ONE OF my most vivid childhood memories is the moments before the starting gun went off in the 100 metres final in Seoul in 1988. Just six years old at the time, I'm surprised that I can still see the event with such clarity, especially considering the difficulty I have every week remembering that Thursday is the day I need to put the bins out.

I think this sharpness of recall stems from my brother's obsession with the event at the time. I got swept up in it. He was a Ben Johnson fan and wanted our whole family to know this. I was a big fan of my brother — as most little brothers tend to be — so I jumped on the bandwagon.

As the sprinters took their marks and the camera rolled past each competitor for a glimpse of their faces before history would be made, a mere 100 metres down the track, I don't recall anything about the other runners, only Johnson. The whites of his eyes were bulging just as much as the rest of him. Crouched over the starting line, he looked like a caged animal about to burst free.

History tells us that Johnson did indeed explode down the track (faster than anyone before him) and, of course, went on to test positive for steroids, which explains those eyes.

The shame bestowed on Johnson straight after the race only added to the drama for me, and while it was tainted, it has remained one of my favourite moments in sport, simply because of the electricity of the event. That feeling you get as a spectator doesn't happen very often, but is so precious when it does. That's why the men's 100 metres final remains my favourite Olympic event to watch.

On Saturday night, after a disappointing loss to the Brisbane Lions, I lay awake in my hotel bed with my other "brother", Daniel Giansiracusa. We were both as flat as crepes after the Dogs' second loss in as many weeks, and we chatted to try to make some sense of it, and also to help each other stay awake for the 100 metres final in Beijing. Amazingly, it had been 20 years since I'd first watched this race.

On this occasion, Asafa Powell was my sprinter of choice, a man who carries a quiet dignity that is often lost on sprinters. He also had the burden, I guess, of needing to perform on the big stage to avoid the choker tag. The other man on the blocks who caught my eye was Usain Bolt. As he played up to the cameras, I was struck by how at ease he seemed to be.

Sprinting is a powerful and ridiculously fast event , but it seems that these guys at the top end of the sport are on an endless search for one thing — their groove.

Usain Bolt is my new king of groove — he makes Marvin Gaye look like an accountant. He moves with rhythm and has the confidence in his legs that they will carry him to his destination faster than any other human being on the planet. As he ran the last 20-odd metres of the race virtually going sideways, toying with the seven other fastest men in the world, I was again struck by the electricity of the moment. All Gia and I could muster was a collective, "Ooohhh", the body's automatic response to witnessing something truly breathtaking.

As Bolt continued to celebrate his way around the track, I couldn't help but spare a thought for my man Powell. How dejected he must have felt. Watching the replay, my sprinting novice's assessment put his run down to a lack of groove.

One of my favourite quotes comes from Einstein, and it reminded me of Asafa: "The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he still lives."

The Bulldogs at the moment are a little bit like Asafa Powell — in a way, both have lost their groove.

Unlike Asafa, though, our Olympic final is yet to come, The recent drop in form has stung, but we are all working to get that groove back and our confidence in doing so remains undented.

Einstein's words should ring true for just about everyone, but for professional athletes, they haunt and taunt us.