Snows, and Glows, of Sarajevo

By Tom Callahan

Mountain storms delayed skiing events, but off the slopes, the Games went on

"We are Communists. We have finished our part of the work. The rest is in the hands of God."

--Olympic spokesman in November

As acts of God go, the Olympic blizzard went too far. So devoutly wished for in the sultry days leading up to this winter carnival, the snows of Sarajevo finally fell by the ton. As a result, the first few days of the Games rivaled the man-made chaos of Lake Placid, though it must be said that Yugoslav bus drivers avoid avalanches better than U.S. hockey players do.

It was not just an inconvenient storm. Forty people were killed in avalanches in Austria, Italy and Switzerland. Throughout Alpine Europe, roads were closed, villages cut off, skiers stranded. Austrian Franz Klammer, American Bill Johnson and that whole body of men who like to race down mountains had to break two dates with Mount Bjelasnica, where the winds topped 120 m.p.h. and the safety nets blew away. Over at Jahorina, the women downhillers were also delayed.

Even Karin Enke, the leggy and lovely speed skater from the German Democratic Republic, was inconvenienced. Her second race in two days had to be shoved back a few hours. But eventually she added a silver medal to her gold. Whatever the weather, those frosty cross-country men still take to the woods like splayfooted deer. In describing the Americans' disposition so far, it may be enough to say that 20 skiers came back from the 30-km race ahead of Bill Koch.

Eight years ago, when he was an anonymous young man of 20, who after racing could chip the ice out of his eyebrows without being bothered, Koch happened to win an Olympic silver medal at Innsbruck. No American had ever won a Nordic medal before, and none has done it since, though only Koch has been blamed for that. When during the 30-km in 1980 he quit and walked off the course, he said he was conserving his energy for the 15-km and 50-km races ahead. But public reaction was harsh. This time, though 21st, he reached the finish with a look of triumph. "It's not a gold medal, but I hope people appreciate the effort," he said. "I'm not a quitter."

Koch also rejoiced for the winner, Soviet Nikolay Zimiatov, who preceded him by five minutes. "A real nice guy," he said of his old friend, who has now collected five gold medals in his life. How do the two communicate? "Mostly with our eyes. In a lot of ways, it's more forceful." The news of Yuri Andropov's death arrived about the same time as Zimiatov. But no one suggested that the team withdraw. With both Soviet and Yugoslav flags at half-staff, fun and Games continued.

The dimension of the hockey miracle in 1980 has been confirmed not so much by the U.S.'s opening loss to Canada--when the Americans were listless and Star Pat LaFontaine was off his feed--but by the Czechoslovak game two days later. "We didn't beat ourselves this time," said Coach Lou Vairo after that 4-1 defeat. "We competed hard, but we lost to a great team." They tied Norway in Game 3, and any thought of advancing to the medal round ended. At the Zetra Rink, a charming green bandbox, U.S. tourists waved their flags wanly, and the players were crushed. "They're just sitting there crying," Vairo reported. Mark Kumpel, 22, who scored the goal against the Czechs, said afterward, "It means nothing, but it was the greatest goal of my life. We've been treated like heroes for six months." And now? "I still feel like a hero."

"This is a good team," said TV Commentator Mike Eruzione, whose goal beat the Soviets in Lake Placid, "but I've never seen a goalie play as well as Jim Craig did for those two weeks in 1980." Twenty-seven seconds into the Canada game, the defending gold medalists were behind. The final score was 4-2, and though the play was less passionate than expected, the arena was quiet enough to hear a dream drop. The 1984 team has more teeth, but fewer calluses than its more grizzled predecessors. Ed Olczyk, 17, of Chicago, still says things like, "It wasn't long ago that, when the Black Hawks lost, I cried." David A. Jensen, 18, of Lawrence Academy in Groton, Mass., is writing a journal on this experience for high school credit. Of the hard road, he says, "It's tough living outside Mommy's arms. I thought I'd be taking biology now." Olczyk and Jensen are the wings of Wunderkind LaFontaine, who turns 19 three days after the closing ceremonies. A virus has restrained his performance.

The coach last time, Herb Brooks, parlayed the Olympics into a job with the New York Rangers, but Vairo expects to gain only criticism. "If 250 million people want to point fingers, that's fine," he says. "But we're not going to apologize for trying our best. If it was war, they wouldn't take any prisoners. But it's not war. It's still only a game."

To the Soviets, it is something more than that. Says Goalie Vladislav Tretiak, 31: "We are here only for the gold medal this time, and no one can beat us." Asked to comment on the U.S. predicament, he smiles but does not reply. There is an impression that he wishes the Americans were faring better. Once again, the Montreal Canadiens are romancing Tretiak, but they have received no encouragement from the Kremlin. At an Andropov memorial service attended by 200 U.S.S.R. athletes and officials at the village, one of four eulogies was delivered by Tretiak, who seemingly allows exactly one goal a game. The team opened with a 12-1 win against Poland, and followed with 5-1 and 9-1 triumphs over Italy and Yugoslavia. Keeping the Soviets in single digits, believe it or not, required a heroic stand by Yugoslav Goaltender Cveto Pretnar, who had 61 saves. "Hajde Plavi!" (Go Blue!) chanted the home crowd. And when the blue-helmeted team actually scored, the cheering warmed the city.

