The Birth of the Olympics and Their Very First Rules

Mia’s scuffed white sneakers crunched on the attic’s creaky wooden floor as she dug through her grandma’s dented metal trunk, her fingers brushing past yellowed 2008 Beijing Olympics postcards, a frayed hoodie printed with the London 2012 mascot, and a stack of dog-eared sports magazines. Tucked under a scratchy wool scarf, she spotted a smooth silver pin shaped like five interlocking rings, the edges worn soft from decades of being tucked into jacket pockets. “Plymp, come look at this!” she called, holding the pin up to the dusty attic window. Her round, blue-glowing robot companion zipped over, its tiny wheels humming, and scanned the pin with a soft beep. “Fascinating! This is an official 1896 Athens Olympics participant pin. The first modern Olympic Games, ever!”

Before Mia could ask what “modern Olympics” meant, Plymp’s lights flashed bright turquoise, and a warm whooshing sound filled the attic. The trunk, the magazines, and the scarves blurred into streaks of color, and before she could grab the edge of the trunk, her sneakers hit soft, dry grass. The smell of salt and roasted nuts hit her nose, and the roar of thousands of cheering people washed over her.

They were standing on the edge of a wide, reddish-brown dirt track, crisscrossed with white chalk lines. In front of them stretched the Panathenaic Stadium, its stone seats packed with people in flowy white robes, tailored suits, and wide-brimmed hats. A banner strung between two stone pillars read “ΑΘΗΝΑ 1896” in gold letters, and a group of men in long coats passed by carrying a wooden box full of shiny metal discs. “Whoa,” Mia breathed, her eyes wide. “We’re really in 1896?”

“Temporal coordinates confirm we’re in Athens, April 6, 1896, the opening day of the first modern Olympics,” Plymp beeped, its camera zooming in on the track. A tall man in a crumpled linen shirt sprinted past them, his face red, his feet kicking up little clouds of red dust. He skidded to a stop right in front of a group of spectators, grabbed a clay cup from a vendor’s cart, and chugged a deep purple liquid.

“Wait, is that… wine?” Mia squinted. The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinned, and waved at the people cheering for him before taking off running again. A man in a black suit and round wire-rimmed glasses hurried over to them, holding a leather notebook, his face lit up with excitement. “Welcome, welcome! You two must be visitors from out of town! I’m Pierre de Coubertin, the founder of these Games.” He shook their hands warmly, his fingers smudged with ink. “You caught the marathon practice run! That fellow just stopped for wine mid-race—perfectly allowed, you know. We haven’t banned mid-race fueling yet.”

Mia’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you can stop for *wine* during a race? What about the rules? Are there any?”

Coubertin laughed, flipping open his notebook to a page full of scribbled notes. “Ah, the rules! We only finalized them six months ago, and some are still being tweaked as we go. For the marathon, for example, we only decided to include it three weeks ago, after I heard the story of the ancient Greek messenger Pheidippides, who ran from the town of Marathon to Athens to deliver news of a military victory, then died of exhaustion right after. We thought it would be a perfect event to honor that ancient tradition. The route we picked goes from the town of Marathon straight to this stadium, about 40 kilometers long—though I have a feeling future organizers will adjust that distance a bit.” He winked, and Mia remembered reading online that the modern marathon is 42.195 kilometers, a length set at the 1908 London Olympics to fit a route from Windsor Castle to the Olympic stadium. “As for the wine,” he continued, “we don’t have fancy sports drinks like you do in the future, so wine with honey and herbs is a common way for runners to get quick energy. No one’s complained yet, so we’re letting it slide.”

He flipped to another page, pointing at a sketch of three medals. “Now, the prizes are a bit different from what you might be used to. We decided silver is the most noble metal, representing the purity of sport, so first place gets a solid silver medal, plus an olive wreath like the ancient Greek champions. Second place gets a bronze medal, and third place gets nothing at all—though we’re considering adding a small bronze token for them next time. Gold medals won’t be a thing until the 1904 Games in St. Louis, when the American organizers decided gold looks fancier for first place. I’m not sure I agree, but the crowds seem to love the shiny gold, so who knows?”

A loud cheer cut him off, and they turned to see a group of runners crossing the finish line, their faces streaked with dust and sweat. The first man across the line was barefoot, his old leather shoes slung over his shoulder, his linen shirt torn at the knee. The crowd roared, throwing olive branches and flowers at his feet. “That’s Spiridon Louis!” Coubertin said, grinning so wide his cheeks looked like they’d split. “He’s a Greek postal worker who trains by running his mail route every day. No one gave him a chance to win, but look at him go! He’s going to be a national hero when this is over.”

Mia watched as the officials placed a heavy silver medal around Louis’s neck, tucking an olive wreath on his head. He looked so shocked he could barely stand, and a group of men hoisted him onto their shoulders, carrying him around the stadium as the crowd chanted his name. “He’s so happy,” Mia said, smiling. “I’m glad he won.”

“Me too,” Coubertin said, closing his notebook. “That’s what the Games are all about, isn’t it? Not the medals, but the joy of competing, of doing your best, even when no one expects you to win. The rules we made aren’t just about who wins or loses—they’re about making sure everyone gets a fair shot, no matter where they’re from, how much money they have, or what they look like. That’s the whole point of the Olympics.”

Plymp beeped softly, its screen flashing a map of ancient Greece. “Mia, we still have time to visit the very first Olympic Games, in 776 BCE, in Olympia. The rules there are even wackier than 1896’s, if you can believe it.”

Mia’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Let’s go!”

The whooshing sound filled the air again, and when Mia opened her eyes, the red dirt track was gone, replaced by a wide, sun-baked dirt arena surrounded by stone bleachers carved into a grassy hillside. The air smelled like olive trees and hot stone, and the crowd was made up entirely of men in long white robes, their heads wreathed with green olive branches. A group of athletes stood at the starting line, and Mia gasped. “They’re not wearing any clothes!”

“Shh!” Plymp whispered, though its speaker was too loud. “In ancient Greek Olympics, athletes competed completely naked! They believed the human body was a gift from the gods, and showing it during competition was a sign of respect. They also thought running naked was faster, since there’s no fabric to slow them down.”

Mia covered her eyes with one hand, peeking through her fingers. “But what about the women? Are there any women competing?”

“Not a single one,” Plymp said. “Only free Greek men over 18 can compete. Women aren’t even allowed to watch the Games, actually. If a woman was caught sneaking into the stadium, they’d throw her off a cliff! The only woman allowed in Olympia during the Games was the priestess of Demeter, and she had to stay in a special area far away from the track.”

A loud horn blew, and the runners took off, their bare feet kicking up dust as they sprinted around the track. The crowd screamed and waved olive branches, and a group of priests in white robes walked along the edge of the track, holding sticks to punish anyone who cheated. “Wait, what’s that guy doing?” Mia pointed at a man who had tripped and fallen, and was now being yelled at by one of the priests.

“He pushed the runner in front of him to get ahead,” Plymp explained. “The rules say you can’t touc