What I actually said was, “I will not accept anything that does not give me ultimate responsibility for the committee decisions yet obligates me to go around trying to explain those decisions and patching up all the problems they create.
“You know me,” I continued, though this conversation had made me less certain of that. “There is no way I would do this the way you suggest it.”
It would be almost a year before I would hear from the Prime Minister again. This time he phoned and what ensued was a far more unusual conversation. There had been more turmoil in Athens. Already under fire for a lack of progress, social butterfly Stratigis had accepted an invitation to attend the social event of the London season, the wedding of Princess Alexia, daughter of ex-King Constantine. It was a major political gaffe.
To put this in perspective, three years earlier, when I had discreetly permitted the ex-King to set up a meeting for us with Samaranch that Constantine hadn’t even attended, there had been a major flap in the Simitis government nonetheless. To publicly socialize with Constantine while holding a public role was viewed by the Prime Minister and his government as virtually an act of treason. Simitis felt he had no choice but to demand Stratigis’s resignation. “It was simply unacceptable,” the Prime Minister told me over the phone just one day before the royal wedding was to take place in London.
Though Theodore and I were to be guests at that royal wedding, I understood the political realities the Prime Minister faced and why he couldn’t allow such a provocation to go unanswered. Simitis then shared, just as he had when he visited the previous year, his concerns that the Olympic committee was not doing its job properly and that a new approach was required. For the moment, however, all he asked of me was a favor—a rather unusual favor. “I would appreciate it very much if you would not attend this wedding,” he said. The normal response would have been to ask him why not, expecting to hear what the quid would be for my quo. Instead, I took an unusual tack for me. I was silent. And in this silence, he certainly heard my compliance. We both understood that we had begun an elaborate dance, a pas de deux, and it might be some time before we took the next step.
If I was intrigued when I hung up the phone, I was ashamed too. Constantine deserved far better than this rude treatment by me. But I felt somehow compelled to acquiesce to the Prime Minister’s wishes in order to see how things played out. When I informed Theodore, he was not particularly pleased but decided to go to the wedding without me. We discussed whether I should cancel beforehand or simply let him say I had taken ill at the last moment. But we knew it wouldn’t matter, that Constantine, acutely attuned to the politics of Athens, would see through my charade.
So I stayed home. I was both embarrassed with myself and disappointed to miss the festivities, especially as I had bought a beautiful outfit for the occasion (though it was not quite as extravagant as the Gaultier ensemble I would one day put together for the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton). When Theodore returned, he said he could tell that Constantine and his family were annoyed about my absence. There were some elements of farce in all of this bad behavior. Stratigis had insulted the Prime Minister by going to the wedding and, as a result, I had insulted the ex-King by not going.
From then on, I paid careful attention to what was going on in Athens with the organizing committee, which still appeared to be not much of anything. The situation was getting more dire by the day. The IOC was evidently quite perturbed. There were even rumors that Samaranch was considering pulling the Olympics out of Athens and moving them to Sydney, which as host of the upcoming 2000 Summer Games would have all the facilities in place for a repeat in 2004. That would be a far greater humiliation for Greece than the failure to win the Centennial Games.
The phone calls urging me to return to the Olympic effort became more frequent. “Are you crazy?” I would say. “I should go and be the scapegoat? You cannot organize an Olympics in four years’ time.” I even got a call from Samaranch who was clearly despairing. “Gianna, things are not going well,” the IOC President told me. “I have told them they are very close to a red light.” Despite the distressing calls and my growing anger that the prize I had helped Greece to win was being mistreated, I did not criticize the government or the organizing committee publicly. I kept my distance and my mouth shut.
Nothing happens too swiftly in Greece—or at the IOC, for that matter—and it wasn’t until April 2000 that Samaranch took the unprecedented step of going public with his concerns. He labeled the situation in Athens the worst organizational crisis he had faced in his two decades at the helm of the IOC. He said that he had told organizers that a yellow light meant there were many difficulties and a red light meant serious trouble. “We are at the end of the yellow phase,” he said, warning that “drastic changes” were required to set Athens on the right course.
In private, Samaranch may even have been advocating for my return. But if he was, I wasn’t in the loop. Otherwise, Theodore and I might not have been in Salzburg, Austria, in the middle of an opera festival weekend. People joke that to get a seat at the Salzburg Opera house, someone has to pass away. I was thrilled to be there, enjoying the black tie crowd and the show, but when two people next to us began booing the performance—not uncommon among opera connoisseurs—I wanted to put my Manolo Blahnik heels into them. After the performance, when Theodore and I were dining at the Goldener Hirsch Hotel, our waiter informed me that I had a phone call. On the other end of the line was Lena in Athens. She had been desperately trying to reach me. “The Prime Minister wants to talk with you,” she said.
It was loud in the hotel restaurant, so I went out into the lobby for what proved to be a brief conversation. When I told the Prime Minister I was in Salzburg for the opera, he said, “How I envy you.” Then he asked, “Were you planning to come to Greece?”
