“I remember the modern pentathlon in Mexico. Why was I interested, in that fall of 1968, in Hans-Gunnar Liljenwall? We were coming out of a hectic spring, I was preparing for a difficult competition which had been postponed until November and, for To give myself a little break, I followed the Mexico City Olympics. […]
I have no passion for the modern pentathlon, this series of five events invented by Baron de Coubertin himself, in a vaguely military mode and which combines fencing, swimming, horse riding, pistol shooting and running, all in an order and according to constraints that have continued to change. Yet I followed him, as I followed the rest.
Hans‐Gunnar, the Swede, was a modest but experienced pentathlete who had already competed in the Olympics and was a strong member of his delegation, both individually and in the team. I can imagine the shock of his arrival in Mexico City from his peaceful little town of Jönköping. The heat, the noise, the altitude, the enormity of the megalopolis, the very particular atmosphere, made of frenetic agitation and almost mineral immobility: people running in all directions and others waiting interminably, their closed Indian face, their gaze lost far from the world.
To relax before the pistol shooting event, Hans‐Gunnar had the idea of strolling for a while, far from the others and the events to come, in the Zócalo, this immense square which serves as the heart of the city. He wanders around with no other aim than to think of nothing and to concentrate in secret. He should have taken a hat, he is sweating and he feels the sun burning on his scalp. […]
He wipes his forehead and neck. He has two hours left before the shooting test and he is shaking. He stretches out his arm to see and he sees. He will never be able to hold his gun. He won’t even have the strength to lift it. Will he only be able to lower his left eyelid to aim with his right eye? Right now, he doubts it. He would like a plane to go home, to go to his bed, to sleep, to forget the athlete he was […] He notices a hotel whose double doors are open onto a black hole which seems to him to be a haven. He enters and drops into the first chair. He would like to sink deeper into it and disappear forever between the cushions of old, worn leather. He is now shaking from head to toe and closes his eyes so he can no longer see anything. A shiver runs through him. He’s almost cold in the cool shade.
A boy approaches and pulls him out of his lethargy. – Signor? Mechanically he responds: cerveza. We bring him a cold beer and, from the first sip, he feels better. He finds a familiar taste which reassures him. He finishes the rest of his drink in one gulp and stands up. It’s going to be okay. The stress is over. He will return to what he is. The boy brings him a second beer which he drinks slowly, mentally reconstructing all the actions he will have to make, revising his routines, gathering all his mental energy and all his physical potential. He extends his arm which no longer trembles. He will be able to shoot the way he knows how to shoot. Maybe even better, he promises himself. He will be able to raise the pistol at the end of his arm to his line of sight and squeeze the trigger between two calm beats of his heart. He’s watching his watch. He has just enough time to return to his base and join his team to go to the shooting range. He goes at the right pace. […]
He shoots well. His teammates too. If they stay at this level, they are in contention for a medal. He now knows that until the end he will no longer lose his concentration, he will do his sword attacks, he will swim, he will dominate his unknown horse and he will go to the end of the 2,500 meters of the race on foot. This is his Olympic vocation and he is ready for this glory. The ordeal is long and, when it finally ends, he feels a sudden heat. A volunteer in uniform signed with Olympic rings leads them all to a building where doctors are waiting for them. They must urinate for new checks organized for the first time this year, around fifty tests per day, for the first six in certain tests only. He isolates himself and blesses himself for having drunk these two beers, otherwise with the ambient heat he wouldn’t have much to pee.
When the thing is done, he finds his team and they leave together to prepare for their fencing test the next morning. In the rest of the events, the team dynamic remains good. Everything is not perfect because Hans‐Gunnar’s horse is a little restive, but the overall result is there. It won’t be gold, it won’t be silver, but bronze that everyone will be delighted with at the end of the grueling last 2,500 meters. We huddle a little on the podium, we pretend to bite into the medal, we smile for the flashes, we telephone the family and we prepare to follow the spectacle of the Games in the stands of the stadium. And Tommie Smith and John Carlos were going to put on a show with their two black-gloved fists raised to the sky!
It was during one of the athletics events that the head of the Swedish delegation came to tell Hans Gunnar that he was expected at the IOC officials. He immediately went to an office where he was told that he had tested positive for doping control. He was shown tests showing that he had traces of alcohol in his urine. My two beers, he thought immediately.
He was told that he was therefore disqualified and that his disqualification would result in that of his teammates, and that consequently the Swedish modern pentathlon delegation would have to return their bronze medal. He was amazed. Mortified even more for his comrades than for himself […] “
When 27 writers remember their favorite Olympics
© / Edition of the Threshold
Taken from I remember… Pérec’s stride (and other sporting madeleines), directed by Benoît Heimermann. Threshold, 226 p., €19.90.