A night for Mo and the remarkable Usain Bolt at the London Stadium.

A night for Mo and the remarkable Usain Bolt at the London Stadium.

There was a pink salmon complexion to the East London night sky. The clouds had a slight purple tint to them and the stars had come out at the London Stadium. The crowds had seen it all before and another memorable evening for athletics had drawn to a close. Oh what a night! Early August 2017 to misquote a 1970s Four Seasons single.

On the athletics track the World Athletics Championship had exploded into life and Stratford had rolled out the red carpet once again. There was a huge welcoming committee for the heroes and legends. It was time to roll back the years again for the great Olympians to stand side by side and milk the rapturous reception of an audience who had seen it all before. It was riveting, it was sensational and you couldn't help but smile.

Five years ago of course the grand old city of London had been the host of an Olympic Games that would enter the record books for ever and never ever be erased from our memories. But here we were again going through all of those marvellous moments, experiencing all of those lovely feelings, cheering it from the rooftops and the connoisseurs of the athletics world were trying hard to remember whether they'd ever felt like this before.

For this had been a night for Jessica Judd, Laura Weir, Laura Weightman. It had been a night for Britain to show off its finest golden talents, for flaunting its most victorious finery and then, last but certainly not least, it was a night for our Mo Farah  and the incomparable Usain Bolt. Wow, sport had never been so spoilt and as the dark London sky fell almost hesitantly you began to wonder whether you'd seen much more than history in the making because for all the world it looked as though it had.

So here we were again back in the stadium where all of those supremely fit, honed and toned athletes had captured our imagination in Olympic year 2012. Sadly though it was an evening slightly overshadowed by the news that Usain Bolt had broken the hearts of  world athletics. He had announced his retirement. No other athlete in the world had done more to illuminate sport, to touch it with greatness, to sprinkle it with stardust, to invent its most distinctive gesture and then unashamedly reveal his extraordinary gifts before a spellbound crowd.

Now then Usain Bolt had told the world that he was retiring, he was quitting at the top, bowing out with grace and never again would we witness such as a cocky, super confident and self assured athletics champion. Sometimes a man comes along whose presence can never be mistaken, a visible and visually striking man who couldn't help but bathe in his glory without any hint of self consciousness about him.

Bolt had come into this his last of appearances in an athletics stadium utterly convinced that he was the best and the cloak of invincibility looked the perfect fit. Bolt would not be beaten at any time and he knew it. And so I suspect did the crowd. They had come to see a showman, a court jester, a tall and imposing man with so much to give on the night but never enough time to show it  all. Still he was there and on a vast Olympic stage in East London he'd carried out his mission without, it seemed, a single drop of sweat although I did spot one or two beads of anxiety.

This time Bolt had been pushed to the limit, taken to the finishing line, stretched to the utmost and by the end of his 100 metres the big man from Jamaica was puffing ever so disturbingly and it was at this point that he knew that the pretenders to his throne were breathing down Bolt's neck. Of course it had been hard. Of course it had been tough. Of course it had been a close shave and as the lights went out at the London Stadium, we all knew that maybe this was the right night for Bolt to pack it all in.

But what a rich legacy Bolt had left behind him. As the pink and orange lights on the electronic scoreboard flashed around the London Stadium almost constantly this basketball tall sprinter towered over his opponents like a man who knew exactly when it was going to rain. Bolt is a giant of a man, that much is obvious. a commanding presence, a man never to be argued with or contradicted, a man enjoying the twilight of his career, a man who seemed to want the evening to go on and on. We all knew genius is the most often over used term in sport. This though was a totally different occasion.

It almost felt as if we would never see an occasion like this for many a year or decade. Yes this was a decade defining evening for world athletics. Britain of course had also known those unique occasions when their athletes had also embraced brilliance. There was the Seb Coe and Steve Ovett rivalry during the 1980s, the 1972 day when that forever cheerful Irish woman Mary Peters heaved her shot put into outer space, the long distance running splendour of Brendan Foster and Steve Cram, Alan Pascoe powering around the track with an imperial air of domination and Dave Bedford who now seems to have been unfairly immortalised by a TV advert.

It was though a night for Usain Bolt, this six foot plus Jamaican athlete with the most engaging air of them all, pointing his fingers with that lightning bolt stance with his arms. The cynics of course would describe it as a cheap display of arrogance while others would insist that Bolt was just showing off, a brazen exhibitionist determined to go out with a flash, bang and wallop. What a picture. What a photograph. Hold on there was neither sight nor sound of Tommy Steele.

Bolt was, quite simply, poetry in motion and yet the 100m heat had not been plain sailing at all. In fact it had been anything but. As Bolt crouched on his starting block there was an uneasy suspicion that something wasn't quite right or maybe we were imagining it. He settled on his blocks, adjusted those long gazelle legs, pressed his fingers on the starting line, looked up briefly and then became suddenly aware of the daunting opposition around him. For instance there was Great Britain's James Dasalou, not exactly in Bolt's league but nonetheless a brooding threat.