“We don’t have any plans to visit to Greece,” I told him. “But we will certainly come if you want us to.”
“If you could,” he said. “It would be best if you and Theodore would come to my offices Monday night. It will be much quieter then, when all the reporters and cameras have gone home for the day.”
We returned to London the next morning. Theodore had decided that before we went to Greece the following day, it would be wise to sit down with Samaranch and get his counsel on this matter. We located him in his native Barcelona and flew down for a chat. Samaranch was one of the smartest and shrewdest people I have ever met. He didn’t try to overwhelm you with big, flowery speeches, but he packed a lot of wisdom in a few words. The IOC President got to the point quickly: No matter how bad the situation in Greece was—and it was very bad, he said—I had no choice but to accept the challenge. The IOC, the corporate sponsors, the broadcasters, and all the other key players trusted me and had confidence in me. Operating with mutual respect and trust was the only way we could make up for lost time. In fact, I represented their—as well as Greece’s—last, best hope.
His encouragement came with a familiar warning, however. He reminded me that Greek politicians, with their internecine rivalries and inclination to blame everyone else for their woes, were their own worst enemies.
On the other hand, he said, I would arrive in Greece at a rare moment when everyone at the table would have the best of intentions. “You have the government over a barrel. Simitis needs you, and to get you he will agree to whatever you want. I urge you to get it all in writing.”
A little more than twenty-four hours later I was sitting on the couch in the Prime Minister’s office, where everything Samaranch had said was being borne out. At first Simitis had resumed our dance. When I asked him if he wanted me to lead the Olympic effort, he responded by asking me if I would accept the job were it offered. Again I repeated my question and this time desperation trumped his natural caution. He not only wanted me to return, he assured me that his government would support my endeavors in every way possible. If I wanted, he would fire the CEO and he would change the committee board too. He would imbue b
oth me, as President, and the committee with new powers that would expedite our procedures. And he would personally intervene to halt the incessant squabbling among his Ministers over jurisdictional powers. He promised to support me “land and water,” which is a Greek expression from the time of Herodotus that essentially means everywhere and in everything.
As usual, Samaranch had been right. The floodgates had opened. The only promise the Prime Minister didn’t make was to put all his promises in writing. And at that moment, when Simitis was so candid, almost desperate, and at a dead end, I didn’t have the heart to demand a written contract. Though I feared what might lie before me—I thought that four years rather than seven might still be a challenge beyond even my abilities—the truth was that I wanted this job as much as Simitis wanted me to take it. When I won the bid for the 2004 Summer Games, it was as if I had given birth to a child. I had bled for that child and now, almost three years later, found it neglected, even abandoned. How could I let it remain orphaned? How could I not try to save my baby? How could I resist the chance to raise it with love and care?
I was not unaware of the irony. To save the child I would have to step away from my own children in London: seventeen-year-old Carolina, nine-year-old Pan, and eight-year-old Dim. For a while, the Games would get more of my care and attention than my own children would. I hadn’t planned for this moment. But now that the opportunity had availed itself, I wanted it and I grabbed it. I was back in the Games. The Olympics were a little more than four years away.
The next day the Prime Minister made it official, with a public statement from his office that—at his request—was broadcast on all TV channels. He was effusive in his praise of me, making it clear that I had not sought out this job, that he had asked me to return home because Greece needed me to save the Athens 2004 Summer Games. All of the press followed the Prime Minister’s lead and lavished praise on me. I was no longer the imperious leader riding roughshod over the poor, well-intentioned government officials but the savior riding into Athens on a rescue mission.
Soon afterward, I got a call from Samaranch, who was both delighted and amused by the events transpiring in Athens. “How is the honeymoon going?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“You will see. First the short honeymoon after which you will have real life.” Then Samaranch got serious. “So, Gianna, whatever he promised you, did you get it in writing?”
I was embarrassed to tell him I hadn’t.
“Ah, Gianna,” he said, and I could hear despair in his voice. “Be afraid then. Be very afraid of Greek politicians.”
He would be proved right about the honeymoon. And he was right about the Greek politicians too. For example, I planned to go to the Sydney 2000 Olympics with the Minister responsible for the Athens games, Theodoros Pangalos, to prove Greece’s renewed commitment. Imagine my surprise when he made some poor excuses and never came to Australia. It took an awful lot of diplomacy for me to convince the world that Greece would get back on track for the Games when no government representative was there to back me up. This was particularly ironic because Pangalos had named me ambassador in 1998 and had been our guest at Verona, Italy, enjoying Verdi one week before the Australian trip!
I had let myself be ruled by my heart and I would quickly come to regret it.
I should have gotten everything in writing.
IT’S HARD FOR PEOPLE TO GRASP just how massive an undertaking a modern Olympics is, how overwhelming the logistical challenges are. After Theodore and I analyzed all aspects of the preparation and organization of the Athens 2004 Summer Games as well as all the stakeholders involved in it, we realized that the Athens Olympic Organizing Committee (ATHOC) would be creating—in just four years—the equivalent of a Fortune 200 company. And when the “company” reached its organizational peak, we would then have to shut it down and say thanks and good-bye to thousands of employees.
