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Partly because of new events inaugurated for women—the cycling road races, the marathon, even synchronized swimming—the Games had a strong feminine strain. They also had an unavoidable American flavor. Two of the world's three best teams were missing, after all. The first American gold-medal volleyball team was thoroughly unbothered by the asterisk. Nationalism was rampant but ugliness restrained. The boxing mobs were as sour as the judging: it is probably too soon to tell Evander Holyfield, a U.S. light heavyweight disqualified for not pulling his punches, that in the end this heartache may end up distinguishing him from the crowd of champions. The ironies of the Games usually outlast the scores: Swimmer Rick Carey is criticized for preferring a world record to a gold medal; Carl Lewis is blamed for the reverse.
The second best long jump in Olympic history, 28 ft. ¼ in., thrilled Moscow four years ago when East German Lutz Dombrowski accomplished it. By the exact measurement, although a slightly different standard, Los Angeles was a little disappointed with Carl Lewis. He reached that distance on his first jump, fouled on the second and folded the rest. If it was more than a foot less than he could have done, it was almost a foot more than he had to do. Stopping was good track and bad theater: some of the $60 customers, not including Bob Beamon, booed. "My friend lives," murmured Beamon, referring to a 29-ft. 2½-in. companion of his, a record now 16 years old.
Just the workaday production of Lewis is superlative, but in conserving his strength so calculatedly over the four-medal haul, he never completely strained either his own talent or anyone else's imagination. And the effect was not enhanced by his omnipresent moneymen or the press releases and voice tapes he sent to the victory conferences in lieu of himself. In a humorous snag, Lewis charged that he was "misquoted" by newspapers reporting his declaration: "If someone had jumped farther, I would not have come back." It was on his cassette.
First, two Saturdays ago, he won the 100-meter dash. As the aficionados put it, Lewis was fast and Sam Graddy only quick. The time was 9.99, the margin comfortable. Then the long jump, and it could have been mailed in. "My strategy will be the same as always," he announced beforehand, "to pop a very big jump early and make everyone chase after me. If I feel 'on' after my first jump, I might take a second." For a personal Olympic motto he chose: "A gold medal is first. The world record is last." If his priorities did not earn admiration, there was at least irony in the boos. Criticized by some for grandstanding too smoothly in order to build his public image, he was being ragged now for his insufficient pursuit of glory. "I understand why he didn't jump," said Rival Larry Myricks, no friend of Lewis', adding, however, that in the same situation he would have tried. Said Lewis later: "I was booed because they wanted to see more of Carl Lewis. In a way it kind of flattered me."