The closest that I’ve ever been to Paris is 4,364 miles. That was squirming in Mrs. Lois Collins’ eighth-grade French class.
Correction.
On a Delta flight in 1999 to begin a three-week Middle East Travel Seminar (METS), our plane touched down in Berlin. That put me—as the crow flies—an estimated 544 miles from the home of the 2024 Olympics.
I may never get to Paris. But when the opening ceremony of the Games of the XXXIII Olympiad begin, memories from Atlanta’s Centennial Olympics will have me there.
Why?
All I have to do is pick up the 31.5-inch metal tube—numbered 128—with its intricate engravings and wooden handle. With one touch, I’m back in the summer of 1996 on a stretch of Stephens County asphalt carrying that lighted torch.
I almost missed the once-in-a-lifetime privilege. I had been too immersed in chairing Athens 96 to fill out the application. The 28-member board was charged with coordinating the community’s involvement in the Olympics. Fortunately, I got a phone call from Billy Payne, the dreamer who brought the Olympics to Georgia. My friend asked, “Don’t you want to run the torch?”
Six years earlier—on Sept. 22, 1990—Billy and I were walking out of Sanford Stadium. Georgia had just upset Alabama, 17-16. And four days earlier, Billy had been in Tokyo to hear International Olympic Committee (IOC) president Juan Antonio Samaranch announce, “It’s Atlanta!”
The timing was perfect for me to ask, “Billy, would you come to my hometown and tell your Olympic story?” Without hesitation, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Sure.” And he did.
In the spring of 1991, UGA’s athletic board was meeting at the King and Prince Hotel on St. Simons. After an evening meal, I joined Billy and his former coach, Vince Dooley, on the balcony of Billy’s room. I’ll never forget Vince—who had been in Tokyo, too—say, “Billy, old boy, in the beginning I thought all those licks on your head from playing football had finally gotten to you.”
His coach was right. There were plenty of doubters that
the Atlanta attorney’s dream could come true. But Billy buckled his chin strap
and charged into the challenge, just as he had done as an All-SEC defensive
end.
Here’re some other Olympics memories that I won’t forget:
§ Billy asked Pam and me to serve as presidential ambassadors. Our royal blue blazers—with insignia patches—are treasured keepsakes. International dignitaries frequented our home for receptions and meals. Several times, we made sure grits were on the menu.
§ Billy was tight-lipped about who would light the flame during the opening ceremony. I can still hear the roar in the Atlanta stadium when Muhammad Ali appeared with the torch. We were there, in our ambassador blazers, testing the limits of our vocal cords.
§ The darkest memory of 1996 was the Olympic Park bombing. Years later, the murderous villain was captured, digging in a North Carolina dumpster. The Cherokee Scout, our newspaper in Murphy, broke the story about Eric Rudolph. Within hours, The Scout published an EXTRA edition that sold 25,000 copies.
§ The second-darkest memory was when a pipe bomb exploded in our mailbox. We were away when the blast shook the neighborhood. Two nights earlier, our son Eric would have been sitting at his desk in that bay window. I held the heels of a federal agent who hung from the second-story bedroom window so that he could dig out the 2-inch cap of the bomb. The bomber was never identified.
§ The funniest memory was when octogenarian Fred Birchmore was invited to run the torch in Athens. His first Olympic experience was in 1936, when he stopped by Berlin on his bicycle trip around the world. Fred told me, “I shot Hitler twice.” Laughing, he added, “With my Kodak.”
When the 80-something asked how far he was to run the torch, the reply was about an eighth of a mile. Fred shot back, “Hell, I could do that on my hands.” And he could. He once walked—on his hands—down all 896 steps of the Washington Monument.
Memories, so many 1996 memories.
But I don’t remember much from Mrs. Collins’ French class.
However, if a woman asks me whether I am going to watch the Paris events, I will say, “Oui, oui, madame.”
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com