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Stirring triumphsMichael Johnson and Carl Lewis helped put the focus back on the athletes in Atlantaby Kenny Moore
It's not as if, even through our tears, we didn't see Michael Johnson
coming. He marched through the preliminary rounds of the 400 meters with
such unchallenged surety that by Monday night's final, he had become not
only history's most expected Olympic champion, but also a rock on which
a grateful Atlanta might steady these swaying Olympic Games.
... and by 70 meters, Bailey had blazed to the lead, with Fredericks and
Boldon a heartbeat behind.
photograph by
Johnson sprinted the first 300 meters of the final with crisp control,
hit the stretch at least two meters clear of the field, then dropped his
arms and made an extraordinary run at one of track's most intransigent
world records. The 400-meter standard has been broken exactly once in
the last 28 years, by Butch Reynolds with his 43.29 in 1988.
Fighting off any temptation to preserve himself for the 200 meters he is
scheduled to run on Thursday—the other end of the historic double
he is attempting—Johnson closed his eyes with the strain in the
last 40 meters. The visage he calls his "big ole ugly face" became a
portrait of a man bearing up under great weight. He hit the line and
cast a glance toward the clock. It read 43.49. He had nipped the Olympic
record set by the U.S.'s Quincy Watts in 1992 by .01 of a second but was
still a stride short of perfection.
He slowed with an expression of relief. He never cracked a smile. He had
made this victory appear not a formality, because he ran with passionate
but ordained power. And if Johnson's golden shoes, beribboned medal and
the IAAF officials who presented it to him then suddenly seemed to turn
into miter, scepter and archbishops, that only showed how much we needed
his exalted, reliable self just now.
"The individual gold medal was more important than the world record, and
I got that," said Johnson, for whom this was his first, because a case
of food poisoning weakened him and kept him from winning the 200 in
Barcelona four years ago. "I've always said, after I won things like
world championships [in 1993 and '95] that they didn't make up for '92,"
said Johnson, taking a deep breath. "Well, winning this gold medal makes
up for Barcelona. I am happy with my performance."
Then he withdrew—after a stop at the long jump pit to offer his
hand to a fallen U.S. teammate, Mike Powell, who lay in agony after
pulling his left groin muscle. Powell's injury left the gold medal and a
page of history to 35-year-old Carl Lewis, who became the only man other
than American discus thrower Al Oerter to win four individual golds in
an Olympic event.
Johnson's page in history remained to be written, and he left the
stadium Monday night to prepare for it. Certainly there could be no more
welcome tone in a Games suddenly plunged by violence into questioning
its own meaning. In the wake of the terror in Centennial Park, Johnson
and his fellow athletes had drawn together not to redeem
anything—they didn't do anything wrong except attract so much of
the world's attention—but to remind us, with all the force of their
being, why we have come to Atlanta. And it's not to party.
Devers and Kersee were a picture of joy after a photo proved that she had won
the 100 gold medal in a second straight Olympics.
photograph by
Erik Brady and Ben Brown, in an article in Monday's USA Today about
Atlanta's citizens trying "to take back the streets" from fear also
wrote "without the populist spark of the park, the Olympics might
become little more than a track meet with passports."
Lord, that that might be true, because it's exactly what Olympians yearn
for. The inner Olympia, the ideal competitive venue—for any athlete
from Johnson to the least of his overmatched competitors—has no
Budweiser or Coke pavilions, no commercial interruptions in the middle
of races. There is only a lane, a court, a beam, an oarlock. And perhaps
a knowing throng, as intent on your efforts as you are.
Consider the eight tense men who stood behind their blocks last Saturday
night and stared down their assigned lanes for the 100-meter final,
heedless that the Olympic flag was hanging at half-staff. In this, the
moment when years of preparation and posturing would either carry them
to gold or to despair, a bombing in the Olympic city was perhaps the
easiest distraction to subdue. Harder to put out of mind was the
stunning depth of the field for this race.
Ato Boldon of Trinidad and Tobago, a UCLA senior last spring who had won
his semifinal in 9.93 seconds, wore rose-colored shades and muttered.
