The Anniversary Inn also provides a bar of clear-colored glycerine soap, which, because I’m a clod, I can’t hold onto. So this is how my days at the Olympics have generally begun: on my hands and knees, at the bottom of the tub, in a storm cloud, flailing around for a clear bar of soap like a blind man searching for a contact lens, getting drilled in the ear by really terrific water pressure.
Sometimes I just skip the shower.
See, I have to knock the elephant shower, because really, honestly, truly, I’ve had little else to complain about during my Olympic experience. Sure, I’ve gotten a bit tired of going through metal detectors every five feet. But each time I do, it’s a reminder of all the things that haven’t gone wrong here. The lack of terrorism, truthfully, wasn’t a big surprise to me. But the lack of traffic? Now that was a shocker. Who would’ve guessed they could hold an entire Olympic Games with, literally, no traffic? It was amazing, really: the highways are clear and free, and then you get to a venue and–poof!–there’s 30,000 people in the stands. Either every native heeded Mitt Romney’s warnings and fled town or the people at the Utah Department of Transportation–or “U-Dot”; I just love that acronym–are the smartest people in the universe.
(There’s one other thing completely absent from these Olympic Games: garbage. There is no garbage in this town. I mean anywhere. This is a lovely thing, but also a little creepy, like maybe no one actually lives here and the whole notion of “Salt Lake City” was part of the swindle that got the Olympics here in the first place. Hmm. That would explain the no-traffic phenomenon…)
From an American perspective, of course, these Games have gone more or less perfectly as well. (I know, I know, the Russians see things differently. Like that’s anything new.) The U.S. medal count will end up somewhere north of 30, astonishing considering America’s previous best was a measley 13. Looks like I picked the right Olympics to make my journalistic debut. Thanks to my treasured “E” credential–a simple laminated card that, I imagine, is not unlike what St. Peter hands out at the gates of heaven–I’ve witnessed live, in the flesh, a healthy number of U.S. triumphs and just as many memorable near-misses. Here’s just a few of them. And if this seems like rubbing it in, it is. Deal.
I saw Jonny Moseley land his Dinner Roll jump in the moguls–really unbelievably cool–and still get left off the medal podium. He finished fourth.
I saw Bode Miller charge back from, basically, Neptune to take a silver in the Alpine combined ski race.
I saw short-track speed skater Apolo Anton Ohno yanked down from behind just 50 feet from a gold medal, spin out in heap of bodies, crash into the wall, slice open his leg with his own skate and, somehow, crawl across the finish line for a silver. I also saw, in a touch of class that the Russians, the Koreans and (arguably) the Canadians, could’ve sorely used, 19-year-old Ohno refuse to complain about the outcome. He simply shrugged his shoulders and said “That’s our sport.”
I saw, in the very same race, in the most comic moment of these Olympics, Australian Steven Bradbury sail past all the human wreckage–he was a very, very distant last when the big wipeout occurred–and cruise through the finish for the most improbable gold medal all of us will ever see. “Those were my tactics,” Bradbury said later, “and they worked like a charm.”
I saw Jim Shea Jr. write the perfect ending to the ultimate feel-good story, taking gold in skeleton and pulling from his racing helmet a picture of his gold medal-winning grandfather, Jack, who died in a car crash on Jan. 28. Half an hour later, I saw Tristan Gale, a 21-year-old human sugar-high who works at Home Depot when she’s not sliding at 80mph down an ice track, make it a U.S. sweep by winning gold on the women’s side.
I saw Eric Bergoust, the best freestyle aerialist in history, freefall from first to worst after failing to land his second jump. Behind only Michelle Kwan and the entire women’s Alpine ski team as the biggest American let-down of the Games.
I saw Bode Miller charge back again on his second run to take another silver, this time in the giant slalom. Clearly, he’s doing this on purpose.
And I saw the U.S. men hang on to beat the Russians in a 22-years-later-to-the-very-day rematch of the “Miracle on Ice.” My first live hockey game ever, and I witnessed a furious, nail-biting third period during which everyone in the building was convinced Russia was going to tie up the game. Everyone except Team USA goalie Mike Richter.
Thirty years from now, though, I’ll probably only remember a handful of these moments. I doubt I’ll be able to recall Steven Bradbury’s name–unless he’s prime minister by then, which, knowing the Aussies, wouldn’t be a shock. And that’s fine. That’s why being there is so much better than remembering.
Still, I hope I remember some of the little things about being here in Salt Lake that have given these weeks life and color and shape. Like the free massages in the media center. Or the four-hour line for those ridiculous navy-blue Roots berets, which have turned this city into a Smurf colony. Or the surprisingly decent sushi we found just a short walk from our office. Or the Torch Channel, the Olympic’s answer to the Yule Log channel, which broadcasts a live shot of the Olympic torch 24 hours a day.
