The greatest never to the best of all-time

The Olympic Series: A glance back at history of London 2012

August 24, 2004: There was a giant monkey in the Athens Olympic Stadium. You couldn’t see it, but you knew it was there. The beast sat on the shoulders of the world record holder, the four-time world champion, and arguably the greatest never to win Olympic gold, the popular, genial Moroccan Hicham El Guerrouj.

This thing weighing El Guerrouj down had grown over a period of eight years. It had nothing to do with the expectations of the 30 million Moroccans that followed his every move. Nor was it the weight of Morocco’s past performances at the Games. Rhadi Ben Abdesselam was a beaten favourite in the Marathon in 1960, defeated by the bare-footed Ethiopian Abebe Bikila. But that defeat had been erased with Said Aouita’s 5000m gold in Los Angeles 1984, and back-to-back 10000m gold in Seoul and Barcelona to Brahim Boutayeb and Khalid Skah.

The beast that sat on El Guerrouj’s shoulders came from his own tortured Olympic journey. In 1992, as an 18-year-old hailing from the small city of Berkan, situated where the Mediterranean Sea meets the Moroccan-Algerian border, El Guerrouj first announced himself on the international stage winning bronze in the 5000m at the World Junior Championships in Seoul. The gold medallist in that race was a young Ethiopian beginning his own international career, Haile Gebrselassie.

Aged 19, El Guerrouj was a part of Morocco’s World Champion Road Relay team that set a new world record in 1994.

A year later he won gold at the World Indoor Championships in Barcelona, and was second at the world outdoors in Gothenburg to two-time defending champion, and the fastest of all-time, Algerian Noureddine Morceli.

The scene was set for a fascinating Olympic final in Atlanta 1996. It was a physical, tactical battle straight from the gun. El Guerrouj settled seventh, two wide from the inside, after 100 metres. He was then shuffled as far back as ninth and as far forward as fifth through the next two-and-a-half laps, all the while jostling with opponents around him. Morceli, the shortest man in the field, took control with 450 metres to run and El Guerrouj pulled up to his shoulder. But the Moroccan was to be dealt the cruellest of blows. Morceli, at the precise moment the bell rang, got his own feet tangled. The Algerian’s trail leg clipped the calf of his plant leg, his next stride veered into the path of El Guerrouj, who clipped Morceli’s right heel and fell. The Moroccan, the only man to fall as others hurdled and sidestepped him, had gone from second to last in an instant. Morceli had an unassailable lead, created by the carnage behind him, which ensured he would claim gold. El Guerrouj finished 12^th, almost in tears trying to reconcile his misfortune.

One could argue Morceli deserved his crown. With three world titles and a world record to his name, the Algerian had not been beaten over 1500m in four years. El Guerrouj, however, had been unjustly denied the chance by the fall.

A month later the Moroccan beat Morceli in a Grand Prix final in Milan. Over the next four years, El Guerrouj would attempt to erase the bitter memories of Atlanta by erasing Morceli’s name from every record book ever written. He would win the next two world titles in 1997 and 1999, on his way to claiming four in a row. In 1997 he broke the indoor world records for both the 1500m and the mile. In 1998 he smashed Morceli’s outdoor 1500m record in Rome, running 3:26.00, 1.37 seconds quicker than the Algerian’s mark. By 1999 he had smashed Morceli’s mile record, his 2000m record, and was the second fastest all-time over 3000m. Sydney, 2000, beckoned as the only conquest left for El Guerrouj before he could truly be judged the greatest of all-time.

But the 1500m is one of the toughest Olympic races to win. The quality of the fields, and the lack of pace making in Olympic finals, makes it one of the most unpredictable spectacles on the track. No Olympic final had been won in under 3:32.00. So the advantage the being a sub-3:30 runner amounts to little without a sacrificial pacemaker to bury the hopes of the slower competitors through first 1000m.