Dennis Mitchell of the U.S., the 1992 bronze medalist, twitched and
glared, the silver ring in his right eyebrow making him look as though
he had had a cut sewed up at Tiffany's. Namibia's Frankie Fredericks,
the silver medalist in both the 100 and the 200 in Barcelona, who had
won the other semi in 9.94, stretched with a studied casualness
befitting the race favorite. Donovan Bailey, the 1995 world champion
whom Fredericks had beaten all year, seemed almost resigned beside him.
Defending Olympic champion Linford Christie of Britain stood motionless,
a block of Lycra-clad obsidian. He had won in Barcelona by proving
himself immune to the pressure of this moment. If there was a given, it
was that even if Christie did not win, he would never flinch.
Christie flinched. He false-started, and the sprinters were called back
and reassembled. On the second try the field appeared to be away well
when the starter heard a tone in his earphones telling him that someone
had pressed back on the blocks too early; he fired the recall signal.
Boldon was distressed to learn he had reacted in an illegally quick .082
of a second. "Nobody can tell me I didn't go after that gun sounded,"
said Boldon, but nobody was telling him that. The official view is that
humans can't react in less than .1 of a second, so his move wasn't
reaction but anticipation.
Again the sprinters went to their marks. The crowd—80,000
strong—which in past Olympics has fallen into a rapt hush before
the 100, was fed up by now with all these false starts. The derisive
whistling stopped, but the roar of noise did not.
The gun fired again, and again the starter heard the fateful tone and
brought them back. He gestured at Christie, who had blasted off .086
after the gun. That was two. The most self-possessed man in sprinting,
who had never in his 36 years been thrown out on false starts, was
disqualified from the Olympic final.
This Christie could not endure. He refused to step back into the tunnel
as asked. Referee John Chaplin was summoned. Christie gave him no
argument and left, but by then nearly four minutes had elapsed, minutes
that worked on Boldon's mercurial nerves.
On the fourth try they were away cleanly. Mitchell shot to the front,
but was caught at 30 meters by Boldon, who was in turn caught at 60 by
the flashing quick strides of Fredericks, running with the expression of
a man rearing back from smelling exceedingly acrid cheese. The race
seemed over, a fitting end to Fredericks's magnificent season, perfectly
setting up a duel in the 200 with Johnson.
But at that instant Bailey made his move. As he hit 60 meters he
attained a speed that made his ordinary start meaningless. The timers
measured his velocity at that point at 27.1 mph, as the powerful stride
that brings not just his knees but his entire legs high, drove him past
Fredericks at 70 meters and to the finish in a world-record 9.84.
Hopes and cheers helped Austin soar to an electrifying win—and
almost to a world-record height.
photograph by
At last. For the first time since Harry Jerome tied the world mark at
10.0 in 1960, the record belonged to a Canadian sprinter. Well, that's
leaving out the whole unpleasantness of drug-forfeited Olympic races and
world records known as the Ben Johnson affair, which Bailey would love
to do. So we will, too.
Dwell instead on Bailey's open-mouthed silent scream as he crossed the
finish line, a perfect mix of joy and shock, for he had expected no
record. "Every time I run thinking of time, I screw up," he said
afterward. So, in affirmation of one of sport's eternal verities, he ran
thinking only of running and was rewarded.
Yet how was it that the false starts and the scene before the race
hadn't unsettled Bailey? "Sometimes the track gods are with you," said
Dan Pfaff, Bailey's coach. "Good starters become unnerved when there are
a lot of false starts. He's not a starter, so it didn't upset him as
much."
No, Bailey is a finisher, a mellow soul as sprinters go. Not for him the
frenzy of Boldon, who after finishing third in 9.90 behind Fredericks's
9.89, cried, "I would be the Olympic champion now if the starter hadn't
changed our focus." After some pointed advice from U.S. sprinter Jon
Drummond, Boldon composed himself. "I let myself be distracted by the
starter," he said dutifully. "That was my fault."
