High life
Running for gold
Taki
WAthens atching the track and field events on television all last week brought back many pleasant memories. Twenty-seven years ago I was in Rome, staying with my friend Gianni Agnelli at the Hotel Grande, and madly in love with a Swedish girl called Estelle.
The Rome Olympics of 1960 were prob- ably the thost sucuessful ever held. Berlin in 1936 was grand, but the propaganda overshadowed the sport. Mexico and Munich in 1968 and 1972 respectively were marred by killings and politics, while Mos- cow and Los Angeles were showcases for socialism and capitalism at their most terrible, not to mention the boycott. The worst, as far as I'm concerned, were the Montreal games of 1976, when the yellow- bellied Olympic Committee under Lord Killanin kicked out Taiwan and countries that had competed in South Africa in order to appease nice, freedom-loving chaps like Mengistu, Sekou Toure, and whatever Chinaman was head of the People's Re- public at the time.
Back in 1960, the Italian economic miracle was at its zenith, and the mood of the country was not unlike mine whenever Margaret Thatcher gets elected. There were two great balls, one in Naples, at the Serra di Cassano Palace, and the other at the Palazzo Ruspoli in Rome. It was in Naples that I went looking for Estelle and caught a present king in flagrante with a French vicomtesse, who coyly did her best to be caught by me, but I didn't like her (she was and is a terrible snob) so I told no one. Our own Crown Prince at the time, now ex-King Constantine, did all Greeks proud by winning a gold medal in the Dragon class in sailing, making him an overnight hero. Alas, it was not to last.
At the Ruspoli bash, I found no monarchs in horizontal positions, but I did run into a man I had had a slight alterca- tion with earlier in the day. My host had the best seats in the Stadio Olympico, but on that day I found them occupied by Mr Bing Crosby and his wife. Bing was inno- cent, as he had been given our seats by a government official who was obviously a fan. Gianni had not come on that particu- lar day, so when I tried to evict Der Bingle in order to seat myself and Estelle, all hell broke loose. The Italian people are emo- tional, and although the seats were mine and Estelle was a knock-out, Bing Crosby was Bing Crosby. But when I appealed to his sense of justice, he immediately got up and graciously gave me what an American would call my property. At the ball he told me that he went and sat with the President of the Republic, so I didn't feel guilty.
What I did feel was sorry for the Greek athletes, who failed to qualify in all events. Just as they did last week. It is a funny thing, but the best Greek athletes emerge in non-subsidised sports like tennis, wrest- ling, sailing, and karate. Successive Greek governments have poured money into athletics, and have as much to show for it as the builders of the Maginot Line did in June 1940. I guess in free societies money works against an athlete making sacrifices, while in totalitarian ones it gets them a dacha and other goodies.
When Abdi Bile won the 1,500 metres last Sunday, a Greek hack commented that it was disgusting for a country that cannot feed its people to train an athlete like Bile. As usual, the Greek hack had it all wrong. Bile began running only five years ago, when he got an American grant to study in the United States. He hasn't cost Somalia a red cent, something I wish I could say for the Greek athletes. The Papandreou reg- ime has paid more attention to sport than health or education, but the only Greek I saw on screen all week was the one who was having a cappuccino in the Piazza Venezia while the marathon runners were passing.
Yes, Rome in 1960 was a magic place, so magic in fact that a white man won the 100 metres, and an Italian the 200 metres. It has never happened since, except for the great Soviet Borzov, now relaxing in his dacha somewhere south of Moscow. And speaking of dachas, I wish Papandreou would give my karate boys one, as they distinguished themselves once again at Crystal Palace last week. As I did also, but not in the same way. I was the oldest athlete by far, and received the largest bump ever seen on a man still able to breathe, according to the doctor who treated me. When he took an X-ray of my head, however, he stopped worrying. 'You have nothing inside,' was the way he put it.
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