Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  “Then why aren’t Venus and Serena staying there?” Susan Carol asked a split second before Stevie did.

  “Because they never do what everyone else is doing. They like to be different.”

  Susan Carol was giving Stevie a look he had seen before. It was her “you have to do something that’s going to be hard” look.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You have a plan.”

  “Not really. All I can think is that you need to talk to Maurice. And Chip could be your in. I mean, I don’t think calling a Brickley PR person is going to get you a meeting.”

  “You think Maurice is going to tell me what he’s planning for Svetlana Krylova and whether your agent is in on it?”

  “No. But if you imply you know that something’s going on, I think he might get upset enough to make a mistake and tell you something. But you’ll have to figure a way to rattle his cage without ratting out Svetlana …”

  Right. This was going to be hard.

  21: OPENING CEREMONY

  Stevie managed to find his way back to the media center without getting into any more trouble and found Bobby Kelleher and Tamara Mearns banging away on their computers in the Herald-Post office area.

  “Nice of you to check in with us,” Kelleher said when Stevie walked in.

  “We were getting a little worried,” Mearns confessed. “But Susan Carol sent us a text saying you were en route back.”

  Stevie apologized for forgetting to stay in touch but said he had lots to tell. So they walked through the maze that led to the dining area and had official Cokes in official cups.

  They sat at a corner table, and Stevie told them everything—including his close call with Peter Brooks.

  Kelleher leaned back in his chair when he was finished.

  “Huh. That’s all very interesting. But, really, we’ve got nothing,” he said. “An agent talks to a prospective client. A shoe company rep makes a pitch to the same athlete and asks her to keep it quiet. It’s nothing.”

  “But, Bobby—” Stevie said, even as Kelleher put his hand up to tell him to wait.

  “And yet, it feels like something. We all feel it, including Susan Carol, and she’s the one closest to it in a lot of ways.”

  “Okay,” Tamara said. “But what is it?”

  “Exactly,” Kelleher said. “Stevie, do you have Chip’s cell number?”

  Stevie shook his head. “I had it, but he changed it about a year ago, and I’ve never gotten the new one. I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

  “Well, that needs to change,” Kelleher said.

  He pulled out his own phone and got the number for the Wyndham Grand hotel.

  “Mr. Graber, please,” he said when someone answered.

  Apparently the operator didn’t find anyone under the name Graber because Kelleher said, “He could be under a separate rooming list. He’s on the US Olympic basketball team.”

  He listened for another minute, then nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you.”

  He snapped the phone shut. “They won’t even confirm that the team is staying there. But I know they are because Mike Krzyzewski told me that’s where they’re staying.”

  “You’ve got his cell,” Tamara said. “Why not call him and tell him you need to get in touch with Chip?”

  “That’s plan B,” Kelleher said. “Plan A is we talk to Chip in person tonight at the opening ceremony.”

  “In that crowd? How?” Stevie asked.

  “Each American team has been asked to make a couple of athletes available in the mixed zone after the ceremony is over,” Kelleher said. “The swimming media are going nuts because Phelps isn’t going to be one of the Americans. But Mike Moran from the USOC told me that the basketball players are going to be Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, and Chip.”

  “Why did that even come up in conversation?” Tamara asked.

  Kelleher smiled. “I was ninety-nine percent sure LeBron wouldn’t be one of the players because he would be worried about playing second fiddle to Kobe. So just to be a hundred percent sure, I asked Mike. Little did I know the answer would be so useful.”

  “The mixed zone will be a zoo, though,” Tamara said.

  “It will be,” Kelleher said. “But we’ve got a secret weapon when it comes to getting to Chip.”

  “What’s that?” Stevie said.

  Kelleher laughed. “You,” he said.

  Deciding to take part in the opening ceremony over the objections of J. P. Scott and her father was the best decision that Susan Carol had ever made.

  The security checks were a pain, beginning with being wanded and having everything they were carrying checked even before they got on the bus at the athletes’ village to make the ride to the Olympic Stadium. The traffic was brutal even for so short a ride. Then there was more security before they were allowed to go to the area where they lined up. And then there was an hour wait before they marched in.

  But the rest of it was magical. Putting on her official USA uniform had given Susan Carol chills. Everywhere she turned, she saw great athletes. She’d have to find the official count later, but there must have been close to five hundred athletes, just for the American team. She was surrounded by divers and fencers and rowers and cyclists. The women’s gymnasts looked so tiny standing next to the weight lifters. She recognized a lot of the sprinters and the beach volleyball players and all the swimmers, of course. But which were the sailors and which were the water polo players? There were wrestlers and badminton players and equestrians. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by it all. By all that talent and all that ambition and longing in one small space.

  She ran into Mike Krzyzewski, who was coaching the men’s basketball team and who had written her a note when he found out she’d qualified. She was always happy to see him, but somehow here it was even better, and she gave him a big hug.

  Then she heard a voice behind her say, “Well, if it isn’t the greatest girl reporter/swimmer in history.”

  She turned and saw Chip Graber with a huge smile on his face.