Owning the world record on the start line of an Olympic 1500m final has been far more a poisoned chalice than a guarantor of gold. American Abel Kiviat broke the world record three times in 1912, only to be beaten by Britain’s Arnold Jackson in the Stockholm Olympic final that year. Swede Lennart Strand set a new world mark in Malmo, 1947, a record that would stand for five years, but was second across the line at the 1948 Games in London to countryman Henry Eriksson. American Wes Santee, Australian John Landy, Hungarians Sandor Iharos, Lazslo Tabori, and Istvan Rozsavolgyi, and Denmark’s Gunnar Nielson each lowered the world record in a 25-month stretch between 1954 and the 1956 Games, yet Irishman Ron Delany won gold in Melbourne, with Landy the best of the aforementioned in third. Steve Ovett and Sebastian Coe went to Moscow in 1980 as the world recold holder’s in the 1500m and 800m respectively; they each walked away with gold in the other event. Only two world record holders had ever started an Olympic final and won it, Australia’s Herb Elliot in 1960, and Morceli in Atlanta. Unsurprisingly they were two of the most dominant metric milers in history.

El Guerrouj had been equally dominant when he lined up in Sydney. His major threats would come in the form of two Kenyans. One, a man who had paced and shadowed him through the past four years, Noah Ngeny, the other a youngster who would become one of his greatest foes, Bernard Lagat.

Whenever El Guerrouj raced he always looked relaxed. He ran with a magnificent elegance. Long, languid strides, matched by rhythmical, rolling shoulders, he never looked strained or under pressure. Through the first 1400m of this final he looked like the Hicham El Guerrouj we all knew would win. He got to the front early, upped the pace to sort the men from the boys, and looked the winner as they went through the bell. But Ngeny and Lagat were tracking him and El Guerrouj’s insistence to get to the front and avoid another catastrophe saw him expend too much energy. El Guerrouj faded late. Ngeny pulled up alongside with 50m to run and was never headed. Ngeny celebrated after winning in a new Olympic record. El Guerrouj looked non-plussed, in complete denial of what had just occurred. He sat down quietly, without emotion, and untied his shoelaces. His conqueror, his opponents, all came to shake his hand and commiserate with him. But he scarcely blinked, almost in a catatonic state. He walked through a throng of reporters, sat down in the tunnel, and wept uncontrollably. El Guerrouj had a photo of his despair post-race in Atlanta, which he had carried with him for four years. It had spurred him, driven him to replace it with another of triumph in Sydney. But it was Ngeny who would retire this night an Olympic gold medallist, El Guerrouj had to stare at that photo for another four years.

In 2001, the beast grew bigger. El Guerrouj won an indoor world title over 3000m in March, a third outdoor 1500m World Championship in Edmonton in August, and he went within 12-one hundredths of breaking his own world record in Brussels. It grew larger again by the close of 2003. He won another world title in Paris and claimed silver in the 5000m. He also completed an unprecedented treble, winning the IAAF Golden League prize three years running. He had gone three seasons unbeaten. No athlete in any discipline had matched that feat in the Golden League era.

But 2004 seemed perhaps a bridge too far for the Moroccan. He endured an indifferent start to the season in his 30^th year. He ran eighth in a 1500m race at the Golden League event in Rome. Then twenty days out from the Athens Olympic Games, El Guerrouj was narrowly beaten by Lagat in the fastest race of the season in Zurich.

Three weeks shy of his 30^th birthday El Guerrouj was looked as nervous as ever on the start line in Athens. The guerrilla on his back was weighing a tonne. Lagat looked calm, but equally nervous next to him.

They started and would finish together, but through 700m they were as far apart as could be. Lagat was on the front, El Guerrouj four wide near the rear before he shifted gear and blew the race open. The Moroccan, as he had done in Sydney ran a 53-second split between the 800m-mark and the 1200m-mark, but again you wondered if he had expended too much energy. Lagat tracked him the whole way. Ukrainian Ivan Heshko strained every sinew to hang onto the Kenyan’s heals. Portugal’s Rui Silva was flying up with a rush. But with 100m to go it was a carbon copy of Sydney, El Guerrouj in front, Lagat, like Ngeny had, pulled up to his shoulder and edged ahead with 50m to run. You feared the worst. Not again. It surely could not happen again. But Lagat slowed, El Guerrouj edged back in front and finally won the title he had coveted for eight long years.

