sThe day I almost died
It seems like a lifetime ago, but the feelings of shock and fear I still get arevery immediate. I was at the grandest party of mankind, the centennial celebration of the Olympic Games in Atlanta, Georgia. And it was the day I almost died.
It was my first time to cover the Olympics, but I knew what to expect. The tme difference of twelve hours was a killer, and we would be talking twelve to aixteen hours a day. But this was no tme to complain. This was what broadcasters dreamed of, the best seat in the house, the best assignment in the world.
I’d start my day at 6 am (6pm Manila time) and do six hours of summary and highlights in or makeshift studio. It was cold, but the lights kept us warm. After that, who knew what sport would be tossed at us: fencing, tennis, gmnastics, diving, press conferences, interviews, and so on. I wold end my day doing two basketball games solo at the nearby Georgia Dome, just across Centennial Olympic Park opposite CNN headquartersm which was next to the International Broadcast Center.
Every night, dog tired, we would individually or collectively trudge to designated waiting areas to hop a shuttle to the transportation mall. Our hotel, belatedly booked, was 25 miles away, and the vehicles only left exactly every hour, whether or not anyone was riding. So if I made it there at 12:45 and it was scheduled to leave at 1:30 am, it would only leave at 1:30 am, period.
Midway through the Games, I finally asked my rooomate and colleague Ron delos Reyes (famous for tearfully calling the Onyok Velasco debacle “a robbery in Atlanta”) to go out for a while. We were in the biggest party in he world, and we spent the whole day cocooned in studios, booths or headphones. Besides, we were the last ones working each day, and finished at almost the same time. We were joined by one of the volnteer liaisons, Greg Fitzgerald.
Wouldn’t you know it, we get to the Budweiser tent beside Centennial Park at 12:45, and they announce that they’re closing at 1. On top of that, we couldn’t walk out with open beer cups, it was against the law. So we had to rush our enjoyment of that one beer.
Outside, a concert was going on fll blast in the park. It was sort of the town center and a venue for those who didn’t have tickets to any of the sports competitions. You could also pay $ 3,000 and have your name engraved on one of the bricks that formed pathways through the park for posterity. There were fireworks, shows and other attractions throughout the Olympics.
As we were walking through the park, we chatted loudly about how things were going so far, trying to keep our voices louder than the band. As wee were halfway across heading towards CNN, there was a deafening bang, and the earth shook. I almost dove to the ground. The band stopped playing, and the crowd was suddenly uneasy, unsure if the explosion was part of the fireworks. A large African-America woman in a red drss collapsed about fifty feet from us. Her name was Alice Hawthorne, and she had been struck in the head by shrapnel and died soon after.
In moments, police vehicles and ambulances swarmed the park, and cops waded into the crowd screaming, tossing people out of the danger zone. Ron and I wordlessly looked at each other, then ran int the melee. He had pulled out his tourist’s camera and held it over his head snappng pictures, the flash adding surrealism to the scene. Ahead, we saw smoke rising from a shallow hole in the ground, and a small torn duffel bag revealed at least two unexploded pipe bombs. Not all of them had detonated. Lucky for us, since we were only aiut a hundred feet away.
A police officer stood in our path, blocking us from getting through. With the tension high, he then threatened to arrest us if we proceeded, so we walked away. Ron still kept flashing away. A Turkish cameraman Melih Uzinyol was running into the crowd from another direction, then collapsed from a heart attack. Luckily, he was the only other fatality.
I was shaken. What had just happened?
We were in a daze, trying to walk back to our studio. The entire downtown area was shut down, so we couldn’t go back to our hotel. I reported live to the Philippines with a firsthand account of what happened, trying to remember as much detail as I could. I tried calling a colleague at CNN, but they hung up on me twice, and got beaten to the story. We started getting calls from Philoppine radio stations, asking how we were. One announcer even tried to make light of the situation. I wasn’t amused.
When all the tension had died down, we were exhausted beyond belief. The lack of sleep, fatigue, loneliness and realization that we had jist escaped being blown to pieces in a showcase of peaceful competition was overwhelming. But we couldn’t leave. We turned on all the studio lights, and lay down on the floor with our heads under a table so we could sleep in spite of the brightness.
The next few days were a blur, but the image of the crater and the palpable fear inthe air have always stayed with me. I had experienced s much in those Games: the Dream Team, Muhammad Ali, Shaq moving to LA, Oscar Schmidt’s fifth and last Olympics, Lisa Leslie, the crass commercialism of the entire American staging of the competition. But that one night still rings loud in my soul.
After all, it was the night I almost died.
oon after.
In moments, police vehicles and ambulances swarmed the park, and cops waded into the crowd screaming, tossing people out of the danger zone. Ron and I wordlessly looked at each other, then ran int the melee. He had pulled out his tourist’s camera and held it over his head snappng pictures, the flash adding surrealism to the scene. Ahead, we saw smoke rising from a shallow hole in the ground, and a small torn duffel bag revealed at least two unexploded pipe bombs. Not all of them had detonated. Lucky for us, since we were only aiut a hundred feet away.
A police officer stood in our path, blocking us from getting through. With the tension high, he then threatened to arrest us if we proceeded, so we walked away. Ron still kept flashing away. A Turkish cameraman Melih Uzinyol was running into the crowd from another direction, then collapsed from a heart attack. Luckily, he was the only other fatality.
I was shaken. What had just happened?
We were in a daze, trying to walk back to our studio. The entire downtown area was shut down, so we couldn’t go back to our hotel. I reported live to the Philippines with a firsthand account of what happened, trying to remember as much detail as I could. I tried calling a colleague at CNN, but they hung up on me twice, and got beaten to the story. We started getting calls from Philoppine radio stations, asking how we were. One announcer even tried to make light of the situation. I wasn’t amused.
When all the tension had died down, we were exhausted beyond belief. The lack of sleep, fatigue, loneliness and realization that we had jist escaped being blown to pieces in a showcase of peaceful competition was overwhelming. But we couldn’t leave. We turned on all the studio lights, and lay down on the floor with our heads under a table so we could sleep in spite of the brightness.
The next few days were a blur, but the image of the crater and the palpable fear inthe air have always stayed with me. I had experienced s much in those Games: the Dream Team, Muhammad Ali, Shaq moving to LA, Oscar Schmidt’s fifth and last Olympics, Lisa Leslie, the crass commercialism of the entire American staging of the competition. But that one night still rings loud in my soul.
After all, it was the night I almost died.