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I’ve never considered myself an Olympics guy.

Sure, I’m human and American, so I could get choked up watching an NBC feature about a rhythmic gymnast from Hardscrabble, Texas, who is dedicating her performance to her grandmother, who escaped communist Romania only to lose a limb at the potato chip factory.

But if asked, I would explain that there’s only so much room in my brain for sports, so I don’t follow NASCAR, hockey or the Olympics. Now I love going to NHL games, and here I am in Rio for the Tribune. (Still can’t pick Dale Earnhardt Jr. out of a lineup.)

So I approach these Games as an outsider — an outsider thrilled that Chicago was not awarded the Olympics because of the anticipated stew of corruption, construction and costs.

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But I’m also an outsider open to falling in love.

These first few days in Rio have provided more optimism and anticipation. Maybe I’ve just lucked out, but my security lines have been short, the buses have run on time, the hotel gets all the basics right and the locals are loaded with good cheer. Oh, and the Zika-infested mosquitoes relocated to Florida.

The last time I witnessed the Olympics, I was 11 and seated in the L.A. Coliseum. O.J. was there, waving to the crowd. Carl Lewis won gold in the long jump but got booed because he declined to try to break Bob Beamon’s world and Olympic record.

A barefoot South African runner named Zola Budd got tangled up with American girl-next-door Mary Decker, and Decker crumbled to the track, unable to finish. Budd got jeered by the hostile crowd, finishing seventh.

The funniest happenstance for the Greenstein family came at our hotel, where my mother flagged down renowned Sports Illustrated photographer Walter Iooss and asked him to shoot the four of us for a holiday card, holding mini American flags. He obliged, setting us up against a plain, white background.

I think we still owe him a photo credit.

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Twitter @TeddyGreenstein