Presenting the Olympic Games is a joint effort of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) and the host city’s organizing committee, in our case, ATHOC. The IOC is responsible for signing contracts with broadcasters and sponsors. The IOC distributes some of the money collected from the broadcasters and sponsors to the organizations that supervise various sports and to the host city. The host city builds sports facilities according to the international sports federations’ specifications, as well as facilities for the athletes and visiting dignitaries and the media. In addition, the host city must agree to provide the infrastructure necessary for the Games, including highways and public-transportation systems. Seven years in advance of the Games, the host city signs the host city contract with the IOC to provide these necessary facilities. (You might recall that I took that formal step of signing the contract in Lausanne in September 1997.)
Each host city determines how it will fund the Games. Some cities, as Atlanta chose to do, take no government funds. In Athens, the Greek government decided and guaranteed that it would build whatever infrastructure would be needed for the Games (sports facilities, airport, tram system, subways, roads, intersections, the Olympic village, and so forth) all by itself.
Other host cities rely on a combination of private and public funds. In addition, the host city generates revenue from ticket sales, local sponsorship, and merchandising. ATHOC’s budget for the Games was 1.9 billion euros, roughly $2.6 billion. The IOC gave us $900 million from the sale of broadcasting and international sponsorship revenues. I’m proud to say that we managed to balance our budget. This was due in no small part to the dedicated counsel of ex-judges, accountants, and auditors who sometimes made our lives hell but also ensured that our books were in order.
The following illustration will give you an idea of the scope of the Olympic operation. I first visited Boston in the 1990s when the city was well into what was known as “The Big Dig,” the most expensive highway construction project in American history and one that took a quarter of a century to complete. Now try and imagine that at the very same time Boston was digging in, it was also: replacing Logan International with a new airport; adding two new lines to the city’s downtown subway system and two more light railway lines out to the suburbs; widening more than a hundred miles of city streets; repaving Storrow Drive, which winds for two miles along the Charles River; and trying to solve the engineering nightmare of how to maneuver a seventeen-thousand-ton, 269,000-square-foot steel and Plexiglas roof onto Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. (By the way, Boston’s Big Dig was completed five years behind schedule and an estimated $20 billion over budget.)
Now go a step further and try to imagine doing that in a city where every shovel full of dirt is considered part of an archeological dig that might yield hidden treasures. (Having already fulfilled my childhood dream of becoming an ambassador, I was now fulfilling my father’s that I become an archeologist—and it was even worse than I had imagined!)
That imaginary scenario in Boston doesn’t begin to represent all that confronted me in Athens. The modern Olympics had grown by leaps and bounds. For example, at the 1984 Games, Los Angeles staged 221 sporting events and welcomed 6,800 athletes and 9,800 credentialed journalists. Just two decades later, Athens would hold 301 events and host 10,500 athletes and 21,000 journalists. When the Olympics ended and the attention of most of the world drifted elsewhere, we would have to do it all over again for the Paralympic Games, which brought another 4,000 athletes to Athens. By the time the Athens 2004 Summer Games opened, I would be managing a staff of 13,000, along with 45,000 volunteers, and integrating into the operation 100,000 security personnel while hosting 10,500 athletes, 21,000 journalists, 2,000 officials, and 2,200 guests of the IOC and the Olympic sponsors. We had to construct not only sporting venues but also housing for the athletes and the media. And when I assumed the presidency of ATHOC, the eighteen sports facilities and three-hundred-acre athletes’ village were still just lines on paper.
Events in both America and Europe would compound our challenge in Greece’s capital. A
little more than a year after I began my tenure, the world witnessed the tragic events of September 11, 2001, in America. The IOC had moved far ahead of the world on issues related to security and the threat of terrorism after the murders of eleven Israeli Olympians by the Palestinian terrorist group Black September at the Munich 1972 Olympics. The 9/11 attacks ensured that the massive security apparatus already planned for Athens would become even more massive. While the government bore the responsibility for all security tenders and contracts, ATHOC was charged with integrating security operations into the Games. It was ultimately our responsibility to protect the entire Olympic community and the hundreds of thousands of spectators descending on Athens for the Games.
The European wrinkle was that Athens was the first Olympics that had to comply with the regulations of the European Union as well as the first to host the Games under a common currency, the euro, adding layers of complexity to the procedures required to execute our plans.
All this helps explain why the IOC had extended the Olympic runup from six years to seven. And yet, there I was, assuming the helm of what appeared to be the Olympic Titanic in May 2000, just four years and three months before the day—August 13, 2004—when Athens would welcome the world to the Opening Ceremony. Three months after I took the job, we would be facing a host of IOC deadlines established to monitor our progress. So while my official statement upon assuming the position said, “I am honored,” it didn’t include what I was actually thinking—“I must be crazy.”
My Greek Drama: Life, Love, and One Woman's Olympic Effort to Bring Glory to Her Country Page 20
