Shelly shell dung Moscow

By George Davis

Perhaps history will not record the final of Monday's 100 metres for women at the World Championships in Moscow the way I already have. But that doesn't matter.

The record books will show that Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce won gold for Jamaica. It will also list the other two medallists and their nationalities.

What the history books will not record is the brutality of Fraser-Pryce. The records will not show how, for 10.71 seconds, Fraser-Pryce became an assassin, a smooth criminal, tap-dancing over the graves of rivals who had threatened to carve for her only a minor share of the World Championships cake.

The written history of this race will not show how Mrs Fraser-Pryce eased out of those blocks, mingled with the pack for about 15 metres, before leaving them in one area code en route to being embraced by glory in another.

It will not show how a young woman, who can't help but be pleasant, used her feet to insult, demoralise and dispirit one of the most talented fields ever assembled for the final of a major sprinting championship.

The history book, even if written by the losers on this occasion, will definitely not tell a tale of beaten finalists cursing their bad start, poor execution, bad transition or overall poor race management for their defeat. No. If each loser in that final were given their own essays to write about the event, they would accord on the point that Fraser-Pryce treated them like rag dolls and dusted them out like a housewife does a cheap rug.

They will each confess to not having had a chance to beat her. For how could they have beaten something that seemed to be moving on wheels, when all they had were legs under them?

Fraser-Pryce delivered a performance which fractured egos and short-circuited, if even momentarily, the self-belief system of her rivals, including those absent from the 100m flogging.

Deceptive Pleasantries

There are some sprinters who prowl the starting blocks looking to eyeball competitors and intimidate them. While they walk around strutting and scowling, Fraser-Pryce stands smiling, almost in a shy manner. It's as if she sometimes wonders what she's doing here. A little five-foot darling looking to eclipse the performance of bigger, more physically imposing athletes in front of millions of eyes in the stands and on television.

But then she gets in the blocks, and by the time she gets to the finish, those rivals seeking to psych themselves up and browbeat her before the race, would have been squashed like pimples beneath a dermatologist's tool.

Fraser-Pryce has sprinted into history as one of the very best - woman or man - to have ever used the 100m as a platform for glory. That she has not done so by scrambling over the finish or depending on the interpretation of the place judges to determine where she has finished is a significant point.

Yes, she was outstanding before Monday. But to win like she did, dragging the field along like obstreperous children being hauled by their mother to church on a Sunday morning, marks her out as one of the greats of the track.

You can tell that her charm makes it difficult for fellow sprinters to dislike her and so robs them of the natural enmity which high-stakes competition inspires among rivals. She has proven that a lady doesn't have to relinquish being genuinely nice to her rivals to stay on top of her game.

Fraser-Pryce has complained of being looked over by the track and field world as media personnel and limelight hogs fall over themselves to pander to the men in the sport. Fraser-Pryce has, through Monday's performance, solidified her case to be treated like what she really is: a bonafide star in a tremendously competitive sport.

Now that her standing in the sport is at an all-time high, it's a pity this lady cannot realistically dream of legend status given the suspected taint of doping around the two marks which stand as world records in her pet events.

Selah.

George Davis is a journalist. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com and george.s.davis@hotmail.com.