There were tears again. Tears of pure joy, relief, and elation. El Guerrouj slumped to his knees; Lagat knelt down to embrace him, for even the vanquished Kenyan knew what the moment meant to the Moroccan. 

Four days later, El Guerrouj won the Olympic 5000m. He became the first man since Finland’s Parvo Nurmi in 1924 to win the 1500m-5000m double at an Olympic Games. The heartbreak of Atlanta and Sydney dissipated in four momentous days in Athens.

He retired a champion. He had gone from the greatest never, to the best of all-time.  

Ten seconds that took fifteen minutes

The Olympic Series: A glance back at history in the shadows of London 2012

July 27, 1996: Out they walked for the fastest show on earth. More so than ever, the men’s 100m final was the showpiece of the Olympic Games. No longer just the blue-ribbon event, but almost the main event that defined an Olympics. Think Jessie Owens not only defeating Germany, but an entire race of people, with a world record in 1936. Think Carl Lewis equalling Owens’ four gold medals in Los Angeles 1984. Think the greatest upset in Olympic history that in reality was not, when a substance-enhanced Ben Johnson beat Lewis with what appeared to be the fastest run in human history in 1988.

And so on this hot summer’s night in Atlanta, one of the deepest, most open fields in Olympic history assembled for the men’s 100m final. There was Linford Christie, the defending champion. Christie had become just the second Brit to win this title since Harold Abrahams in Paris 1924. Abrahams’ story made it to the silver screen. Christie’s legend was coming close. Second to the upgraded Lewis in Seoul, he was looking to join King Carl by becoming the second only to win back-to-back 100m gold. Alas for Moscow’s 100m champion Alan Wells, there would be no silver screen, just an asterisk for winning the only Olympic 100m final without an American runner present.

Frankie Fredericks was here too. The popular Namibian had won silver in both the 100 and 200m in Barcelona. He won a 200m world title in the interim, having won gold in Stuttgart in 1993. Fredericks' conqueror in the 200m in Barcelona would also line up in this Atlanta final. Michael Marsh was one of two Americans in the field, alongside Denis Mitchell, who was third on the podium behind Christie and Fredericks in Spain. Each was hoping to join Lewis (Los Angeles 1984), Eddie Tolan (Los Angeles 1932), and Archie Hahn (St Louis 1904) as the only Americans to win 100m Olympic gold on US soil. Another American, the world record holder Leroy Burrell, was absent due to an Achilles injury.

The reigning world champion was a Jamaican-born Canadian, Donovan Bailey. The former basketballer had only taken up sprinting in 1991, aged 24. His win in Gothenburg, 1995, was in some way a restoration of national pride after the disgrace of Johnson seven years earlier. Bailey was in red-hot touch, having broken the 50m indoor world record months earlier. He would be a key figure.

There was also a 22-year-old from the island of Trinidad. Ato Boldon, born in Port-of-Spain, had immigrated to New York as a teenager. He was discovered playing soccer, his speed on the wing catching the eye of an elite track coach. Two years later, aged 18, he found himself in Linford Christie’s first round heat in Barcelona, only to be beaten badly and ousted before his first Games experience had really sunk in. But a month after Olympic failure Boldon showed his true talents winning the world junior 100 and 200m titles in Seoul, becoming the first in history to achieve the junior double. He would progress to a senior medallist in Gothenburg winning bronze behind Bailey in 10.03, but had run a blistering 9.93 to be an early world leader in 1996, and had announced himself as a real threat in Atlanta.