Not for Bailey the poleaxed self-pity that moved Christie to half-jog a
mock victory lap while Bailey celebrated with flag and fans. When Boldon
said he thought Christie's stunt was disrespectful, Christie took such
exception that Fredericks had to separate them, and here was Boldon in
tears again: "If it was me, if I'd made two false starts, I'd be out of
there. Everybody was affected by what Christie did at the start."
Everybody but Bailey, who revealed that he had been so absorbed in his
own race keys—tight hip, stay relaxed—he didn't even realize
Christie had been tossed. "I wondered what the delay was," he said.
Beyond being a sprinter who doesn't get nervous, Bailey is refreshing in
other ways, having a surplus of occupations—he's also a marketing
and investment consultant—and nationalities. "I'm a Jamaican-born
Canadian sprinter," he said for the 1,200th time, "and no, no way will I
run as long as Christie has. I don't have to. I have a million
marketable skills. And by the way, I think it's pathetic that you have
these lunatics running around [bombing] at the one place where 197
countries can gather in peace."
Bailey, in person and in performance, provided an Olympian riposte to
the predawn fear and ignited a remarkable day in which Gail Devers
became history's second woman to repeat as sprint champion (after Wyomia
Tyus in 1964 and '68), even while Devers's significant other, Kenny
Harrison, did about all a man can do to distract her.
Devers was acknowledging the crowd before her 100 semifinal—with a
quick wave, her disapproving schoolmarm game face firmly on—when
the applause leaped into a great roar. Harrison, the 31-year-old 1991
world champion in the triple jump, with whom Devers lives, had exploded
into the sand at 59' 1/4", breaking Willie Banks's U.S. record (58'11
1/2") and Mike Conley's Olympic record of 57'10 1/4". "I told him not to
mess up my concentration," said Devers with loving asperity, "but of
course he did."
She started terribly in that semi, but roared through the field to win
in 11 flat. The final would be tougher, as it contained Jamaica's
Merlene Ottey (four bronzes from four Olympics) and U.S. teammate Gwen
Torrence (the 1995 world champion), two of the four women Devers had
outleaned in a blanket finish four years ago atop Montjuïc in Barcelona.
So Devers had no time to fret for Harrison when British world-record
holder Jonathan Edwards leaped 58'8" and suddenly made the triple jump a
tight contest.
Harrison caught her off guard again. As the women's 100 finalists were
setting their blocks, he bounded to the third longest jump in history,
59'4 1/4". When the noise of the multitude had died away, the women's
100-meter race unfurled without a trace of a false start. The short,
dynamic Devers bolted to a quick lead. Then here came Ottey and
Torrence. Near the line Devers twisted her left shoulder forward and
ducked her head. Ottey kept her head higher and her chest forward.
As at Barcelona, no one knew who had won. For long minutes they waited,
watching slow-motion replays on the scoreboard of races that were too
close to call. Then the finish was shown on the screen, and Devers was
declared the winner, though both she and Ottey were timed at 10.94.
Torrence was third in 10.96.
A sore hamstring brought a quick end to Joyner-Kersee's
hopes of defending her heptathlon gold.
photograph by
The news hit Devers about the same time her coach, Bob Kersee, did. He
flew out of the knot of photographers nearby and swung Devers so wildly
that it seemed he was once again back in Los Angeles in 1984, falling
down in violent delirium with Valerie Brisco-Hooks, whom he was coaching
at the time, after her sweep of the 200 and 400 meters.
The Jamaican federation appealed the decision on Ottey's behalf, saying
heads shouldn't count and that her torso preceded Devers's across the
line, and for a minute it seemed that the cattiness of the male
sprinters was going to slop over to the women. In Barcelona a frustrated
Torrence had cut loose with unsubstantiated accusations that her
competitors may not have been drug-free—accusations that caused a
rift between Torrence and the Devers-Kersee camp. But on this night (Was
it maturity? Was it the nearness of more important concerns?) peace
prevailed.
