(Bill, who lives in Prairie Village, has been in Beijing as a worker on the USOC media services staff. He has never blogged before, but agreed to give it a try. This is his final report from Beijing.)

Sunday, August 24

Nie how. One World, One Dream.

It was another mellow Sunday morning. Old couples walked along the boulevard holding hands. Folks rode bicycles in the main part of the road. I could have run in the traffic lane, but decided it would not be wise to get run over on the last day.

I copped a dozen smile-backs. It was as if they realize I’m going home tomorrow and they better cherish every ounce of Olympics magic. (I’ll miss the big press officer dinner tomorrow night. So they won’t get to hear me sing some silly son to the tune of “Doe a Deer” or “Pick a Little, Talk a Little.”

Breakfast: AFW (Average Fresh Watermelon) Cereal with sticks and marbles, ham, yogurt, two hard-boiled eggs, water, orange juice, banana.

My favorite sporting event in the whole entire world is the Olympic marathon. Right next to the Rider Cup. Right next to Texas-OU. Right next to the BCS bowl games. Right next to….well, you get the idea.

Thousands of fans love the marathon, too, because they sat in the Bird’s Nest to watch it on the Jumbotrons. It was a party. BOCOG provided music and entertainment similar to the pregame show for the opening ceremonies. The crowd went nuts when the runners arrived.

Thousands more people took advantage of the sunny weather to stroll around the outside of the Olympic Green. It’s like the Water Cub and Bird’s Nest are shrines that must be seen. No, not “seen.” A better word is “experienced.” Not religious shrines but cultural ones.

Someone told me the Olympic Green will be open to the public after the games. Sure hope so.

I can’t say enough for the BOCOG volunteers. They are simply the sweetest, most earnest, most caring 70,000 people I’ve ever encountered. (We heard that one million people applied. So these were the cream of the crop. I believe “cute, friendly, straight pearly white teeth” were among the criteria.)

Volunteer du jour: Xifan Wu. Cleans the restroom. Spectacular attitude. Greets everyone at the door with a pleasant “hello” and a smile. Pounces on every molecule of grime.

The Olympics is a remarkable venue for bonding and team work. Folks are thrown together in a strange country for a month, with no choice but to work it out. A friendly smile can mean more than all of the chocolate sundaes in the world.

I have invited at least 1,000 people to visit Nicki and me in Kansas City. Will someone please tell her?

Weather: Pleasing combination of Tallahassee and Tyler. The weather has been remarkable. I’m so glad we got to see the heavy haze three weeks ago; otherwise I wouldn’t have believed it existed. There were days when truly we couldn’t tell if there were buildings across the street. But lately Beijing has been blessed with blue skies and nice views of the distant mountaijns.

China Fact that surely must be true because somebody told me: One in four folks in Beijing moved here from somewhere else.

Three BOGOC volunteers came by the office today with a poster that carried the heading, “Friends Forever.” They were going from office to office collecting autographs. What a prize for their grandchildren’s grandchildren!

Two American journalists have been hospitalized in the past two days, suffering from stomach distress and severe dehydration. I had not an ounce of discomfort the whole time.

There were tears and hugs throughout the Olympics today. “This is the last day for the shuttle,” said one of the girls riding shotgun, with moist eyes. “Thank you for coming into my life.”

Dinner: Noodles. Then cookies, dried vegetables, banana and water in a sack lunch in the team waiting area before the closing ceremonies.

Okay it’s silly, but I nearly fainted when Bob and I got the word that we would be allowed to march. Of course “march” is not accurate. The closing trek into the stadium is more like the running of the bulls in slow motion. Athletes, coaches and administrators gather loosely by country and then walk down the long tunnel onto the stadium floor.

The teams met in the athletes’ village and rode buses to the Olympic Green. Bob and I couldn’t get to the village, so we had to talk our way into the marshalling area. We did have the requisite passes, but the guards asked us, “why you not on bus?” We patiently explained that we were working and could not get to the village.

“I will check with my boss,” said one security guard at what we considered to be the key entry point. At home that’s the kiss of “no.”

Soon the boss-—who appeared to be no older than 25, looked at our credentials, studied Bob’s honest face, watched the buses full of athletes go by and said, “well, perhaps that man down there would let you in.”

“Down there” was a block south, between the Water Cube and the stadium. So we headed off nervously and were not stopped or questioned again. We lifted the safety tape on Waiting Area D sat down on one of the long benches. We mingled with athletes from Poland, Cook Islands, Bermuda, Congo, all eating our sack lunches and talking about the weather, our upcoming flights home and apple pie ala mode.

