 |
| The pin hat weighs about 1.3 lbs. and currently carries 76 pins |
Here we are, midway through the Beijing Winter Games. Olympic
fascination for me has not waned. I watch mainly via CBC, for they let the
sports speak for themselves more than does NBC, but USA has given me a third
option. I still hear in my head the ABC theme song and “the agony of defeat.” I take
down my winter Games pin hat from my office wall and think back to Games
followed, the Games attended and the Games peripherally involved in.
The summer Games were the earlier interest; winter came
later, after settling in Minnesota, even though in college I wore (out) an
Olympic warm-up jacket from the ’32 Lake Placid bob sled team. Dad, then a
Colgate Junior, had wangled his way with a buddy onto the back-up taxi-squad.
Early memories: I can harken back to the ’56 Melbourne Cold
War romance of Czech discus gold medalist Olga Fikotova and American hammer
throw gold medalist Hal Connolly. Also to the “blood in the water” gold medal
polo match between Russia and a revenge-bent Hungarian team. They trounced
Russia 4 – zip. Those summer Games were in December, i.e., summer down under,
just a month after Russian tanks had rolled into Budapest. We didn’t have a TV in
our little one-room Cambridge apartment but there was plenty to follow in the
press.
I recall other bits and pieces – like Toni Sailor’s alpine sweep in ’56 at Cortina. Like that kid Cassius Clay in Rome, ’60. And Peggy Fleming winning the US’s only Grenoble gold in '68. Later that summer, the ’68 student protest massacres in Mexico City, maybe worse than Tian’anmen, and Tommy Smith’s and John Carlos’ Black Power salute. The tragedy of Munich, ’72.
I followed it all after TV was introduced at Cortina, but it wasn’t until ’76 that the Winter Olympic bug really bit.
Franz Klammer
I groused to the family before my
annual European Toy Fair trek that I didn’t know what to do with myself during
a four-day break between the Brighton and Nuremburg expositions. “Dad!” shouted Frank, then a wanna-be free-style skier, “the ’76 winter Games will be on right there in
Austria.” Sure enough: be a man of action, Dad. Our General Mills non-food
group had just ventured into travel as an area of potential. I called our new partner and learned that they had an
Olympic tour that would be in Innsbruck that weekend and gave me the name and suggested I contact on site their tour director. He might have some ins.
I stashed my business clothes in a Munich train station locker, put on Levis, boots, and an Eddie Bauer jacket (Eddie Bauer was then a part of the General Mills Apparel and Specialty Retailing Group) and hauled my duffle of ski boots and gear onto a train to Innsbruck. The “he” turned out to be a free-spirited PanAm cabin attendant moonlighting as a tour group director. There was no room at any inn, so he let me crash overnight in the back of the parked tour bus. The next night, I slept on the floor of a chalet filled with airline guys and gals. Party time: I was the quaint old fart, all of 41.
First day: PanAm’s tour flock were in the hands of a local
mother hen, so he and I set out for Igls where the downhill and outdoor bobsled
were run. To get to the downhill (no tickets) we climbed up toward the
Patscherkofel, clambered into and out of the top of the bob sled run (can you
imagine, today?) and hauled our asses on up to a curve on the downhill. And what a curve! It was that infamous sharp
right bend after going airborne. We
stood between a huge Swiss contingent clanging cow bells and an equally large
mob of Italians swigging wine. The bottles and bells passed merrily from group
to group accompanied with good natured, gratuitous insults. We were made
honorary Italians and Swiss.
 |
| (Not mine: from Google) |
And then came Austria’s Franz Klammer. Right in our face – arms flailing, legs akimbo, a crash in slow-motion. But he righted in air, somehow lined up for the next gate and delivered one of the most famous gold medal downhills to this day.
The next day, I went again to Igls to watch the bob sledding.
Sunday, my tour guide buddy was off duty. We decided that we had to ski. Off by bus to Kitzbuhel, rented skis and headed up the lift. Now, I was no way ready for Kitzbuhel, a marginal intermediate on my best days. My PanAm friend could ski. Off he went, agreeing to meet up at end of day, 4:30 or so, at the ski rental. I blundered about up top, searching desperately for a green trail back down and being victimized by the Jah-Jah boys, those German-speakers so eager to be rid of you they answered jah-jah to whatever you asked, as “is this the trail back to town?” “Jah-jah.” Or “does this lead to a green run?” “Jah-jah.” Like hell! After countless falls, self-respect and self-confidence shredded, jeans soaked, I got to the bottom, that is, a bottom – a tiny town clear on the other side of the mountain, 25km from rendezvous at Kitzbuhel!
