With Paris on the horizon, I present my favorite Olympic memories (Part 1)
There were lost wallets. There was a Brush with Death. There was my meal of kangaroo fillet. I've covered 13 of these things. I've seen some stuff.
With the Paris Olympics less than one month away, I find myself being overwhelmingly happy I’m not going. Not that I had any choice in the matter, being self-employed and all that; but after covering 13 Olympic Games, six winter and seven summer, I don’t have the old pangs I once did in the days and months leading up to the Games.
I’ve been undeniably fortunate (and I worked hard to get myself in this position): I’ve gotten to travel the world, gotten to work the hardest, most intense, most satisfying job in sports journalism. It’s energizing and it’s enervating, which may sound weird. The Olympics are an endless cycle of 12- to 15-hour days. Let me tell you, Olympic coverage is best left to the younger members of our profession, I’m 64. I have double-digit stents in my wonky heart. I had a quadruple bypass in 2020. My time, at least when it comes to Olympic coverage, is done.
Anyway, with Paris on the horizon, I got to talking to thinking about my Olympic experiences, at least the ones I can share without causing domestic upheaval. So today, I will write about my first six Games; later this week, I’ll break down the last seven.
ALBERTVILLE 1992 – This was my first Olympics and I was scared to death.
I’d covered lots of huge events – Super Bowls, World Series, NCAA men’s basketball tournaments, you-name-it – but I’d never done the most massive sporting event on earth. It’s not just a matter of showing up at the arena on time and covering an event; the Olympics are a logistical nightmare, reporters taking buses all over the Olympic map, covering swimming one day, curling another, basketball another.
The most important thing a newbie Olympic journalist can do is become familiar with the bus schedule because at the Games, you spend half your days on buses. Going from your housing to the transportation center. From the transportation center to the venue. With lots of long walks interspersed. A lot. (I always felt bad for the TV cameramen and women, who had to do these daily treks while carrying a ton of equipment. If you’re not in a little bit of shape (and back then, I was still playing hockey and in so-so condition), it will wear you the hell out.
Today, I get tired playing 18 holes.
And I’m taking a cart.
I’m going to say something that will make me sound very old and cranky: These kids now, they have it easy. Because they do. Before the internet, I prepared for the Games by putting together these massive scrapbooks with as many story clippings as I could find. I’d purchase every newspaper and magazine I could find, cut out the stories on Olympic athletes and use them as reference. After most major events, those of us in the press room would make the rounds, looking for someone who had the appropriate clips.
Today, well, I don’t have to tell you: Some American comes out of nowhere to win the gold medal, you Google him or her and voila, you’re an instant expert. A dude from Namibia or Lithuania has a great performance, it takes a few keystrokes and you’re up to speed.
So, my accommodations…Well, my newspaper didn’t want to spring for two rooms, so I was forced to share a small, single hotel (call it a motel) room with another Rocky Mountain News reporter. Swell guy and all, but two grown men in a tiny hotel room with two small beds crammed in there? Yikes.
Now, it wouldn’t be an Olympics if there wasn’t the requisite Brush with Death, so here goes: Jay Mariotti (you may remember him) and I went to downtown Albertville one night to do what we usually did after work was done – we found a cool bar and had a couple of cocktails. Work hard, play hard. Anyway, we closed the bar and soon realized there were no cabs to be found. Worse yet, a snowstorm was raging. So we did the only thing we could do: We hitchhiked.
Eventually, we were picked up by two teenagers who may or may not have been in any condition to drive the treacherous, snow-filled mountain roads. I remember them blasting some heavy metal, and I remember thinking, “Well, at least the story of my untimely demise will be interesting.” Somehow, our heroes got me back to my motel and took my friend back to his housing down the road.
My other memory of Albertville was that the locals in this French Alps town didn’t really want us there. The French can be prickly on a good day, but these folks had no interest in helping a bunch of unkempt global journos. Ask for directions, help with a menu, whatever…they were completely unwilling to help.
I probably would have enjoyed the experience more if I knew what I was doing and how to manage the Games, but I was a rookie. It would get easier. Eventually.
BARCELONA 1992 – First, a suggestion:
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Musings of an Old Sportswriter to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.