  “Oh, Chip, I’m so glad to see you!” she said as they hugged.

  “My God, Susan Carol, will you please stop growing?” he said. “You’re making me look bad.”

  She blushed. Chip was only five-foot-ten, easily the shortest member of the Olympic basketball team. Even in the low-heeled shoes all the women were wearing, she was a good three inches taller than he was. Still, he looked the same as ever: the floppy hair, the easy smile.

  Stevie had texted her that he was going to try to talk to Chip later in the mixed zone and that if she saw him, to please give him a heads-up.

  “Chip, I hear you’re going to the mixed zone tonight after the ceremony,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m the guy everyone who can’t get close to Kobe and Kevin will be talking to,” he said, grinning.

  “Well, there’s one person I really need you to talk to,” she said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Stevie.”

  Chip gave her a look.

  “Please don’t tell me the two of you have somehow found trouble here,” he said. “You’re here to swim, to win a gold medal, to be a star. For one week can’t you stop being a reporter?”

  “This could involve my swimming,” she said. “I’m just not sure.”

  His smile faded. “Are you in trouble somehow?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, we don’t know. Maybe we’re all overreacting because Stevie and I always seem to find trouble.…”

  She was about to tell him more when a USOC official came up and said, “We need everyone lined up with their teams right away. We’re getting ready to march in.”

  “I’ll make sure to find Stevie,” Chip said to Susan Carol. “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, I’ll help.”

  He gave her another quick hug before the official practically dragged him over to join the other basketball players. And she went and found her own team.

  Marching into the stadium was one of the great moments
of her life. Even before they came out of the tunnel into the sea of lights and people and flashing cameras, Susan Carol could hear the noise building. She was walking in the second row of swimmers—the women went first, then the men—in between Elizabeth Wentworth and Natalie Coughlin.

  “I’ve done this three times before, but it’s amazing every time. This does not get old,” Coughlin said as they approached the end of the tunnel.

  Susan Carol could see why. The cheers for the American team swept through the massive stadium as they circled the track and waved at the stands where people frantically waved back, pausing only to snap photos.

  She watched Michael Phelps, who had been chosen as the American flag bearer, march past the box where Queen Elizabeth and other members of the royal family were standing. Other countries dipped their flags as they went by, but not the US. By long-standing tradition, the American flag didn’t bow before royalty or any heads of state.

  Somewhere in the stands she knew her entire family was watching. They had flown in that morning and had spent the day recovering from the overnight flight. One thing that made Susan Carol happy was that the money she was making made it possible for her mom and dad and both her brothers and her sister to come to the Games. No matter what disagreements she’d had with her dad in the past couple of months, she knew he was in the stands with the same lump in his throat that she had in hers.

  As the Americans passed the staircase that led up to the Olympic torch, she heard the PA announcer say, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the athletes, coaches, and officials from the United States of America!”

  She didn’t think it was possible, but the noise grew even louder. Susan Carol had tears in her eyes. She looked to her right and saw Elizabeth was crying. So was Coughlin—as she no doubt had three times before.

  When all the athletes from all the nations were gathered in the middle of the field, one shard of light revealed Sebastian Coe as he entered the darkened stadium with the Olympic torch. Coe was a great English runner who had won gold medals in the 1,500 meter in 1980 and 1984, and he had also headed London’s Olympic bid. You could hear a pin drop as he climbed the steps and turned to face the crowd, holding the flaming torch in his right hand.

  He stood that way for a moment, then dipped the torch into the giant cauldron. The minute the flames leapt up, the stadium went crazy, and Coe stood still, drinking in the cheers.

  If I finish dead last in all my races, Susan Carol thought, it will be okay because I got to be part of this.

  Stevie was just as thrilled to be there, sitting—or more accurately standing because everyone was on their feet.

  The ceremony—all the dancing and singing and performing that had gone on before the entrance of the athletes—had been way too long in Stevie’s opinion. But once the athletes began marching in, the wait was more than worth it.

  Seeing all the athletes together in the stadium, Stevie was hit by just how big the Olympics were. He had been so focused on one sport and one athlete since arriving that he’d kind of lost sight of it. Stevie knew that more than 11,000 athletes had taken part in the 2008 Games in Beijing. Closer to 12,000 were expected in London, and most of them were marching in right in front of him. It was a mind-boggling sight, especially with all the colorful outfits they were wearing.

  Kelleher seemed to sense his thoughts. “Look at them all,” he said at one point. “Thousands and thousands of athletes. The best in the world. And the next two weeks are crucial for all of them.”

  They were close enough that they spotted Susan Carol among the Americans. That was thrilling, as was the introduction of the American team. But the moment that really got to Stevie was when the last team—the hosts from Great Britain—came marching in.

  When the PA announcer formally introduced them, the ovation wasn’t just loud, it was lengthy. The media section was close enough to the royal box that Stevie could look over and see that the queen was applauding with a good deal of enthusiasm and Prince William and his wife, Kate, had their arms over their heads, waving to the athletes who were waving back.