A local bus back around the mountain to Kitzbuhel, near 7 now; turned in skis to an angry rental clerk awaiting the day’s last pair; a drink at a bar full of handsome people in stylish skiwear glancing askance at this bedraggled bum with a 2-day stubble (not fashionable in 1976). After a bratwurst at the bar with a smug Italian skier asking if my mitts were ski or boxing gloves, I finally slunk off to catch the last train to Munich. About ten minutes to departure, I sitting like a Buddha atop a four foot tall steam radiator trying to dry out, in waltzes PanAm with a stunning English blonde on his arm. Back to the real world: in Munich, recovered business gear, got a room at a rail station hotel, a hot shower and a morning train to Nuremburg. My Olympic adventures ended.
Well, no. -- Little did I suspect, but my Olympic adventures were just beginning.
Montreal, ’76 and Bruce (or
Caitlin as you will)
When I got home, telling the tales, I realized that I wanted the family to experience the wonder, the nationalistic joy, the thrill of the Games, the delight of the crowds. The ’76 Summer Games were to be in Montreal just four months off; at this late hour, could we get tickets, could we find a place to stay? Had to pay scalper prices but got tix for two days of track and field, diving and swimming prelims, soccer and volleyball. For advice on lodging, I called the VP Sales of our Canadian Parker Brothers subsidiary, based in Montreal. Wonder of Wonders: he and his family were abandoning the city for the duration of the Games and going to their lake cabin on north. No, they weren’t renting: "strangers, you know. Would you like to use the house?" Would we?! We drove to international Falls, caught the overnight train and we were part of the Summer Games!
Montreal had gone full out, with construction corruption feeding the development frenzy. It took 30 years to retire the debt the city took on to build their facilities -- but what facilities!
1976 – America had a long tradition of decathlon champions: Bob Mathias, Rafer Johnson, Milt Campbell, Bill Toomey. But in ’72, at Munich, one of those horrid Russians had taken the gold away. America embraced its fresh, great hope, Bruce Jenner, along with his loyal, enabling, beautiful wife Chrystie. And the Wallers became Jenner groupies.
The next day, Jenner came through. A huge American flag was rolled out over our heads, so Frank, Steve and Amy raced up the aisle to above the flag where their puny banner could be seen. Seen, first on CBC that night back at the house, much to their delight. Then, again, the next week in Sports Illustrated's lead photo of its spread on Jenner.
 |
| CBC |
 |
| Sports Illustrated |
But that isn’t the end of the story. Soon after our return to Minneapolis, I left the Craft, Game &Toy Division to take the reins of Marketing Services, a gaggle of departments that executed and supported the marketing programs of the food brands and those newly acquired non-food companies, departments such as marketing research, advertising, packaging, media operations, publicity, Betty Crocker kitchens and cookbooks, nutrition, etc., etc.
 |
Among new packaging projects in the works was designing the latest Wheaties iteration, its new Breakfast of Champions featuring, of course, America’s Decathlon darling, Bruce Jenner. Bruce came out for the Cereal Division’s unveiling of the new Wheaties Champ. So I arranged for Bruce to come by, meet the kids and Barbara, and autograph the banner of which he, too, had a photograph. I thought my wife and secretary would swoon like a couple of teenagers; indeed, Barbara later said her palms had been sweating at meeting him.
Honestly; what would Caitlin think?
Moscow
The ’80 summer Games were slated for Moscow. In January of ’77, I got a call from the President of Bowers and Ruddy, the numismatic company whose acquisition I had engineered for the hobby group within my old Toy Division. David Bowers told me he had received an invitation, virtually a summons, to appear just 12 days hence at HQ of the Veneshtorgbanc, the Soviet Bank of Foreign Commerce, in Moscow, to be interviewed and negotiate for the rights to market Russian Commemorative Olympic coins in North America. I have written elsewhere in these Ruminations (Jan., 2021) about that bizarre experience.
Three of us made the trip. We decided after the first day’s meeting
to decline, but crafted overnight what we thought a program should be. The next
day we gave our best but unwelcome advice to the young, increasingly distraught
project manager and his boss -- a boss who seemed to take great satisfaction in
the discomfiture of his young associate. The culmination was when I cited data
from Ottawa’s newly-released report on the success of the Montreal Games’
commemorative coin program. I pulled the report from my briefcase and asked had
they seen it. “Yes, Yes” (at least not jah-jah) was his hasty response. I
offered to leave the report with him. No, no, no need. At that moment, the
third occupant of the office, a man introduced as having no English and who had sat silently in the corner , wheeled
his chair into the middle of the circle, extended his hand, and said “I’d like
to have that report, please.” I’m afraid at that moment our young friend’s
goose was cooked.
We came away with a commemorative coin, a Soviet Olympic lapel pin, a feeling that we had tried our best to help them, and fabulous memories of snowy days in Brezhnev’s Red Square.
 |
| The two Daves: Kelby (l), our lawyer, and Bowers (r), the numismatist |
Russian tanks rolled into Kabul in December of ’79. President Carter cancelled US participation in the Games. The commemorative Olympic coins were never directly sold in the US.
