Time - Man of the Year/Time_Man_of_the_Year_Compact_Publishing_3YX-Disc-1_Compact_Publishing_1993.iso/moy/081792/08179932.000

Text File | 1993-04-08 | 8KB | 184 lines

                                                                                OLYMPICS, Page 52

1992 SUMMER GAMES

Memories Great and Small


From kayak to track, Barcelona's sparkling Olympics leave various
and multihued images projected on the split screen of the mind's
eye

By PICO IYER/BARCELONA


    In Bhutan arrows whistle through the silent air.
Citizens, dressed by law in medieval robes, saunter past
buildings, constructed by law in traditional fortress style.
There is no television yet in the Hidden Kingdom, and airlines
first arrived during the '80s. Last year the country saw
scarcely 1,500 tourists (or roughly the same number that pour
into Disneyland every hour).

    Imagine, then, the sensation for three teenage archers --
half of the third Olympic team ever sent from the Land of the
Thunder Dragon -- as they stepped out of their landlocked
Himalayan kingdom and into the flashbulb glare of Barcelona's
Olympics. Anxiously consulting an astrologer before they left,
Bhutan's Olympians -- all archers -- had never boarded a plane
before, or experienced summer heat. The Olympic Village was
almost the size of their capital, Thimbu. And the biggest shock
of all, said Namgyal Lhamu, was "the sea," which she, like the
others, had only read about at home. "I thought Barcelona was
going to be peaceful, like Thimbu," added a cheerful Pem
Tshering. "But it's so busy!" High-rise buildings, spiceless
food, subway trains -- everything was a source of wonder for
them. In Barcelona the archers thought back often to the quiet
field in the middle of Thimbu where they practice among the
willows; now, once more in Thimbu, they are doubtless telling
their friends about a place where you have to pay for water.

    There are two kinds of memory: the official ones that
belong to the world in highlight films, and the private ones
that are preserved, if at all, in dusty photo albums. Some
Olympic moments from Barcelona will now pass into the collective
unconscious -- Charles Barkley dunking, Gail Devers smiling,
Derek Redmond in tears hobbling on his pulled hamstring toward
the 400-m finish line, leaning on his father's shoulder. Others
will be as unmarked as the snapshots the Bhutanese archers take
back of a city full of boats.

    Carlos Saura, the dazzling Spanish director who is
responsible for the movie of the Barcelona Games, has enough
passionate drama to work with to film another Carmen. He could
begin with Magic Johnson at the opening ceremonies, undertaking
what Johnson, who has more cause than most to savor moments,
called "the most important thing in my life." He could show Gwen
Torrence sobbing uncontrollably as she collected her 200-m gold,
and, 10 minutes later, in a raucous press conference, spitting
out that drug use is "in swimming, it's in track and field, it's
everywhere." And he could close with the stirring spirit of the
Barcelonans themselves, gathering each night under their colored
fountains in a show of happy pride.

    If there was a single all-around winner in the Olympic
events, in fact, it was, on every level, Spain, and not just
because the country claimed at least 13 gold medals, after
winning only four in the past 96 years. The Chinese team was
also a consistent surprise, and its women alone were everywhere
one looked -- scoring all 10s in the uneven bars, winning an
archery shoot-off with bull's-eye after bull's-eye after
bull's-eye, even striding off with the 10-km walk. The Unified
Team forgot its differences long enough to enjoy one last
triumph, and the Americans had good reason to cheer the Dream
Team, as their swimmers, boxers, spikers and pitchers failed to
live up to every high expectation. The Kenyans, as usual, showed
all comers how to carry themselves -- and transcend themselves
-- with grace.

    The success of the Games was not without qualification, of
course -- in part because of disqualifications. Never, surely,
have so many events been decided after the competition was
over. Sometimes (in the men's 10,000 m) disqualifications
themselves were disqualified; sometimes (in boxing) even
officials were disqualified. In some events, it seemed all those
athletes who had not been suspended were at least suspected. In
the first athletics event to be decided, the men's shot put,
both the gold and bronze medalists had been suspended for using
steroids; the silver medalist had been convicted of possessing
amphetamines.

    Yet still the memories kept coming, as various and
many-hued as the images in the cameras lined up along the track,
each trained on a different local hero. Some of them would have
to be edited, some would be shown only in Kuala Lumpur. One
sunny Sunday morning, the badminton hall was filled with
Malaysian smiles. The country's doubles team -- the brothers
Razif and Jalani Sidek -- had just advanced to the semifinals,
assuring Malaysia of its first Olympic medal ever. "What more
could you ask for in life?" coach Punch Gunalan asked the air
around him. One hour later, though, the country's brightest
hope, Rashid Sidek (another brother) was upset in the
quarterfinals by a Dane, and the hall was suddenly full of
smiling Danes.

    Often, in fact, the memories had to be caught before they
slipped away. The Canadian Curt Harnett whizzed around the
cycling track in 10:368. "New Olympic record," proclaimed the
public address system. Harnett exulted, while Australian Garry
Neiwand came around. 10:330. "New Olympic record." Neiwand was
beginning to celebrate when German Jens Fiedler whizzed past.
10:252. "New Olympic record."

    Many of the memories, indeed, were checkered, and
soft-focus moments were framed by harder edges. The public
memory recalls Linford Christie bursting past in the 100 m, arms
upraised in triumph; the private one shows Mark Witherspoon, a
medal hopeful in the same event, thunder down the track for 30
meters, then suddenly collapse into a sickening heap, his tendon
ruptured. On the scoreboard, the finish was played and replayed
while Witherspoon lay alone, helpless on the track.

    Most often, though, the private memories seemed likely to
outlast the public ones: one of the charms of the Olympics is
that it plays tricks with perspective, so that ordinary Joes
become superstars, and superstars can seem like ordinary Joes.
There was Magic Johnson, his smile as broad as an unbalanced
beam, taking in the women's gymnastics, and there was Steffi
Graf, looking unusually relaxed (before her loss in the final
to Jennifer Capriati) and confessing that she would have liked
to try the 100 m. There was Jim Courier, speaking with touching
sincerity of the joys of living in a tiny room without air
conditioning. "I wouldn't miss staying in the Village for
anything," he said. "You get up in the morning and you see some
of the best athletes in the world going for jogs or eating
breakfast. It's indescribable!" A few days later, the No. 1 seed
was knocked out of both doubles and singles, and his conqueror,
the Swiss giant Marc Rosset, was looking pleasantly bewildered.
"I like the Village so much," said the unseeded Rosset, who went
on to win the gold, "maybe I'm going to buy a flat in the
Village."

    Iranians traded pins with Iraqis in the Games, and in the
final inning of the semifinal game between baseball's
archrivals, Cuban first baseman Lourdes Gourriel -- on his way
back to a bankrupt island -- wished American Phil Nevin every
success in the major leagues. By week's end, all those who came
were leaving with some such memento: with a large round weight
around their necks, or a picture of themselves with Magic
Johnson; with shaved heads or ruptured tendons. Barcelona has
long been famous as a city of artists and laborers, a "city of
marvels" where discipline and flight converge. Now, to the
famous roll call of its industrious dreamers -- Casals and
Picasso, Miro and Lorca, Gaudi and Garcia Marquez -- can be
added some new names: Joyner-Kersee and Jordan, Scherbo and
Laumann. Besides, Barcelona now has something to remember Thimbu
by, and even in television-less Thimbu there is a rumor of a
place called Barcelona.