A huge explosion rattled the peaceful scene and frightened many—including me—for an instant before we realized it was the fireworks signaling the beginning of the ceremony. For the next half-hour we did not know what was happening inside, but knew it was good from the applause. Finally the signal came and we headed toward that tunnel.

Alongside the path to the stadium, people were gathered five deep, cheering for us, waving and snapping photos. Of course they were not cheering for Bob and me, but for the athletes. We just happened to be there, swimming right along with them like stagehands with Elvis. We took full advantage of their warm surge of emotion. My heart rate was about 10,000.

And it climbed higher when the stadium floor came into view and our kids—-no, our athletes, no, they’re really kids—-started chanting “USA, USA, USA.” Sweaty local performers from those unseen-to-us ceremonies acts lined the walkway and they chanted right along with us.

We stepped out into the bright lights and I was paralyzed by the sight of all those fans who had paid $900 to wave flags, holler and look at Bob and me. Of course I immediately tripped over what I assumed was the joint between the running track and the grass infield. A big guy from Poland caught me.

Nicki and Nate said they saw us on television and that I was taking a photo or talking on the phone. Maybe that’s why I tripped.

The Americans were directed to a spot in the northeast corner of the field, directly under the cauldron. In fact, a big American girl offered to lie down and take a photo of us with the big historic flame in the background. We accepted. The photo is pretty cool.

After a while Bob and I got tired and so we sat down near the edge of the field, a few feet from the dancing young people who were the security fence between us and the crowd. Later we learned that the seating area where all those people were cheering for us (ha) was very warm again. Only slightly cooler than the beautiful but broiling opening ceremonies. But Bob and I got a breeze from the tunnel and were quite comfortable sitting there, mostly in the middle of the Swiss athletes who ignored us like you would ignore that stranger in the grocery store.

We took it all in happily. I kept thinking that B. J. and Will were watching and laughing at us silly fools reclining on top of the high jump pit and talking about old Texsas pals while 90,000 spectators watched.

We circled the field once, talking to sweaty dancing girls and emotional pole vaulters. Then we met our colleagues back at the office and listened to their stories about what we had missed. We tried not to talk about what they had missed.

There were plenty of hugs and tears and “see you in Vancouver” was the word of the evening.

I went to the farewell party at the Washington Post office. AP also had one and so did Getty Photos. But the Post people invited me specifically (I was the only non-staff member there) because of the gift they had purchased for their editor. Tracee was student reporter at the University Daily Kansan and when we met at the Sydney Olympics—or maybe in was Atlanta--she said she remembered how kind I had been to her back in the Big Eight days.

Her No. 1 assistant at the Post had come to me last week with an idea: they wanted an appropriate phrase that they could translate into Chinese and put on a commemorative shirt for Tracee. The answer came to me immediately.

Tracede was puzzled at first when they gave the shirt to her, then cried when the translator told her what it said in finest Mandarin calligraphy: “Rock Chalk Jayhawk.” We toasted the Hawks and the Chinese and thoughtful opeople with champagne and ate little bits of delicious cheese.

Some of our group headed for the all-night bar but I took the midnight shuttle back to Beijing Normal.

I was glad I had packed two days ago. All I had to do was fall on top of the wonderfully hard bed in the wonderfully un-airconditioned room 4030.

The taxi to the spectacular Beijing Capitol airport cost $11. I believe the police had shut off the freeway because traffic was almost like midnight in Hobart. There wasn’t even a line at the ticket counter, thanks to a special booth for the USOC.

Athletes on the flight home put on their medals as we neared San Francisco. Of course there was the obligatory wild applause when we landed.

I’m writing from the airport where I found a plug. (Plugs were plentiful in the sparkling Beijing airport, by the way.) The SFO airport is crowded, my flight is delayed by the dreaded "mechanical" and people are running like mad and the lady in the seat across the way is eating French fries and just spilled ketchup on her white shirt and said a bad word.

It's good to be home.

The consensus is that these were the most efficient games ever. The buses ran on time, the village was beautiful, the crowds were large and enthusiastic.

I will have fond memories of the wonderful Chinese volunteers. I renewed great old friendships and made new ones that will last forever.

I got to stand on the Great Wall, walk across Tiananmen Square and watch sports every day. I saw Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt and Henry Cejudo. I elicited a one-toothed grin from the street sweeper and exchanged a nod of the head with a Chinese man as our ships passed at 60 mph on the freeway.

It was such an incredible privilege to soak up the Olympic spirit and to re-learn the key message. Only one thing on earth matters, and it’s not gold medals or television broadcasts or Great Walls.

The one thing is this: when you dig that hole in your back yard and you come out at the other side of the world, you find a person just like yourself.

Zai jien. Thanks very much for listening.