to watch them lose 2-0. The 12,000-capacity grandstand was no more than 10% full when the men took to the court at 10am local time.
Brazilians are not known for their timekeeping – they have a special phrase they deploy when they actually want you to turn up at an anointed hour for once: English Time. But maybe they didn’t fancy paying 100 reais (£24) to watch a sport they can see for free on the beach outside any day of the week. More likely, they’re only interested in watching Austrians bosh a volleyball about when they’re getting annihilated by the home side: a likely scenario at 3.30pm local time on Monday, if you want to make a note in your diary.
That the grandstand is standing at all is reason to celebrate. Five weeks ago not one seat had been installed, with unseasonably cold weather and high winds causing waves to crash in from the Atlantic right on to the construction site. The builders had only just left on Friday night when police were called amid reports of a bomb threat, which led to robotic detection devices being used to establish there was nothing to worry about after all.
It’s a peerless setting, right on the beach, the ocean lapping up from behind, a navy vessel patrolling the waters, just in case.
Easily the most glamorous sport involving rakes, beach volleyball is celebrating 20 years as an Olympic event. It feels rather more at home on Copacabana than it did outside the Foreign Office on Horse Guards Parade four years ago. Boris Johnson famously described the scene in London as “semi-naked women playing beach volleyball glistening like wet otters”. But in Rio the men aren’t even vaguely naked. Any spectator of the more lascivious persuasion may have been disappointed to see that the chaps wear baggy vests and shorts more suited to the basketball court than the beach.
The players are just as tall as their basketball-bouncing counterparts. Brazil’s star player, a fellow called Alison Cerutti, is 6ft 8in. You wouldn’t want him standing in front of you at a gig, but you’d definitely want him on your volleyball team: he’s almost as tall as the net, with a violently powerful spike. Despite his girly name, 30-year-old Alison is a veritable man mountain, with the wingspan of a golden eagle and the deltoids of a working ox. Ginger-bearded, he is surprisingly pale for a dude who spends all his time larking about in the sunshine: clearly a believer in sensible sun protection. He also has two gammy fingers that he kept on having to tape up between points.
His partner, Bruno Schmidt, is a comparative midget, standing 6ft 1in in his bare feet as he strode out on to what must have been painfully hot sand. When not playing on the beach, Schmidt serves as a sergeant in the Brazilian navy. Together they were world champions last year and they are the favourites to triumph at the Games. Alison will certainly be keen to avoid a repeat of London, when he and a different partner lost to Germany in the final.
By the time they had beaten Canada in two closely fought sets, the grandstand was almost full. The crowd went crazy for Alison, who, like Brazil’s footballers, has just his first name on his shirt. They had to be told off for booing the Canucks, however: rather unOlympic behaviour, the umpire suggested.
As anyone who has watched Top Gun can attest, men’s beach volleyball is a very homoerotic spectacle. Though none of Saturday’s contenders were in tight white T-shirts and jeans – not so much Maverick as daft – the Canadians slapped each other’s bottoms in delight when they won a point. The Brazilians preferred to bro-out with high fives for their victory celebrations.
It was only their first heat but Alison and Schmidt both were allowed to thank the crowd like heroes following their first straight-sets victory. A microphone in his hand, Alison’s hulking frame brought back memories of an in-shape Tyson Fury: thankfully, minus a power ballad.
