COLUMN: America's Sweetheart

From Gabriele Marcotti's "Land of the Stoopid," Winter '94 From Gabriele Marcotti's "Land of the Stoopid," Winter '94We're in the middle of another Winter Olympics -- another festive romp through trite rhetoric, friendly sponsors and obscure Viking athletes. Without a gold medal at stake, this could have been little more than another backyard dispute between white trash women and the hoodlums who associate with them. Given the final prize, however, we are subjected to Tonya Harding ad nauseum, as the media strives to turn the Lillehammer games into an attention-grabbing, ratings-boosting, sponsor-friendly jamboree, chock full of the kind of "up close and personal" stories the public loves. A close look at the Olympics in general, and Tonya Harding in particular, reveals some interesting aspects of contemporary society that carry more weight than the games themselves. Historically, the games served as a way for common people to live out their fifteen minutes of fame. Conceivably, Mr. Nobody from Nowhere could steal fame, glory and airtime from Shaq, Emmitt and Larry Johnson's Grandmama, as long as he could drive a bobsled or push a big stone across the ice (yes, curling is an Olympic event). Suddenly, some common idiot became a major star and lived out his lifelong dream, sharing the stage with supposedly "real" athletes like Michael Jordan and Deion Sanders. Little did it matter that the dream would last but a few days -- as long as the Olympic torch burned, Joe Shmoe walked among the gods of sport in the public eye. What made the games such a success was that most people identify with Joe Shmoe, not Michael Jordan. Most of us have memories of attaining personal pinnacles of athletic glory and basking in public admiration -- whether it be making that clutch free throw in high school or hitting that game-winning, two-out, bases-loaded double in Little League. This "moment in time," that even Whitney Houston sang about, is what links the common man and the Olympian -- it's kind of refreshing to know that after the games, the average athlete will return to his or her middle-class existence and continue life in relative obscurity, just as we did when our game-winning exploits were forgotten a week later. Now, however, things are quite different. Win an Olympic medal in a TV-friendly glamour sport, especially if it features scantily clad athletes, and you could be in line for mega big bucks faster than you can say "Mary Lou Retton." For an athlete who has what it takes -- a nice smile, a ratings-friendly event (sorry, cross country skiers need not apply) and a clever agent -- it's just a hop, skip and a jump from home-made outfits and a dingy gym in suburban Portland to Wheaties commercials and guest appearances on Saturday Night Live. It's not unreasonable to think that Tonya Harding was having these very same thoughts just a few short months ago. Through a little luck and a lot of hard work, she had propelled herself to the verge of a national championship and a chance for Olympic fame and glory. Alas, one Nancy Kerrigan stood in her way. About the only thing Kerrigan and Harding have in common is skating ability and red, white and blue warm-up suits. Kerrigan is tall, stately and classically beautiful. Harding is short, frumpy and reassuringly homely. Kerrigan emanates class and style from every pore. Harding is a compendium of bad taste and crassness. Most importantly, Kerrigan doesn't have the veritable freakshow of goons and Addams Family stand-ins who follow Harding around, hoping to get a piece of her pie. No sleazy on-again off-again husband selling pictures of her topless. No whiny, witchy mother serenading her on a tabloid magazine show, begging Tonya to take her back. No annoying obese cousin, showing home videos of Tonya playfully stripping. It became obvious to Harding that America (and more to the point, the sponsors) would always choose Kerrigan over her -- Nancy had it all, she had nothing. People are products of the environments that spawned them, and it's not that surprising that Harding did what she's accused of doing. Figure skating is a glamorous world of showmanship and athleticism. On the ice, Harding was on a par with the wealthiest and most powerful -- off the ice she went back to being a white trash nobody. When society dangles all sorts of material goodies in front of its most disadvantaged members and then offers them little chance of ever attaining them, it shouldn't come as a surprise that people will do anything to succeed. If the allegations surrounding her are true, Harding tried to grab her piece of the American dream any which way she could. She realized skating was the only way out and if it meant taking out an opponent, so be it -- if she'd gotten away with it, ten years from now, nobody would know or care who Nancy Kerrigan was. In that sense, Harding is the victim -- the victim of a society with the power to drive some of its weakest links to crime, simply by setting near impossible goals for them. Starting this Wednesday, Kerrigan and Harding, the ice princess and the ugly duckling, will square off in Lillehammer. While the world roots for Nancy, living her "moment in time" vicariously through every one of her jumps and axles, we may want to remember Tonya Harding. Loved by no one (except for those who still think she can make some money for them), she will be skating on an injured ankle, with a media circus scrutinizing her every move. And when she gets back from Norway, she gets to go off to trial, and possibly to jail. Sure, she made some money off those tabloid TV show appearances and possible movie deals. But that's very little compared to Nancy Kerrigan's 11 million dollars in endorsements, Nancy doll, autobiography and Saturday Night Live appearance. Our heroes are created for us by middle-aged men armed with marketing surveys. By cheating and getting away with it, she could have made decent money and enjoyed a few months reign as America's sweetheart. By cheating and getting nailed, she will forever live in infamy, but at least she raked in some bucks and had her fifteen minutes. I know who I'll be rooting for come Wednesday.

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