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.Flags, bands, grinning politicians, television cameras and commemorative souvenirs were in predictably long supply.As I type these words into my laptop, I’m wearing a white cotton souvenir T-shirt and drinking beer from the fi rst in a series of collectable plastic Coca-Elliott Mackle136Cola cups celebrating the Games.I mention them together because the shirt and cup off er diametrically opposing perspectives on the meaning of the stadium.The T-shirt features a red oval seen from the start line of the stadium’s freshly laid, ten-lane running track.A sleek, gray-silver grandstand rises like a titanium spacecraft behind it.Th e words “CentennialOlympic Stadium” are printed below, over the modernist pattern of laurel leaves used for banners during the Games.Coca-Cola’s thirty-two-ounce entry features a soft-focus, Roman-Coliseum-style stadium.The image, viewed from Goodyear Blimplevel, suggests a ruined temple, seemingly hallowed with age, and with a red-and-white “Always Coca-Cola” moon shining above.I treasure the cup over the shirt.It’s right in line with the mongrelization of classic tradition employed by both the International Olympics Committee and Coke to sell themselves to a gullible, middlebrow public.Like most successful operations, the city of Atlanta, the IOC and their principal sponsor Coca-Cola prefer to have everything both ways.No doubt that’s why, at least at the beginning, the three seemed such a good fi t as Games managers.Ibo Williams and I rode the MARTA train from Midtown to Georgia State Station the morning of the meet, arriving at the stadium a couple of hours before start time.Suppliers’ tents, jockstrapper-organization booths, refreshment stands and hospitality areas were set up on sidewalks and grassy areas between the two stadiums and along Piedmont Avenue from the state capitol to the stadium.Once inside the gate, Ibo and I fanned out to scour the crowd, he with Nikon and sketchpad, me with pen, notebook and the bland, curious half-frown-half-smile of a reporter seeking information.At fi rst I looked for men and women who signaled their gayness in some obvious way—rainbow jewelry, pink triangles on caps, T-shirts advertising attendance at the Gay Games or an AIDS walk.Besides a large press badge on a lanyard, I was wearing a Body Magic T-shirt with a Walt Whitman quote on the back (“Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass.Be not afraid of my body”), faded Duke gym shorts, running shoes and a pink Outlines-logo cap.I was as easy to spot as a straight policeman at the Dinah Shore golf tournament.137Hot off the PressesTwo men in faded jeans, grungy Nikes and black T-shirts from the Eagle, an Atlanta leather bar, did a double take when they spotted me, one nudging the other and audibly commenting, “Th at our kindof jock sniff er, or what?”“Fuckin’ A!” his buddy grunted, sticking out his hand.“Yo, dude,”he called.Once I introduced myself, they told me that Atlanta hosting the Games was a dream they’d shared.One worked for Wachovia Bank, the other coached soccer and debate in a DeKalb County high school.They’d bought Olympics tickets for the men’s freestyle wrestling fi -nals, men’s gymnastics, a couple of women’s softball games and the last three days of track-and-fi eld competition.Th e Wachovia guy wason a company waiting list for Opening Ceremonies tickets.Both men planned to hang out in Centennial Olympic Park between events.When I asked if they themselves were involved in competitive sports, they broke into broad grins.They’d met playing bar-league softball,the schoolteacher said, and they’d been together—at home and on the diamond—for almost eight years.Both were Outlines readers.Both gave good quote.Three women shopping for ACOG-logo hats and sunshades caught my eye next.All three looked trim and in shape.One sported a Candler Park golf shirt, the giveaway detail.Candler Park is a heavily lesbianized neighborhood between Downtown and Decatur.Th epublic golf course is its focal point.When I introduced myself, the golfer immediately jumped in, politely demanding that Outlines hire a woman sportswriter, somebody who at least knew the diff erence between soccer and fi eld hockey.When I asked if she had a candidate in mind, she replied that indeed she did, going on to describe the qualifi cations of her ex-girlfriend’s running partner, a legal secretary.I said I’d be glad to look at her clips.We exchanged cards.The best interview was a research librarian from the University of Kentucky.Tall, black and wearing wraparound shades and a one-piece, skin-tight bodysuit, he walked right up to me, touched my back, said, “Sacred Brother, I did my fi rst stroke-and-gasp weekend two years ago in Cincinnati.What about you?”Having identifi ed each other as Body Magicians, we were off.Elliott Mackle138“I drove down here strictly to check out the merchandise,” he said.“Have you seen those real, real spandex track suits a lot of the men athletes are wearing? With their big ole parts sticking out in front like Pontiac hood ornaments.Flapping, fl apping, fl apping back and forth with every stride they take.From what I’ve already seen on the TV, it doesn’t look like there’s such as thing as a decent athletic supporter among the lot of them.Won’t be winning by any nose in those suits.”Harold—the librarian’s name was Harold Jeff erson—waved his hand and added, “Young man, are you old enough to remember when spectators could check out a little raw butt at track meets, back when runners still wore little swimmer’s jocks and loose shorts like you’ve got on?”“Check it out, Bro,” I said, lowering the waist of my Duke shorts to reveal the wide-elastic waistband of my old supporter.Harold glanced down, rolled his eyebrow appreciatively, then knelt beside me to make a full inspection.“Umm um.Bike No.10jockstrap on you—classic red, white and blue stripe.You got the time, young man?”“You’re looking pretty good yourself.But this is a work day for me.”“Have to catch you later, then.” He glanced left, then right.Th enhe slipped his hand under the hem of my shorts and squeezed my naked butt.“Mighty good shape, I’d say.Do you ever get up to Kentucky, honey? I say we ought to trade massages one day.Or maybe during the Games in August? I expect to be down here the last four days.”I said I thought we ought to get together, too.And maybe sooner than August.We exchanged phone numbers.At 11:30, Ibo and I met near the Olympic Torch to reconnoiter.He’d gotten some great shots, he said, including a roll of fi lm captur-ing a uniformed ACOG volunteer chatting with the pair of bar-league softball players I’d interviewed.I suggested a backstage walkthrough next.Because Ibo seldom worked the street he didn’t have an official press card.But gettinghim through security was no problem.Both of us spotted a familiar face among the ticket takers and automatically joined his line.A well known drag queen as well as a volunteer for Project Open Hand, the139Hot off the Pressesman gave us both high fi ves and held up progress while explaining which portal to use in order to reach the physical therapy area.The rent-a-cop checking credentials at the press portal was another gay brother.A longtime bouncer at the Armory, a popular gay bar and disco on Juniper Street, he waved us through, explaining that my own press card entitled me to escort employee-assistants into the restricted athletes’ area during pre-Olympics events
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