  When the stadium went dark just before the torchbearer entered, you could feel the anticipation. There was no introduction, just a spotlight finding the lone runner as he stepped onto the track carrying the torch.

  There was a roar when the spotlight confirmed that it was Coe with the torch. And once the flame was lit, the roar was louder still. Then they played “God Save the Queen,” and the queen herself formally announced the beginning of the Olympics. “I declare the Games of London to be open,” she said to more wild cheering.

  It was well after eleven o’clock by the time the ceremony was over, but everyone in the stadium was still adrenaline-pumped. No one was allowed to leave their seats until the queen and the other royals had departed.

  “Who does she think she is,” Tamara said with a smile as Elizabeth waved a final goodbye, “the queen of England?”

  “She’s only had the job for sixty years,” Kelleher said. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  Then they headed downstairs—along with a huge horde of media—to the mixed zone. There would be no formal interviews since technically nothing had happened. Athletes had been “requested” by their various Olympic committees to pass through the mixed zone on their way out. There were signs overhead that told journalists which athletes would be where, and Stevie headed for the one that said MEN’S BASKETBALL. Sadly, half the TV cameramen in the world were already there, jockeying for position.

  Kelleher had gone to try to talk to a soccer player who was from Washington, and Mearns was headed for the swimmers just in case she could see Susan Carol.

  Stevie hung back as Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, and Chip Graber were led to the gates that separated the athletes from the media. Stevie thought the whole thing was humiliating—all the pushing and shoving just to talk to someone across a gate—but apparently the IOC had done it this way for years. It was easy to see Bryant and Durant from the back because they were so tall, but Chip was swallowed up almost instantly.

  Stevie had seen mob scenes in post-game locker rooms, but nothing like this. He knew he’d have to wait until the various TVs got their sound bites, but the crowding was intense. He was convinced some kind of fight was going to break out at any second.

  Sure enough, a few minutes in, Stevie heard shouting coming from the front. Someone with an American accent was shouting, “Let him answer in English first, dammit. He can talk in your language later.”

  “The language is Italian, you idiot,” someone answered in what Stevie imagined was an Italian accent. “He can answer in any language he wants.”

  Stevie remembered that Bryant had spent much of his boyhood in Italy and was fluent in Italian. Apparently he’d been asked a question in Italian and was answering it when the American got frustrated. There were more raised voices, and finally Stevie heard someone on the other side of the fence say, “English questions first, please.”

  Whether that made everyone happy or not—Stevie suspected it didn’t—it stopped the shouting match. The crowd had packed in to get close to Bryant and to a lesser extent Durant, and Stevie saw a little bit of an opening to the outside. There was another row of steel separating those trying to talk to the basketball players from those talking to several soccer players, and Stevie edged along the fencing until he was close enough to the front to actually see Chip, who was standing with his arms folded, talking to about four reporters. Stevie got close enough so that Chip could see him—and he nodded and smiled to let Stevie know he had spotted him.

  The small group talking to Chip finally dispersed, and Stevie was able to get right up against the fence separating them.

  “Stevie Thomas, I swear you’re as tall as I am,” Chip said, leaning across the fence to give Stevie a hug.

  “I just wish I was as tall as Susan Carol,” he said.

  “Me too,” Chip said, laughing. “I understand we need to talk. You guys have somehow found trouble again?”<
br />
  “Yeah, well, we think so,” Stevie said.

  He was about to launch into the story when a TV guy with a cameraman in tow raced up, light shining in Chip’s face, and without so much as an “excuse me” asked Chip something about the US playing Turkey in its first game—a rematch of the 2010 World Championship final.

  Chip looked right at the camera and the microphone and said in a pleasant tone, “I’m in the middle of something here. Give me a minute.”

  The TV guy looked miffed, but said nothing.

  “Look, we’ll never be able to really talk here,” Chip said. “I don’t leave for practice until noon tomorrow. Can you meet me at the Wyndham Grand at eight for breakfast? It’ll be quiet.”

  “I’d love to, but how am I going to get through security?” Stevie said. “I hear it’s intense.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Chip said.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pin with the Olympic rings on it and lettering underneath it that said USA FAMILY.

  “We each get four of these,” he said. “My parents and Anjie (my girlfriend) aren’t coming in until next weekend. So put this on your shirt or jacket and don’t wear your media credential. I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight.” They exchanged cell numbers, and Chip went back to the TV guy, who had now been joined by several others.

  Stevie happily worked his way out of the scrum, thankful he didn’t need a quote for a story tonight. What a zoo! He found Kelleher leaning against a wall near the exit.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” Kelleher said. “I gave up after the second fistfight nearly broke out. Did you get to Chip?”

  “Yup. I’m having breakfast with him in the morning at his hotel.” Stevie pulled out his family pin and showed it to Kelleher. “He says this will get me in there.”

  Kelleher nodded. “Good work. Now let’s hope he can tell us something about his old friend Bobby Mo.”

  22: PRELIMINARIES

  Stevie was in a cab at 7:30 the next morning, still yawning.