Magic shoes walked me through the Olympics 20 years ago

Once upon a time, on the last night of a family vacation, I stopped at a convenience store in Destin, Florida, to buy a lottery ticket.

We play the lottery only a handful of times each year, but usually when the jackpot is so high everyone else has the same idea. It was a warm, breezy evening on the shores of the Gulf, 20 years ago this month. My wife and I put together a combination of birthdays, anniversaries and other “lucky” numbers, hoping the stars would line up on our behalf.

Had we won, of course, the Grisamores would now be living on the beach instead of being tourists every summer. We did, however, correctly pick four of the numbers, so there was a small consolation prize.

I stopped at the same convenience store the next morning and cashed in the ticket for $65. I bought some snacks for the trip home and put the rest of the money in my pocket to buy a new pair of shoes when we got back to Macon.

I picked out a pair of Nike high-top tennis shoes. They were, by far, the ugliest sneakers I have ever owned. They were graphite gray, the color of the sky during a thunderstorm.

But they were comfortable and durable. The rubber on the bottoms was so thick they were practically indestructible. They had a long tread life. Those soles are probably still walking around somewhere.

They proved to be a nice investment. I knew I was going to be doing an incredible amount of walking in the weeks ahead when I joined other writers and editors from The Telegraph to begin our coverage of the 1996 Summer Olympics.

For six years, we had been discussing and planning for the biggest sports stage in the world. Atlanta, the city where I was born, had been selected as host of the Centennial Games.

When you are a sportswriter, getting to cover the Olympics is like winning the lottery. The Summer Games roll around every four years. They have been held in the U.S. just three other times — St. Louis (1904) and Los Angeles (1932 and ‘84).

I had spent the better part of two years preparing for it. I wrote about athletes I had never heard of participating in sports I had never written about and never would again. I traveled to places the newspaper normally never would have sent me on assignment. One was the National Sporting Festival in St. Louis over the long Fourth of July weekend in 1994. (I got back to Macon just in time for the flood.)

With so many national and international journalists, we had to jump through all the hoops to ensure The Telegraph would receive the coveted media credentials in our home state. We couldn’t just show up at the “will call’’ gate with our press badge.

Twenty years have not erased the memories of what would be my last year as a sportswriter.

I still get chill bumps when I think about being in Olympic Stadium for the opening ceremonies and watching boxer Muhammad Ali, who died last month, light the torch. I had interviewed him seven years earlier when he was grand marshal of Fort Valley State’s homecoming parade. Of course, Olympic Stadium became Turner Field, now in its final season as home of the Atlanta Braves.

(Later, the closing ceremonies had Middle Georgia music connections, with Macon’s own Little Richard and Trisha Yearwood, the pride of Monticello, both performing.)

On the first night of the swimming competition, I stood near Angel Martino, of Americus, after she won a bronze medal and dedicated it to Trisha Henry, a childhood friend with cancer. I saw Michael Johnson sprint into history. I was at the Georgia Dome when gymnast Kerri Strug sprained her ankle on the vault and courageously led the U.S. team to a gold medal. A month later, her picture was on a box of Wheaties.

I recall, with some amusement, Izzy and “Y.M.C.A.” Izzy was that blue hokey Pokemon of a mascot who was first trotted out with the nickname “Whatizit’’ (What Is It?) I heard “Y.M.C.A.” — the ultimate crowd participation song — played at so many venues I was convinced our foreign visitors would return to their home countries thinking it was our national anthem.

On a sidewalk one evening, I watched basketball star Shaquille O’Neal step out of a limousine. He was 7-foot-1, weighed 325 pounds and blocked out the sun, the largest human being I’ve ever seen in person.

By contrast, there was the diminutive weightlifter, Naim Suleymanoglu. He stood 4-foot-11 — about half of a Shaq. He was so strong they called him the “Pocket Hercules.’’

He was from Turkey, which has been in the news recently. Watching him win his record third Olympic gold medal was special. He lifted the spirits of a nation with him.

In America, we frown on cheering in the press box. I was sitting next to five Turkish journalists. They stood, hollered and grunted with each lift. When he won, I looked over and they were overcome with emotion.

Of course, I will remember the bomb. I trembled for an hour after I heard it had exploded in Centennial Park. I was in shock. I had just passed by there a few hours earlier.

Security already was so tight you could hardly walk through one of those metal detectors without the foil wrapper from a piece of chewing gum setting off an alarm.

Just two days before the opening ceremonies, TWA Flight 800 exploded and crashed into the Atlantic Ocean, killing all 230 people on board.

Back home in Macon, our city was grieving. Becky Olsen and Michele Becker, two best friends from Macon, were among those killed. They were both young, beautiful and talented. Becky had graduated from First Presbyterian Day School. Michele attended Mount de Sales Academy. They were on their way to a wedding in France.

There was speculation that the crash was an act of terrorism. Then came the bomb in the park. In many ways, the safety and security of our nation began to change with the Olympics — five years before Sept. 11.

I wrote many of my stories from the Knight-Ridder bureau at the press building overlooking Centennial Park. I was assigned to the same table with Dave Barry and Mitch Albom. Forget about all the famous athletes at every event. Every day I sat in the company of greatness, typing on a laptop.

I wrote thousands of words and ran on adrenaline for 19 days. I ate cold chicken sandwiches on the shuttles, where sometimes I heard just about every language being spoken but English.

I will always be grateful for the experience. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Those Nikes were my Forrest Gump shoes. They took me everywhere. They were my magic shoes.

This story was originally published July 21, 2016 at 6:44 PM with the headline "Magic shoes walked me through the Olympics 20 years ago."