Or my elephant shower, the only example I’ve got of why, sometimes, remembering is so much better than being there.
title: “Olympics Winter Olympics 2002 Salt Lake City Utah Retrospective” ShowToc: true date: “2023-01-13” author: “John Minard”
South Huntsvillians are too busy with their burgers. Shooting Star is a 122-year-old joint, the oldest continually serving bar in Utah, according to Bill Kerig’s “Utah Underground.” (Pick up a copy if you’re heading here. The $16.95 investment will pay off.) The menu isn’t what you’d call diverse, but the bar’s perfected what selections they do offer: beer and burgers. The beer’s cold, which is about all you want after a day of skiing at nearby Snow Basin. It’s all we wanted. Two colleagues and I entered the hardened environs–the soap in the bathroom’s that gritty stuff you used at school–after going to the men’s downhill event. And the burgers … oh, the burgers!
If you’re one of those picky people who doesn’t appreciate culinary decadence, please stop reading. I don’t want to hear any “Eeeewwwwws” out of you. Alright. The Shooting Star’s signature burger is composed of two thick beef patties, cheese and fried onions and peppers. Now the decadent part. Sandwiched between the patties is a Polish knockwurst, butterflied. This has the effect of giving each bite a distinct tempo: slow and low through Patty 1, crunchy staccato through the knockwurst, slow and low through Patty 2. It’s so good you don’t just taste it. You hear it. I still hear it, three weeks later.
There’ve been a whole bunch of sporting events here, too. I overheard a Russian saying we’ve won all of them. That’s not true. I saw Eric Bergoust land on, well, his ass in the aerials event, plummeting from first to worst in the final standings. In the first hockey match with the Russians, we tied. (Note to the International Ice Hockey Federation and, for that matter, NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman: ties are un-American. Nothing’s worse than the negative reinforcement that comes with investing time, money and emotion only to be left in some vague middle ground. Sports are about being better than the next guy; we have our lives to be average.)
Still, the Games themselves somehow feel like condiments during my 20 days here, like ketchup on a burger. Though they only occupy one city at any particular time, the Olympics are a world unto themselves. When you’re here, you’re here. Maybe we’ve rid the world of evil doers. I don’t know. Maybe Enron’s a hot stock. Not sure. Maybe I paid my AmEx bill. Couldn’t tell you. Also couldn’t tell you what to see if you want to visit. When you cover the Games, you’re in the city, but not of it. You’re not on vacation. I’ve never been away so long and accumulated so few souvenirs. I’ve purchased a pair of boots and a bologna sandwich pin.
What I’m sure about is that folks who have been around the movement for awhile are fluent in Olympic-speak, which manifests itself in tics like, “Remember, in 1976, when the Winter Olympics were awarded to Denver, but then, in a 59.4 percent to 40.6 percent vote, the state’s voters prohibited public funds from being used to support them?” “Of course, of course. Now, let me see, wasn’t that the same year that Kathy Kreiner of Canada beat Rosi Mittermaier by 12 hundredths of a second to win the giant slalom, thus preventing Mittermaier, a German, from sweeping all three Alpine events?”
Which is why questions like, “How do you know if you’re good at luge?,” something I overheard behind me during the men’s halfpipe medal ceremony, just before the Foo Fighters concert, were so refreshing. And valid. How do you know if you’re good at luge? I was just about to turn around to discuss this with the guy when the Fighters’s lead singer Dave Grohl suggested everyone turn around and make out with their neighbor to keep warm. This was only moments before, mid “Monkey Wrench,” he announced to the heavily Mormon crowd: “This is the part of the song where I have to scream my balls off. It’s not easy being the best rock band in the world. You got to love it. Eat it. Breathe it. You got to shit it.” Covering musicians can be fun.
Covering athletes can be tough. Most guys I’ve talked to in my limited experience have met my questions with a mixture of boredom and more boredom. Except John Salley, who asked if I was retarded once. Oh well. Guys like Don Barcome make up for it. He’s the curling alternate, which means he’s the most obscure member of the most obscure U.S. team. Yet he carries a business card with him, home e-mail included. He wears a gold chain with a gold curling stone medallion on it that he bought for 150 Swiss francs in 1979 after winning the junior championships. “They didn’t have a prize for us,” the North Dakotan, 43, told me. Evan Dybvig, a freestyle mogulist, told me that he and his wife hope to “get to some place where, financially, we can remove ourselves from the normal life and live more off our own. You grow your vegetables, you raise your meat, you hunt, you fish, you do whatever. I don’t think that’s a very normal approach. But it’s certainly something we’ve talked about.”
The people, athletes included, are simple and good. Even the scalpers. There’s just something about, “Anyone got one for the ladies 500-meter shortrack?” that’s sweet. I also have become quite fond of Mitch English, my new favorite columnist, whose weather report appears in the Salt Lake City Weekly under the heading “In Plain English.” But I think Mitch is suffering from the same empty-tank syndrome we all are now. “I’m not going to file my taxes until the last day,” English writes. “I’m not going to take the trash out until it’s humanly impossible to stuff another bag into the can. I’m not going to write this article until the 11th hour of which it’s due.” Right with you on that one, buddy.
