I had only been with Marca for a year and three months when they told me that I was accredited to cover the Barcelona Olympic Games. In principle, it was about replicating a small part of the newsroom in the Press Center and being attentive to the Spanish athletes in case a Spanish medal fell in order to rush to the corresponding venue. For a simple soccer writer, with little experience, a candy.
My first memory was a memorable row with John Gaspartthen Vice President of FC Barcelonato the entire team of special envoys because Marca had not dedicated the entire front page of the newspaper to the opening ceremony and the iconic image of Antonio Rebollo lighting the Olympic cauldron after the flight of his arrow.
No one, not even the most optimistic, could imagine what was to come. Just started the competition, Myriam Blasco he had gotten into the judo semifinals and the first medal could fall. I rushed out and confess, with the utmost blush, that I had never seen a live judo match. I didn’t even know the scoring system. A colleague recommended that I ask for help from the Head of Press at the headquarters. “I need to write the best judo chronicle in this country and I don’t have the remotest idea”, I blurted out. I never thanked him for his diligence in getting me a professional judoka to explain to me what was happening on the tatami. The obverse of every great athlete is that behind him there is usually a story of overcoming to tell. Myriam had lost her coach in a motorcycle accident Sergio Cardell three weeks before the Games. He hesitated whether to participate even in Barcelona. I went to see the final match with Myriam’s parents and even today I get goosebumps remembering that emotion.
The endless memories are crowded: the massive press conference of Michael Jordan; the mother of the shooter who wanted to hit the journalists because for four years no one had interviewed him; the tremendous emotion of living during the football final the gold of Fermin Cacho in the 1,500; up early to get to the briefing of the COE at 7:30 in the morning and finish as exhausted as proud at 12 at night in Badalona; the frustration of touching history very closely, but not being able to live more live sports.
Over time we value the fortune of having lived through the event that changed Spanish sport and the city of Barcelona forever. It was a master’s degree in looking for life, in telling stories and feeling privileged to do what we like and what we don’t like. We learned to value specialists. I received several reprimands, the most notorious for escaping to see a while of the Dream Team at lunchtime and a single congratulations… for the judoca chronicle…
