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By Mark Starr
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When I tell folks, especially young kids and middle-age men, what I do for a living there are often squeals of delight and envious comments about what they view as my fantasy life. And amid my grumbles about too much travel, surly athletes and unreasonable editors, I confess there is some truth in that perspective.
I never met a sportswriter who didn't start out as a sports fan. And even the most cynical of us recognizes that, at times, we are privileged to witness certain sports moments. For me those have included Mark McGwire's 61st and 62nd home runs, Carl Lewis's final Olympic leap, Brandi's goal and, by all means, her celebration, Kerri's gimpy vault, Paris in the thrall of World Cup victory and Michael Jordan from an incomparable courtside vantage point. But for sheer chills-up-the-spine thrills, jaw-dropping wonderment and gaping-open-mouth speechlessness, I'm not sure I ever experienced anything to rival Michael Johnson's 1996 Olympic gold medal at 200 meters in Atlanta.
Even at five years' distance now, I can recall, at the merest mention of that golden moment, that multitude of emotions and sensations. Johnson had long before established himself as the finest sprinter of the '90s and expectations for him in Atlanta, where he sought to become the first man ever to win the 200-400 double, had ratcheted up incredibly high. He won the 400 meters easily. But the fact that he hadn't broken the world record in an event in which he was so clearly dominant was threatening to hover as a slight, undeserved tarnish on his Olympic feats. Still, after a week of grueling heats and grueling heat, the second gold would be a historic achievement. Johnson, though, didn't settle for just the gold. He ran what may be the most explosive sprint in history, shattering the world record by more than .34 seconds. That is roughly the equivalent of knocking the 100-meter record down from its current perch of 10.79 to 10.62. And keep in mind that it took more than 30 years to move the 100-meter mark by that chunk of time.
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For all his considerable cockiness-the man did, after all, wear golden shoes-Johnson was pretty much as stunned as everyone else in the stadium. We and he stared at that clock on the track, as if waiting for a glitch to restore the numbers to something a bit more mortal. But it never budged from 19.32. Afterwards in the press room, the magnitude of the achievement punctured the reserve, defensiveness and stiffness that usually characterized Johnson's public face. He was boyish, exuberant and totally charming. And no one felt the least bit short-changed when Johnson said, "I can't even describe how it feels."
I bring up Michael Johnson because tomorrow, thousands of miles from home at the Goodwill Games in Brisbane, Australia, he will anchor the U.S. 4x400 relay team in what is to be the final race of his career. It is perhaps silly to waste too much of a lament on what is assuredly a pretty payday for Johnson before an appreciative Aussie crowd (and a fairly paltry American TV audience). Still, there is something dispiriting about this exit, and none of it is Johnson's fault. Cal Ripken will get to bask in the glow of a sellout Yankee Stadium crowd and will be favored with countless standing ovations in his final game, as he has been on every stop of his farewell tour. But Johnson, certainly as stellar a performer (I don't expect to see either of their records broken in my lifetime), exits without a final American showcase, a chance for us to show our appreciation for his greatness.
I have often lamented the sorry state of track and field in this country and I have all but given up hope that it will ever again be more than a quadrennial affection here. Though track and field became a pro sport a long time ago, the track establishment has never shed its amateurism. It hasn't had a glimmer of a clue how to market the superstars-the Carl Lewises, Jackie Joyner-Kersees and Michael Johnsons-that have thrilled us with their Olympic triumphs. While every other sport caters to its superstars, bending the rules to showcase them, track has clung to a kind of rigid democracy. It denied Johnson, a man who has won five Olympic golds and nine world golds (no silvers, no bronzes) a chance, a last chance, to anchor our relay team at the world championships last month because he wouldn't run to qualify at the nationals in Eugene, Ore. This is an organization that would ban Babe Ruth from a home-run-hitting contest cause he signed his entry form with his nickname rather than the formal George Herman.
At its best, track and field can be the purest athletic endeavor of all. But there are rampant suspicions as to whether the sport is ever at its best any more. To casual fans (and even some avid ones), it is now so deeply entangled in their minds with drugs that it is viewed less as sport than as some kind of scientific experiment. There were a number of great performances at the world championships last month in Edmonton, Alberta, all overshadowed by the one major drug scandal involving Russian runner Olga Yegorova. And the whole event hardly caused a ripple here. Marion Jones, Maurice Greene, Stacy Dragila, John Godina et al will have to wait for 2004 Olympics in Athens to get a modicum of attention at home.
The consequences of American indifference (and the ineptitude of our national track programs over the years) may not show up in Athens, but it won't be too long before it does. The U.S. performance in Edmonton was weak, with only a few exceptions, outside of the sprints. And the Americans showed nothing in events like the men's 400 that the Yanks have always dominated. Who is there that still aspires to excel in a sport that now has a lower profile in this country than that very foreign sport of soccer? The saddest part is not that we fail to say a fitting goodbye to a legend like Johnson. It's that there's no one coming along in his stead for us to say hello to.
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