The protest was disallowed. Devers and Torrence took a touching victory
lap together, and later, together, they delivered a forceful lecture to
all who would hear. "We're competitors, not rivals," said Devers. "When
it's over, it's over," said Torrence, who surely had to be saddened not
to do better in her hometown. But she kept her head up. "I am ecstatic,"
she insisted, "to get a medal."
Ecstasy like that, always hard to force, would be impossible in the
shot, because either world-record-holder Randy Barnes or world-champion
John Godina was going to be royally depressed about finishing second.
Both were capable of 73-footers, but as round after round went by, they
kept pressing and coming up five feet short. With one round left Godina
had a slim lead with a put of 68'2 1/2" and knew what was going to
happen. On his last throw Barnes hit 70'11 1/4", and Godina, though he
recognized that being part of a U.S. one-two finish was good, was
bummed. "It may sound like I don't appreciate the Olympics," he said,
berating himself. "But it's not that. I do. I just tried too hard."
Jackie Joyner-Kersee would, respectfully, gag. The two-time Olympic
champion and world-record holder in the heptathlon came in nursing a
tender hamstring that, over the ninth barrier of the opening 100-meter
hurdles, started to feel like someone was digging into her left leg with
a boning knife. She finished in agony and had to withdraw, leaving the
gold to Ghada Shouaa of Syria, who would have been tough even if her
American rival had been sound. Joyner-Kersee can only pray for a miracle
before Friday's long jump.
A miracle of sorts came Monday night when Svetlana Masterkova of Russia,
running a tactically superb race, upset both Ana Quirot of Cuba and
Maria Mutola of Mozambique, who were reduced to the silver and bronze,
in the women's 800.
The men's 110-meter hurdles did not produce an upset, but it did offer
another example of a truly Olympian effort. Allen Johnson of the U.S.
won the gold medal despite hitting the last six hurdles and clobbering
the last one so hard that he clearly would have come away with the world
record had he stayed clear. As it was, his 12.95 was an Olympic mark and
missed the world record by .04 of a second. Just trailing Johnson was
teammate Mark Crear, who captured the silver medal in 13.09.
And lest Michael Johnson's quest to double be the only one celebrated at
these Games, Haile Gebrselassie of Ethiopia took the track in the last
event of Monday night and raced to an Olympic record of 27:07.34 in
winning the men's 10,000 meters. His second gold medal run, in the
5,000 meters, would come on Saturday in the last individual race before
Sunday's men's marathon.
There can be no question that those performances—as well as that of
Marie-José Pérec of France, who reprised her 400-meter gold medal
performance from Barcelona—were masterful. But if anyone in the
Games can truly be said to have summoned his best at precisely the right
time, it was sweet Charles Austin of San Marcos, Texas. He and Poland's
Artur Partyka waged a high jump duel the equal of any in history, with
Austin leading by clearing all the early heights on his first tries to
earn the booming allegiance of the crowd.
But with the bar at 7'9 1/4", Partyka cleared and Austin missed twice.
That meant that even if Austin cleared on his third attempt, he would be
second if neither man went higher. So he passed his last try and let the
bar go to 7'10", where he would be allowed a single try while Partyka
got three.
Partyka missed his first, making the bar look impossibly high. Austin
readied himself and ran with his slow, bounding approach that is all
power. He popped into the air, lay long over the bar, lifted his heels
and cleared.
The roar that ensued seemed almost like trumpets, announcing the return
of something that has been gone for years. This was the sound that
swirled around Wilma Rudolph or Bob Hayes or Bruce Jenner, and it almost
escorted Austin—after Partyka had gone out—over a world-
record 8' 3/4" on his third try at that height. "I never felt anything
like it before," said Austin, dazed. "I'm sure I never will again."
When the cheering died away at last, you looked up and suddenly it was
night, with a full moon, and here was Donovan Bailey drinking it all in.
It was the day after his world record, and he was being expansive, for
him. "Yeah, we celebrated," he said. "Somebody had Cuban cigars. I had a
puff. I still have this nasty taste in my mouth."
It will fade. But the achievement, the achievement, will linger on like
an old sweet song, and surely keep Georgia on the mind.
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