LA
Lake Placid came and went leaving a warm glow for us Minnesotans
with its Miracle on Ice, the US hockey upset of Russia and gold medal win over
the Czechs. By ’84, I had moved on to Marriott.
Marriott is, of course, one of American Express’s largest source of card charges. And American Express was among the primary sponsors of Olympics. And so, a delegation of us were wined and dined by AmEx at the LA Summer Games. We were insulated from the giddy crowds; we were escorted VIPs. Our escort: George Plimpton.
 |
| We didn't mingle with those folks |
 |
| Santa Anita |
Calgary, ‘88
At Marriott, I regularly had been part of rather extravagant
entertainment of major customers. When I came to Westin, I was told by my sales
VP ‘No, we don’t do that; the chairman does not discriminate among customers
and does not want to make small customers feel bad.’ What!?
The ’88 Games were to be held in Calgary; the relatively new
Westin to be ABC’s HQ hotel. How many rooms could I get? The hotel reluctantly
gave up 14 rooms for four nights each of the two weeks, i.e., 112 roominghts which
otherwise could have been sold at premium rates. OK, I asked the Sales VP, “what
percentage of our group business is done by our top 20 customers?” Just shy of
77% was the answer. OK.
I presented the plan and a full-bore budget at the next Exec
Committee meeting. I could see the other Exec VP’s thinking, Oh, boy, here’s
the new guy with an extravagant wish; watch Harry shoot him down. I explained twenty
major customers, ten each week for four nights stays, the 77%, receptions and banquets, ABC
television HQ, and – Harry, as Chairman, you and Mrs. Mullikin, will host the first
week which includes the opening ceremony. Dwight, as President (to whom I
nominally reported), you will host the second group the second week, which will
include the closing ceremony.
Well, opined Harry, well. Hmm. Opening ceremony? Well. Well, it’s an excellent way to publicize
our new hotel. And to thank these important customers for their loyalty. I think
we ought to take full advantage of this wonderful opportunity.
And so it came to be. We applied lessons learned from AmEx – not to overly host, to mix events of choice with pre-planned options of outings, to encourage and give ample opportunity to mingle with crowds, to allow folks to dine on their own, and so on. We added some new wrinkles, like Roffe custom-designed, sized to the guest, matching ski gear – boots, pants, sweater, jacket, hat and gloves – laid out on the beds of our guest couples upon check-in. All in all, an immense success! And heroes like British ski jumper Eddie the Eagle and Katerina Witt defending her '84 Sarajevo gold made it all the more so.
 |
| The Marvelously Ridiculous . . . |
 |
| , , , and the Sublime (from Google) |
Sitting in the stands at the ski jumping, two people came up and wanted to add a pin to my hat, and there they reside today.
I was so busy hosting and tour directing, that I took no pictures. Thanks to Google for these.
Pin collecting really took off at Calgary. We gave each of our guests a starter set and encouraged them to trade away. I recall one of our customers, a big, gruff guy, spotting my pin hat, yelled out that this pin stuff is just stupid, who cares? Then he burst out laughing, whipped open his ski jacket to reveal inside both flaps and his sweater lined with tens and tens of Olympic pins he’d been trading.
Vancouver and Whistler, 2010
Albertville and Nagano were just
too remote, and for some reason I passed on Salt Lake. But when the Games came
to Canada again, and to Vancouver, our neighbor just up the road, I couldn’t
resist, especially when Frank Novosel, a buddy of mine and a winter sports nut,
suggested we go and live out of his RV. Back to no plans, no tickets, no corporate VIP stuff,
just going and being there.
 |
| Neighbors to the North Befriend Frank |
We had a ball. Frank is a downhiller. I haven’t downhilled since 1990, have been a skate-skier since, and as I said, I was mediocre downhiller on my best day. But I figured it would come back, like riding a bicycle, so I rented skis and we lifted up to the top of the downhill intending to ski down alongside the races. Well, “it” didn’t come back. I demonstrated total ineptitude, worse than at Kitzbuhel, much to my chagrin and Frank’s amusement.
 |
| Doofus on Skis It must be that 1988 Roffe outfit that makes me look so stiff |
Once was enough; the next couple of days, I went off to the cross-country races at Blackcomb while Frank stayed on the mountain. We parked the RV at the Vancouver Yacht Club where we had access to showers and their TV room. We watched hockey (tix unavailable that week) and skating, went to mingle at the awards center, watched Lindsey Vonn find her just, golden reward.
 |
| Lindsey Returns |
Whistler is small and relaxed. One could wander the streets and chat up competitors like German twice gold medalist Maria Riesch out taking a stroll, for the most part in welcome anonymity. It was all that the Olympics hope to be – those uninhibited, rare, a-political moments of shared joy.
 |
| Maria Riesch out for a stroll |
2026?
The Winter Games will return to Cortina. That would be on my 92nd lap around the sun. In fall of 2018, Ann and I ended in Cortina our week of hiking through the Dolomites with Gary Scott; I'd love to see it again.
