Published: Sunday, December 13, 2009
Reporter becomes part of Harding-Kerrigan story
Long before figure skater Tonya Harding played the villainess in the most shocking tabloid drama — Tonya vs. Nancy — in Olympic history, we reporters had her measure.
To know Tonya was not to like her. Off the ice, she had a perpetual scowl on her face and a caustic remark on her lips. She would sooner lie as look at you. I once saw her sneaking a butt outside an arena only to hear her, minutes later, deny publicly that she ever smoked.
Still, it was a huge leap from smoking and surliness to the mayhem perpetrated against Nancy Kerrigan in Detroit’s Cobo Hall on the eve of the 1994 national championship to select the U.S. Olympic team for Lillehammer. As Kerrigan lay helpless on the floor — her knee bashed by a metal rod — her assailant smashed through plexiglass to escape the arena. She could only weep and wonder: “Why me?”
Reporters had their suspicions about the answer to her plaintive question. Soon after we learned of the vicious assault that would knock Kerrigan, the reigning national champion and Harding’s chief rival, out of the competition, reporters were wondering aloud: where was Tonya at the time of the attack?
Harding turned out have an alibi. But that would hold little sway with the public once it was discovered that the attack was orchestrated by her ex-husband, Jeff Gillooly, with whom Tonya still lived in Portland. Gillooly and some stooges would be sentenced to prison for the attack. Though he would insist that Harding had approved the plan, she would ultimately be convicted only of hindering the FBI investigation and sentenced to three years probation.
But before it all unraveled, the nefarious scheme had worked out perfectly. Harding, though, at 23, a year younger than Kerrigan, was already on the downside of her skating career. Once a standout jumper — she was the first American woman to land a triple Axel — Harding had outperformed a future Olympic champion, Kristi Yamaguchi, to win a national title three years earlier. But in ’92 she slipped to bronze and in ’93 didn’t even medal.
A year later Harding was battling asthma and looked out of shape as she arrived in Detroit for her Olympic bid. If the triple Axel was necessary for her to contend, she appeared headed — if her recent performances were any indication — for a crash and a seat in front of the TV for the Lillehammer Games.
But with Kerrigan suddenly sidelined, the pressure was lifted. A pair of future national champs remained in the field, but they were still unpolished teens: Michelle Kwan, at 13 competing in her first senior nationals; and 16-year-old Nicole Bobek. Harding didn’t have to risk any big tricks, as she breezed to the national title and claimed one of the two prized — and potentially lucrative — ladies’ berths on the U.S. figure skating team.
While Harding was celebrating her triumph, a U.S. Figure Skating Association committee was meeting backstage to make its Olympic selections. It had a problem: what to do about Kerrigan, the only genuine gold-medal contender among the American ladies.
And that is when — for the first and only time in my life — I stumbled into a small role in a story I was covering. I was wandering the bowels of Cobo Hall awaiting the decision when I bumped into USFSA President Claire Ferguson.
Ferguson was a charming lady with whom I had become friendly the previous year when we were seated together at a birthday party during the world championships in Prague. On this night, however, she appeared very distressed. She confided that the selection committee was stymied; there was no provision in the rules allowing it to select anyone who had not competed — regardless of the reason — in the national championship.
Figure-skating folks are more creatures of the rink than of the real world. They know all the jumps, spins and spirals, but can be remarkably unsophisticated about matters beyond the arena walls. I thought I should warn Ferguson what would happen if they penalized Kerrigan for her terrible misfortune — if they, in effect, blamed the victim. “You will be crucified in the media,” I said. “And you will wind up looking like fools when you reverse yourselves. Go find yourself a rule and put Nancy on the team.”
Soon after, the USFSA convened a press conference for its announcement. Flashing a big smile, Ferguson said the committee — in accordance with “the famous rule 5.05” — had awarded the second spot on the Olympic team to Nancy Kerrigan. I smiled too.
To know Tonya was not to like her. Off the ice, she had a perpetual scowl on her face and a caustic remark on her lips. She would sooner lie as look at you. I once saw her sneaking a butt outside an arena only to hear her, minutes later, deny publicly that she ever smoked.
Still, it was a huge leap from smoking and surliness to the mayhem perpetrated against Nancy Kerrigan in Detroit’s Cobo Hall on the eve of the 1994 national championship to select the U.S. Olympic team for Lillehammer. As Kerrigan lay helpless on the floor — her knee bashed by a metal rod — her assailant smashed through plexiglass to escape the arena. She could only weep and wonder: “Why me?”
Reporters had their suspicions about the answer to her plaintive question. Soon after we learned of the vicious assault that would knock Kerrigan, the reigning national champion and Harding’s chief rival, out of the competition, reporters were wondering aloud: where was Tonya at the time of the attack?
Harding turned out have an alibi. But that would hold little sway with the public once it was discovered that the attack was orchestrated by her ex-husband, Jeff Gillooly, with whom Tonya still lived in Portland. Gillooly and some stooges would be sentenced to prison for the attack. Though he would insist that Harding had approved the plan, she would ultimately be convicted only of hindering the FBI investigation and sentenced to three years probation.
But before it all unraveled, the nefarious scheme had worked out perfectly. Harding, though, at 23, a year younger than Kerrigan, was already on the downside of her skating career. Once a standout jumper — she was the first American woman to land a triple Axel — Harding had outperformed a future Olympic champion, Kristi Yamaguchi, to win a national title three years earlier. But in ’92 she slipped to bronze and in ’93 didn’t even medal.
A year later Harding was battling asthma and looked out of shape as she arrived in Detroit for her Olympic bid. If the triple Axel was necessary for her to contend, she appeared headed — if her recent performances were any indication — for a crash and a seat in front of the TV for the Lillehammer Games.
But with Kerrigan suddenly sidelined, the pressure was lifted. A pair of future national champs remained in the field, but they were still unpolished teens: Michelle Kwan, at 13 competing in her first senior nationals; and 16-year-old Nicole Bobek. Harding didn’t have to risk any big tricks, as she breezed to the national title and claimed one of the two prized — and potentially lucrative — ladies’ berths on the U.S. figure skating team.
While Harding was celebrating her triumph, a U.S. Figure Skating Association committee was meeting backstage to make its Olympic selections. It had a problem: what to do about Kerrigan, the only genuine gold-medal contender among the American ladies.
And that is when — for the first and only time in my life — I stumbled into a small role in a story I was covering. I was wandering the bowels of Cobo Hall awaiting the decision when I bumped into USFSA President Claire Ferguson.
Ferguson was a charming lady with whom I had become friendly the previous year when we were seated together at a birthday party during the world championships in Prague. On this night, however, she appeared very distressed. She confided that the selection committee was stymied; there was no provision in the rules allowing it to select anyone who had not competed — regardless of the reason — in the national championship.
Figure-skating folks are more creatures of the rink than of the real world. They know all the jumps, spins and spirals, but can be remarkably unsophisticated about matters beyond the arena walls. I thought I should warn Ferguson what would happen if they penalized Kerrigan for her terrible misfortune — if they, in effect, blamed the victim. “You will be crucified in the media,” I said. “And you will wind up looking like fools when you reverse yourselves. Go find yourself a rule and put Nancy on the team.”
Soon after, the USFSA convened a press conference for its announcement. Flashing a big smile, Ferguson said the committee — in accordance with “the famous rule 5.05” — had awarded the second spot on the Olympic team to Nancy Kerrigan. I smiled too.
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