Back when I was a sports reporter for the Brampton Guardian (the Guardian no longer offering separate editions for both sides of town), one of my favourite sports to cover was track and field. Part of the allure was the three-ring circus approach. So many things going on, all at the same time.
Another aspect was the uniqueness of two of the disciplines of the sport: Pole vaulting and high-jumping. They are, to the best of my knowledge, the only sports that end in failure. Ross Goheen, the pole vaulting guru at Bramalea Secondary School mentioned that to me one day, and it's stuck to this very moment.
At any meet, I would spend as much time at the high jump pit as I could. I know most people would congregate at the finish line. BSS, my alma mater, always had the high seats at the finish line for events at Etobicoke Centennial Stadium. Even after graduation, I'd prefer to be with them, rather than up in the press box. But I'd abandon them in a New York second, once the high jumping would start.
Getting back to the incident that prompted the head on this post. Early in the 80's, I was at the Toronto Maple Leaf Indoor Games, held annually at the venerable old Gardens back then. The money-paying, attention-grabbing, international-filled events went at night. The afternoon was billed as the Provincial Indoor Championships. That particular afternoon, I spent most of time down in the infield. It was a great vantage point.
It was also a popular one. Security was not very tight, and getting into the infield was a very good deal. You'd be feet away from the runners pounding the boards of the banked track. I know racing car enthusiasts rave about the SOUNDS of their sport. If it's anything like the sounds at an indoor track meet, they might have something.
Naturally, small clusters of VIPs, night-time athletes and the media formed at various points. I found myself in a group centred around Mort Greenberg, the famed CBC cameraman, charitable fund-raiser supreme and one of the most knowledgeable sports journalists working in the biz. What, or who, Mort didn't know, didn't count.
The point of interest for our small group was an attempt by Natty Crooks to bust the Canadian high school indoor High Jump record. It was, at the time, a little bit over seven feet as I recall. And I believe the holder of the record at the time was Milt Ottey, who happened to be part of our little discussion group. I think Mark McKoy was there as well. And so was Ben Johnson.
If the court records are accurate, then Ben was already using stuff by then. In retrospect, a lot of signs were evident. His complexion was bad. He'd muscled up pretty well already. But his eyes might have been the biggest tell-tale. There was a yellowish tinge to them. Not glow-in-the-dark cat's yellow eyes. But not white. There I was, standing right next to the biggest story in the world about five years later. and I was clueless.
Ben did stutter, so he tended to smile, nod agreement and disagreement and laughed a little Peter Lorre-like laugh. It was a pretty amiable group of track fans, some of whom would become famous. Well, everybody but me.
The conversation was mostly directed at Ottey who was 'about to lose his record.' Milt took it pretty well. The reason was that everybody in the track world thought very highly of Crooks. If he'd lived to see his full adult life, Crooks might have grown up to be a Chris Bosh-like citizen. Tall, talented and liked by just about everybody. His passing was one of the great losses to the Canadian Track and Field scene.
And the funniest thing was that he failed that day. He didn't break the record. He won, and he failed. That's the uniqueness of the event. And I prefer to remember that day for his victory. Not for his failure. And certainly not for failing to detect within Ben Johnson a whole different kind of failure.
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