The early rounds were psychological warfare. The exuberance of youth saw Bolden run 9.95 in the second round. Fredericks went toe-to-toe with the young man lowering that with 9.93. Christie and Bailey simply did what they had to. They exerted little energy and made their way through quietly. Modern sprinting and championship racing was fast becoming an art of who could make the biggest statement in the quietest way. Bailey and Christie were whispering, Fredericks and Boldon were shouting their form from the rooftops. Boldon qualified fastest for the final with 9.93 in the second semi, after Fredericks clocked 9.94 in the first.

At 9.50pm local time the eight men strode out to the start. Bravado and testosterone saturated the hot Atlanta air. They were in the land of showmanship. Tommy Smith and John Carlos, of Mexico City infamy, were the fathers of it. The US Dream team, led by Michael Jordan and company, had brought the commercial branding and bright lights of the NBA to the Olympics in Barcelona. Atlanta, the home of Coca-Cola, were the “brand” Games. Michael Johnson marked his 200m world record with his Nike golden spikes. The eight that were about to toe the 100m line were there to put on a show.

Marsh would run on the inside, 100m seeming half the distance it needed to be for him to be a real challenger. Christie had drawn lane two. His disrobing and preparation was the equivalent of a striptease show on a catwalk. He pranced up and down his lane like the defending champion he was. Tracksuit was removed in a teasing fashion; his one-piece British race suit was only on from the waist-down. He waited until his name was announced before he slipped his hulking arms into the top half to finally cover his concrete slab chest.

Boldon projected an outward confidence, hiding the inexperience behind his trademark Oakley’s and expressionless face. Denis Mitchell would run in lane four. He looked a man possessed, his eye-balls bulging, almost bursting out of their sockets, naturally twitching the gold ring that was pierced through his right eye-brow. Mitchell chattered to himself like an inmate in an asylum. Boldon could not have been in a worse spot next to the devil Mitchell in four.

Fredericks stood to Mitchell’s right in five. He had seen it all before. He looked so relaxed he almost appeared disinterested. It was this that so endeared him to fans around the globe. Many believed this would be the Namibian’s night to finally stand on the top level of an Olympic dais.

The World Champion was in six. Although Jamaican by birth and genetics, he was Canadian through and through. Quiet and focussed, but excited to be there, Bailey was warm and all encompassing as he acknowledged the crowd reception that accompanied his introduction.

In seven stood reigning African champion Davidson Enzinwa. The Nigerian, like Boldon, had been a world junior champion in the 100m and had come as close as anyone to winning the double that Boldon eventually achieved, also claiming silver in the 200m in Plovdiv 1990.

In lane eight was the sole Jamaican, Michael Green, which is hard to comprehend given that sixteen years on it seems easier to win an Olympic final than to make a Jamaican relay team. Green was the fastest runner to ever graduate from William Knibb Memorial High School, until some kid called Usain Bolt enrolled there.

Finally at 10.00pm, they were ready to go.

10.01pm: “On your marks!”

Mitchell bounced around and into the crouch first. Fredericks eased his way down, with the grace and smoothness of a cat curling up on a couch. Sweat beads gathered on Christie’s brow as he checked his hands behind the line.

“Set!”

Away. Two gun shots were fired. Christie broke. He was first up at “set” and jumped well before acceptances. There was no doubt it was a deliberate act by the old fox to unsettle the nerves of the youngsters alongside him. He turned around immediately and raised both arms to acknowledge it. Bailey ran 30 metres with Green despite the rest returning to their blocks promptly. Christie was ashen-faced. Fredericks remained relaxed.

10.05pm: They were called to their marks again.

“Set!”

Away. Boldon jumped quickest. Christie a little slow. Fredericks got a smooth start. Fifteen metres run a second gun was fired?! It was as late a recall as you would ever see. All eight heads tilted skyward. Enzinwa threw his hands over his eyes. Christie pulled up quickest. Bailey and Green ran 65 metres before stopping. Boldon turned and stood motionless, with hands on hips, half-way down. Bailey stormed back, understandably frustrated, but almost excited at how well he had run the 65m. Boldon then spotted an official marching to his lane. He threw his arm at him in frustration and shook his head violently as the yellow card was raised. He was adjudged to have broken.

