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BEIJING. CHINA |
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GAMES EDITION |
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CALLING SIGNALS |
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Golden Olympic Memories
-- and horror in Munich
of TheColumnists.com
Recall old Olympics
and what do you see? The athletes, the host cities, what you
were doing back then.
Take the last Summer Games four years ago. Michael Phelps, the
gold grabber in the pool. Athens, Greece. You wished you were
on Mount Olympus.
How about 2000? Cathy Freeman, the runner who became the first Olympian to light the flame and win a gold. Sydney, Australia. You yearned for Darling Harbour.
1996? Michael Johnson, the sprinter who made his initials sparkle gold. Atlanta. You were glad to skip the heat.
1992?
The Dream Team’s Michael Jordan and yet another MJ, Magic
Johnson. Barcelona, Spain. You dreamed of sipping coffee and
reading the International Herald Tribune by the Med.
1988?
Ray Mercer, stationed with the U.S. Army in Germany, who went
halfway around the globe to grab the heavyweight boxing gold.
Seoul, South Korea. You wondered when the Koreas would finally
unite--two years before Germany did.
1984?
Carl Lewis, King of the Coliseum. Los Angeles. You hardly missed
the boycotting Soviets.
1980?
Daley Thompson, Britain’s golden decathlete. Moscow. With
America shunning the evil empire, these Games were like trees
falling in an abandoned forest. They never happened.
1976?
Ray Leonard, golden as an Olympic boxer before he poured on
the Sugar as a pro. Montreal. You wanted to join the festivities
in that magnifique town.
As for 1972: Those Olympics were my first.
First time I paid attention to all the action--from Mark Spitz
sweeping the swimming to Frank Shorter winning the marathon.
First time I attended the Games. These were in Munich, a few
hours south of where I lived in Germany. My dad worked for the
U.S. military in Heidelberg, and the old sportler shifted into
high gear for what he considered the greatest of all events.
After we made a beeline to Bavaria, we watched the matches: boxing
and wrestling.
Advice to anyone going to the Games: Hit the boxing hall. The
best pound-for-pound sport you’ll ever see. The fighters
punch like pistons: three rounds, bangbangbang, it’s over.
Scant blood, thanks to head gear.
My dad and I had our own game, betting a nickel on each bout.
Nothing after that--going to the 1979 World Series, the ’79
Hall of Fame Bowl--could match that boxing day for father-son
fun.
On the flip side was the wrestling. We made it to the Greco-Roman
competition, and my advice is: Don’t bother. Won’t
bore you with the above-the-waist rules, but it all bogs down
fast.
The only upside is we saw Chris Taylor, the Iowa Stater. You
couldn’t miss him. He weighed 412 pounds. He didn’t
medal in Greco, but did nab a bronze in freestyle. Seven years
later he was dead at age 29.
My dad and I saw more than sports at the Games. We made it to
the Olympic Village. How? I told the press bus official that
I wrote for the Student Prints, my high school paper, which was
true. I also said my dad was my photographer, half-true.
Anyway, we got in the Village. Interviewed Tom Burleson, the
7-foot-4 center at N.C. State who was with the U.S. hoopsters
who would get the gold medal game stolen by the commies. Chatted
with Sugar Ray Seales, the boxer who would win a gold, then go
blind in his pro career.
A week after that Village romp, we caught the Munich massacre
on TV. It all started at that Village, where Arabs kidnapped
Israeli athletes and murdered them.
I thought of how easily my dad and I entered the compound. And
how that friendly, easy access was over forever.
©2008 by Bucky Fox. This column first posted Aug. 4, 2008.
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