By the weekend the XIV Winter Games had a heroine: Enke, whose 5 ft. 9 1/4 in., most of it legs, qualifies her as towering. She is an overgrown figure skater who may have forgotten how to do a triple jump, but has retained delicateness and grace. Out of her wetsuit, she puts no one in mind of a frogman. Her light-brown hair falls past her shoulders. "Where do you put it?" someone asked. She laughed. "Part in the cap, part in the suit."

After setting the 1,500-meter world record, Enke, 22, was penciled in for all four available golds, even for the 3,000-meter race, which she is not yet certain to skate. But a teammate, Christa Rothenburger, trimmed her by .08 sec. over 500 meters. The snow was thick enough almost to constitute fog, and the spectators were limited practically to those involved, plus a few enthusiastic Dutchmen and flag-waving Japanese. Paired with a slower skater, Enke had to rely on her own metronome, and it must have been off slightly. Still, the sensation of winning and then nearly repeating was beautiful. It made Enke forget "the hurting body."

If she wins some more this week--whoever does--the memory for all is sure to be of more than a snowstorm. The day of the opening ceremony, snow was abundant only in the mountains, and a welcome dusting that morning brought a happy blush to those streaming to Kosevo soccer stadium by bus or on foot. At a staging area outside the park, the U.S. Nordic skiers arrived early, including Kelly Milligan of Moose, Wyo. ("Twelve miles," as she explained, "from Jackson Hole"). Four years ago, Milligan was watching on television. "Now it's me," she sang. "I wear the white hat." Pretty soon, cowboy hats were popping up all around. "Look, here comes the cavalry."

Norwegian-born Audun Endestad, the newest U.S. citizen, barely made it. Leaving the Nordic ski team in Zurich, on a Monday morning, he paused in New York City en route to Salt Lake City, where he was sworn in thanks to a hurriedly signed special Senate bill in the works for about a year. Next, Endestad flew to San Francisco in quest of a passport, and from there he headed to Sarajevo, where he rushed directly from the airport to the stadium and dressed just in time for Tuesday's overture. Whew!

Yugoslav cadets, folk dancers, ballet troupes and high school girls formed colorful ranks: bluer than turquoise, pinker than flamingos. Their snowsuits looked so much like space suits, it might have been a wedding on the moon. Italians tossed snappy striped mufflers over their shoulders. The Canadians came as red-hooded Santas. Four men from Lebanon, all mustachioed, worked up small smiles. And, after cloaked Moroccans in bright burnooses, a one-man band ambled by: George Tucker, the famed Puerto Rican luger (win some, luge some) from Albany, N.Y. With "brakes on all the way," he breathlessly completed the necessary two qualifying runs, in which no particular times are necessary but survival is required. A chilled crowd, about 55,000 strong, was pleased with Tucker.

The earth tones of furry Soviets did not charm the Yugoslavs in the bleachers, who preferred their own team's trench coats, but heartily joined with scattered Americans cheering the U.S. athletes as they waved their stetsons. Significantly, when it came to electing a flag bearer, the U.S. captains of the various sports passed over those who are well publicized, and occasionally well paid, in favor of a dedicated Delaware luge racer named Frank Masley, 23, a second-time Olympian. "Their days may come on the medal stand," says Masley, who had no chance for that, "but this day was ours." He referred to all neglected sports.

Crashing in the first run of the Olympic trials five weeks ago, slightly denting his right cheek, Masley was required thereafter to slide impeccably, or the best American luge racer would have been left at home. With $600 in parts, Masley built his own sled. "I leave my job [computer drafting] for six months every year," he says, "and save every cent the rest of the time. But it's worth it, an incredible feeling, the wind rushing by. You're doing something. And this is the proudest moment of my life."

In their choice of flag bearer, perhaps even the athletes were expressing some disdain for the hypocrisies of amateurism. "We ain't pure," U.S. Olympic Committee President William Simon stated plainly before the Games began, calling for "a uniform definition of amateurism" or "being honest about it and having open Games." Citing the track-and-field trust-fund accounts as an example of "pure sham," Simon spoke of athletes "taught how to cheat" and shook his head.

Five hockey players--two Canadians, two Austrians and an Italian--were dismissed on the eve of the competition for having had brief encounters with the National Hockey League. One of the Austrians not expelled was Richard Cunningham, 32, veteran of more than 300 games in the defunct World Hockey Association. On the computer terminals in the press room, Cunningham's occupation is listed as "philosopher."

