VIEWPOINT: The Widest World of Sports

If it was not obvious before watching 80 hours of Olympic coverage on television, it should be now: the only true amateurs at the Games were the Olympic Committee and the horses. All the rest were hamburger salesmen. Given the politics and economics that ride on the Games, it is not surprising that amateurism gets the lip service and professionalism the nod. Russia and its bloc allies have spent millions on a Marxian alchemy that turns young muscle into gold medals. America “does it my way” with a flexible alliance of Government blessings, publicity-minded colleges, eager athletes and free enterprise.

For $25 million the pros at the American Broadcasting Co. bought the rights to tube the ultimate marathon of sport into America’s homes and taverns. What ABC got in return was almost 50% of each night’s television audience and another solid first down in its march to surpass CBS and NBC. And deservedly: on the whole, viewers saw technical professionalism of the highest caliber. Roone Arledge, president of ABC Sports and the Toscanini of coordination circuits and interrupted feed-back systems, personally directed nearly every picture and a good many of the words that were seen and heard over the air. After a tense start, Anchor Man Jim McKay hit his stride and shifted into tireless overdrive.

McKay was easy to take as he sorted the Olympic sports, politics and commerce that constantly threatened to tangle in the viewer’s mind. His job was complicated by some of ABC’S guest commentators, who failed to offer up precise technical information just when it was desperately needed. Donna de Varona ignored fascinating aspects of the women’s swimming, using her time, instead, to lobby for U.S. Government-supported athletic programs. It was as if the East Germans had launched a Sputnik rather than Kornelia Ender. Gymnast Commentator Cathy Rigby Mason upheld the standards of Olympic amateurism, trilling things like “Look at that amplitude,” without defining it. But other “expert” commentators came through admirably. Ken Sitzberger clearly distinguished the great dives from the merely good ones; Bill Russell delivered intelligent and humane analyses of the basketball games with casual grace; and Marty Liquori, drawing on a decade of running experience, alerted viewers to the explosive potential of Cuba’s all but unknown Alberto Juantorena before he won the 800-meter race.

ABC’s veteran sportscasters behaved and misbehaved predictably. In boxing, Howard Cosell was so partial to the U.S. fighters that it seemed he had got his early training as a stage mother. Chris Schenkel displayed his familiar aptitude for the gauche remark. Said Schenkel when Queen Elizabeth’s daughter Anne got back on her horse after a spill seen round the world: “That’s a gritty little princess.” A lot of time and tape was wasted on discothèques and street scenes. Pierre Salinger floundered through several such features until he abandoned Montreal’s tourist haunts to report from the stadium itself.

Seven minutes of commercials each hour is a small price to pay for seeing the Olympics “up close and personal,” to borrow ABC’S own phrase. Yet this Olympiad saw many advertisers straining to link their products to the noblest ideals of athletic competition—and at a staggering cost. The result was a kind of electronic jock itch. Schlitz spent $4.5 million to air its effective series of ads. Joe Namath huddled with an assortment of international machos, trying to give the impression that Brut deserved a seat in the United Nations. McDonald’s, Burger King and Pizza Hut raised the specter of a future when the Olympic symbol would be interlocking onion rings.

But in the end, little could detract from ABC’s superb pictures of the events themselves. Nadia Comaneci performing her flawless routines in a trance of innocence. Olga Korbut turning into an instant Edith Piaf. Gymnast Shun Fujimoto’s kamikaze dismount with a broken knee. The victory lap after the 400-meter hurdles when Gold Medal Winner Ed Moses and Silver Medalist Mike Shine loped round the track in joyous exhaustion. Weightlifter Vasili Alexeyev looking like the Buddha meditating over 561 I=lbs. of iron.

At such moments, the commentary frequently blunted the visual poignancy. In fact, except for hard information and fast reports of the results, most of the words heard during the Olympic coverage functioned mainly as stepping-stones in the flow of images. If there was some confusion about what was “live” and what was on tape, it hardly made a difference. The men of the electronic age were desperately trying to tell a story that would not overload our frayed human wiring. The degree to which they succeeded was summed up best by Novelist-Screenwriter Josh Greenfeld: “On Tuesday afternoon I didn’t know anything about gymnastics. By Thursday night, Olga Korbut had let me down.”

R.Z. Sheppard