In April 2010, Boldon said if he had the chance, the Atlanta final would be the only race of his career he would run again. “I fell into an old habit that night. I was saying to myself why is this happening to me? I should not have done that.”

Two breaks. All eight were still there behind their blocks. Mitchell kept talking to himself. Christie looked tired, breathing heavily after two starts. Boldon, who replays confirmed had broken, calmed himself. Fredericks was still the coolest cat in the line.

10.08pm: They were called to their marks for a third time. Tension in the stadium was building. Everyone, including the eight runners, was restless now.

“Set!”

They were held for what seemed an eternity.

Away. They seemed even this time but again the second gun shot rang out! Boldon lost it, throwing an enormous tantrum. Christie turned and hoped. Fredericks dropped to his haunches, the first sign of any concern from the Namibian.

The officials congregated. One held up two fingers. One of Boldon or Christie was to be disqualified for a second false start. Boldon was back behind his blocks in a flash waiting for another start. Christie saw the official walk towards him and raise the yellow card. The defending champion was out. He went straight to the reply monitor on the infield. The replays confirmed him the first to move, whether he had beaten the gun was another question. He shook his head calmly, went back to his lane, removed the red flag that had been placed there and readied himself to continue. It was shades of cricketer WG Grace putting the stumps back in place after being cleanly bowled and remarking his guard. This was Christie’s coronation. Instead of being crowned he was being hung. He refused to believe it.

10.11pm: The seven other finalists walked up the track leaving Christie alone behind the blokes. He was still arguing his case with the officials. He raised his arms to the crowd looking for support. Boldon sat down on his lane sign, looking a bit like a trouble-making student who had just been censured by his teacher. Christie sat next to him. Reality was beginning to sink in.

10.12pm: Attention was diverted by another Brit, Jonathan Edwards, in the men’s triple jump final. The symmetry was scary. Edwards was the world champion and world record holder, but he lay second on the night behind American Kenny Harrison with one jump left. With the chaos of Christie happening in the home straight, Edwards’ last jump was delayed. When he finally went, he fouled by the barest of margins, and bowed out an Olympic silver medallist.

With Edwards’ crowd acknowledgement, Christie exited. He pulled his suit down to his waist and walked back down the tunnel. The defending champion was finally, officially, disqualified. He was asked to head into the tunnel but he turned and stayed to watch the race, still shaking his head.

10.14pm: The seven remaining were called to their marks. It is always strange to see a lane vacant in a 100m race. But never before has the hole looked as large as that in lane two, left by the larger than life defending champion.

“Set!” for the fourth time in 15 minutes.

10.15pm: Away cleanly, finally, and Marsh all alone in lane one got the fastest start. Boldon and Mitchell got away reasonably well. Fredericks was sluggish and Bailey was slowest out for the third time in succession. Boldon’s drive phase was strong. He led at half-way. Fredericks was finally into gear and Bailey came with a rush, flying past Fredericks and Boldon to win in a new world record of 9.84! Fredericks was second again. Boldon tightened late, and faded for third. Bailey had held his nerve. He roared with delight, but also with self-assurance. His world title was no fluke.

Fredericks looked numb. The Christie saga had got to him. Boldon was disgusted with himself. He had succumbed to the emotion of the false starts. He had spent too much energy earlier to finish off a race that he owned through the first 60 metres.

Christie usurped the moment but running down the straight, topless, waving to the crowd. There are those who believe he false started to save face in the knowledge that he could not win that night. Regardless, he was still an Olympic champion. Only now he was a “former”, as it was Bailey’s crown to wear.

Canada thought they had their first 100m Olympic champion in Seoul. Eight years later they could celebrate properly. Donovan Bailey had won the slowest 100m race in Olympic history in the fastest time ever run.