There was a haunting lull before the starting gun snapped, cracked and off they went. Bolt has always been a notorious slow starter but this was alarmingly awkward and sluggish. Bolt shot away from his starting block and then seemed to take an age to get into his majestic stride. He lurched forward, lumbering at first and then realising all at once that for a second or two that he was struggling. Now the smiling Jamaican discovered that an explosive burst would be needed, a surge of acceleration wouldn't go amiss and then the after burners would have to go on, a fifth gear essential.

Eventually it all turned out right on the night and Bolt began to eat up the ground, devouring it with all the strength he could muster. Now the Bolt sprint would propel him like a jet engine and this amazing man lifted those thick, muscular thighs, storming to the front, then loping and gliding to a gold medal. For Bolt this had been too close to call, a narrow victory, most of his opponents simply flinging themselves over the finishing line in complete unison. Bolt had just edged it and admittedly made it look much harder than it should have been.

Still the jovial Jamaican bounced up and down with that unchallengeable air of authority that seems to come so naturally to the greats. He kept joking with the crowd, kept making that endearing pose with his fingers and arms and Stratford was like putty in his hands. On his final performance,  Bolt was entitled to celebrate, showboating and grandstanding, just being the centre of attention, the centre of the universe.

Meanwhile literally minutes away from the Bolt royal command performance, Mo Farah, Britain's most delightful of Olympians did the business once again. How fortunate Britain are to possess some of the most acclaimed and heralded of Olympic athletes. To quote a former Prime Minister. We've never had it so good or maybe we have but hadn't noticed it before.

During London 2012 Farrah had turned the 10,000 metres into a gentle stroll in the park. On that distant and magical night Farah with that almost trademark, easy going stride, moved away from the rest of the field like a Formula One car following a tyre change. Last night was a masterclass of long distance running, our Mo brilliantly judging and calculating from the back before bursting to the front on the last laps.

To the impartial observer Farah looks as though he needs a good meal. He is stick thin, long legs that seemed to be lengthening with every passing minute of last night's 10, 000 metre battle. For most of the race Farrah seemed to be his own pacemaker. Normally distance runners seem to bunch themselves together like a well disciplined platoon of soldiers running through a forest. And then the dam burst, the rivers flooding and cascading through Stratford. Farah broke away from the marauding pack and the rest, as they say, is history.

With two laps to go. our Mo simply ghosted through a packed field of runners and then just floated through a small batch of speed merchants. In those crucial last and purposeful kicks off the back straight there was a point when it looked as though Farah had stumbled onto some unfortunate landmines. It had all been going so well, Farrah seemingly measuring his strides and smoothly waiting for the right moment to kick from the front with a vengeance. That he did so successfully says so much for the man. Farrah was tripped too frequently for anybody's liking but still came through with merely bruises to a heavily buffeted ankle.

Hovering on the shoulders of fourth and fifth, Farrah began to cruise past his colleagues as if they'd suddenly become invisible which did look to be the case. The bell went for the final lap and the Olmypic Stadium were quite literally lapping it all up. The noise had reached a crescendo and the crowd were up on their feet, willing their man on to victory and perhaps taking it all for granted. It really was easy and straightforward, just another day at the office.

Farrah, with that wide eyed look of wonder on his face, surged his way to the front and never looked in any trouble at all. The legs, arms and shoulders were high and Farah won by a thousand country miles, breaking the tape as if all his challengers were in another city. The gold was his for the taking and the London Stadium couldn't hold itself back any longer.

Our Mo slumped to the ground, momentarily kissed the ground before draping himself in the Union Jack. He then held up his arms aloft and stared across at his loving and doting family. There was his wife and children, faces wreathed in smiles and besides themselves with pride. Then the eyes became  wider and wider, almost at a loss of words and barely able to believe what they had just seen. It was gold for Great Britain and another night of sporting achievement that couldn't have been matched. Uganda's Joshua Cheptegi and Kenya's Tanui had done their utmost to make a contest of this 10,000 metres but the final tank of petrol hadn't quite been enough.

The night had also brought us Jessica Judd, valiantly finishing her race and now having done what had to be done. She finished sixth and efficiently so in her distance contest. Laura Muir and Laura Weightman had also completed their job on the night. She was through to the next race. It was a night when London had once again stolen the adoring hearts of the London Stadium. This could have turned into a lovely habit but Farah has now called it a day. It''s time to bring down the curtain on, quite literally, a gold embossed career that could hardly have gone any better.

And yet at the back of our minds are the doping scandals that have partially scarred and harmed these World Athletic Championships. Drug taking of course has left the most revolting smell in the far corners of the Olympic movement. Cheats will, as we know, will never prosper but then that begins to sound like a well worn cliche.

It had been another rousing evening for world athletics. We'd seen one of Usain Bolt's countrymen Yohan Blake imitating perfectly the feats of his fellow Jamaican and we'd seen the cream of the athletic crop going through their paces.

Outside the London Stadium the crowds drifted away in the most civilised fashion. That bizarre looking helter skelter was glowing red and nobody had any cause for complaint. The opening night of the World Athletics Championships had gone like a dream. It'll be some time before we can truly allow the whole occasion to just sink in. This may sound like a trivial request but as a West Ham fan I think I speak on behalf of most Hammers. Could we please have our stadium back as soon as possible? We look forward to the 11th September with great anticipation.