International Olympic Committee President Juan Samaranch must be one too. During his part in the ceremonies, he said, "We are convinced that once again we will demonstrate to the whole world the true meaning of sport as an illustration of friendship and fraternity, with the Olympic flag as the symbol." When Mika Spiljak, whose official title is "President of the Presidency," declared the Games open, doves raced balloons to the mountaintops. In one translation of the Olympic oath, vowed to for all by Yugoslav Skier Bojan Krizaj, the phrase "in the spirit of true sportsmanship" came out "in the spirit of true sponsorship," but the moment could not be spoiled.

Around a ramp of snow trucked down from the hills, the flame was delivered to Figure Skater Sanda Dubravcic. She ran the sparkler up a great white staircase, and the Olympic wok ignited instantly with a roar. But the highlight for some was the final duty of Lake Placid, the hosts of 1980, represented by Mayor Robert Peacock and the Norwood, N.Y., fire-department band. Appearing incomplete without a Dalmatian trotting alongside, the firemen oom-pah-pahed along the Bosnian Main Street, performing When the Saints Go Marching In, America the Beautiful and Baby Face.

Through all this frolicking, the audience was not only captivated but captive. As anyone with a notion of leaving early found out, the gates had been padlocked shut. Following the ceremonies, the people were set free in staggered waves, and they walked home. There have been further shows of security force: cars and cabs stopped, credentials and satchels checked, reporters occasionally patted down politely. None of it has seemed meanspirited. Police are oddly reasonable, and after a time, scarcely noticeable. Skier Marie-Luce Waldmeier had a good word for them: "Discreet."

Observers from Los Angeles, where protection will be the major worry at the Summer Games, include Mayor Tom Bradley, Police Chief Daryl Gates and Police Olympic Planner William Rathburn. Their problems will be larger, but it may have helped to see the queues backed up at metal detectors, delaying crowds of spectators for hockey games.

Peter Ueberroth, president of the Los Angeles Olympic Organizing Committee, another visitor, says, "They can decree that things be done here. We can't decree." But the generous way the Yugoslavs have followed their orders seems beyond the requirements of duty. Taxi drivers refuse exorbitant tips, and strangers race after passers-by to return precious figure-skating tickets dropped in the snow. "They are fiercely proud, and they want people to love their country," says Ueberroth. "This is what has to happen in Los Angeles for our Games to be successful." Among his new resolutions: to increase language services. "The Yugoslavs even gave Berlitz courses to cab drivers so they know a phrase or two of English. It works."

At the figure-skating competition, the barrier is not language. But getting through to skating judges is no easier in Sarajevo than anywhere else. During the early phases, form was hardly just holding, it was absolutely refusing to let go. The British ice-dancing champions Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean received perfect 6.0 scores in the compulsory dance from three judges, two of whom were not the costume designer who dresses Torvill and Dean. Nobody denies that they are the best--or that the judges know who is supposed to be the best. The U.S. couple, Judy Blumberg and Michael Seibert, stood third, as expected.

The Carrutherses, Kitty and Peter, were stirred in the pairs' short program by shouts of "U.S.A!" Peter said, "There aren't many Americans here, but the ones who came are pretty rowdy." Kitty added, "We saw the American flags go up, the people cheering, and I thought, 'Here we go.' It was a big boost." No American has ever won better than a bronze medal, but thanks partly to a flub by the top East German pair, the Carrutherses were tied for second before the free skating.

Any kind of medal this week will be the Americans' first. But back at the Olympic village, Mojmilo, the atmosphere has been clearing. After the snow dropped (18 in. in town, 49 in. on the mountains), the smog eased, and American athletes found less need for the purifying "air ecologizers" the team had packed. "I've been spending a lot of time in my room," says Rosalynn Sumners, whose most important week is finally here. "The air's O.K. there. But the only problem is that I've had too much time to think." When she has ventured outdoors, occasionally she has been seen in the company of Archrival Elaine Zayak and young Tiffany Chin. Figure skating can be a mean business, but at least they walk and laugh like friends.

This is Scott Hamilton's week too and, in skiing, Tamara McKinney's and Phil Mahre's. Although it does not sound like Mahre's. "Some athletes need a gold medal to be set for life," he says. "I'm set for life already." For a commentary on the relative riches of men, the Yugoslavs tending drifts on the snowy hills were rewarded with candy bars. Most of the snowplows in Yugoslavia, and a few from Austria, are in Sarajevo. The rest of the country must be closed. The duty-free shop at the press center is open, but the saleswomen are fed up with stir-crazy writers. In both Serbo-Croatian and English, a warning sign reads: MARRIED. --By Tom Callahan. Reported by John Moody, B.J. Phillips and William Rademaekers/Sarajevo

With reporting by John Moody, B.J. Phillips, William Rademaekers