Atlanta 96: The Villain Who Wasn’t

If covering a major sporting event represents an extraordinary challenge, when it comes to a foundational episode, memories are enhanced until they become endearing.

Perhaps that, that of having been my first in-person Olympic experience, was the fundamental reason why I cannot avoid a smile of beautiful nostalgia when I imaginatively go back to the Atlanta 96 Olympic Games.

Because, to be honest, even today it is difficult to justify the fact that the last mega-competition of the 20th century was held in the home of several of the main North American corporations and not in the cradle of ancient games, since that year was precisely the 100th anniversary of the premiere of modern Olympism in the Greek capital. Even more so. Never in history have two summer games been held in cities in the same country in such a short period: just 12 years between Los Angeles and Atlanta.

However, neither the minor detail of a choice of venue that is difficult to justify sportingly speaking, nor a string of mismatches, starting with the collapse of the information system during the first day of competition, are enough to overshadow what was stuck in memory as an unforgettable undertaking.

Surely there will be time to explain in detail what that first great adventure was about, but the mere fact of having participated in the first Olympic mega-broadcast on Argentine television is enough to relativize any sense of skepticism.

After a couple of days of competition with the typical fluctuations of any game (first medals, world records in swimming, celebrations, frustrations, ratifications and surprises) a very special moment arrived for Argentine sports: the basketball team, who in those years was not the usual favorite it would become after the turn of the century, made his debut with the local team, something like the Second Dream Team in history. (I remain convinced that the only and incomparable Dream Team was the one from 1992).

Since the broadcast was carried out by colleagues from the channel’s studios, the production decided that we should spend the night. An exceptional moment of calm, nuanced by pizzas by the pool in the gated neighborhood where we stayed on the outskirts of the city.

All after Argentina kept the North Americans at bay (it lost the first half by only two points after having been in the lead) and Bob Costas, the historic presenter of the NBC channel, announced with quite arrogance something like “now that the world of basketball has returned to normal, we continue with the broadcast of the Greco-Roman wrestling qualifiers”. Shortly after a losing finish by nearly 30 points, we went to rest as early as we never would.

Around 3 in the morning, the boss called my phone. “Turn on the TV. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

The images only spoke of absolute chaos. The Centennial Olympic Park was invaded by patrolmen and security people who were moving frantically without giving the impression of knowing what they were looking for.

A while later, we arrived at the parking lot of the IBC (International Broadcast Center), which was located no more than two hundred meters from the scene of the conflict. This park was specially set up as a recreational site for the usual cultural activities in the games. And it was precisely during a reggae recital that an explosion occurred very close to the stage.

Over time, clarifications began to arrive. There were three home-type detonations. There were two deaths due to cardiac arrest as a result of the stampedes caused by the explosions. And I appreciate the culprit: the private security guard Richard Jewell was the one who called 911 as soon as he discovered the presence of a suspicious bag at the foot of the stage. 48 hours after being presented as the hero who had saved the lives of many people who were forced to clear the area, those responsible for the investigation established that, in reality, Jewell had a psychological profile compatible with the guilt that was attributed to him. Among other things, this rugged man, with thin mustaches, an older bachelor who lived with his widowed mother, had failed in his attempt to join the Marines, he had tried to hide his frustration by becoming the hero of a tragedy that he himself had caused.

The next few days were a fierce media hunt. The police raided his house, we saw live how computers and tools were being taken from his garage, neighbors appeared who had always seen him as a personality between suspect and sadistic, a former employer of his claimed to have thrown him out because he detected dark attitudes in him, and the talk shows at the time were plagued by psychologists dismantling the clearly sinister characteristics of the Nation’s number one public enemy.

It wasn’t until several months later that we learned the truth.

After three more similar attacks, in 1997 (two at clinics where abortions were performed and one at a gay-friendly bar), the FBI arrested a man named Eric Rudolph, a Catholic fanatic confessed homophobic that admitted to having planted the bomb in Atlanta “in repudiation of the policies promoted in this regard by Bill Clinton’s left-wing government.”

Years later, Jewell filed all the lawsuits against public bodies and the media that literally ruined his life.

And those of us who were in Atlanta found that, on certain occasions, those who control everything, more than the truth, what they need is to leave us alone by posing a culprit. Even if he’s an innocent person.