Confession Is 7 Years Late

He hugged a teddy bear. This was one of a great many things that separated Greg Louganis from your average athlete. On occasion during his time as the world’s greatest diver, he would complete a successful splashdown, emerge from the aqua as triumphant as Neptune with his trident, towel himself dry, then clutch a small stuffed animal to his chest as judges tabulated his scores.

More often than not, we saw Louganis literally come up smiling. He even did so, unaccountably, on that fateful Monday afternoon of Sept. 19, 1988, as we observed from see-level high above a swimming pool in Seoul, South Korea, recoiling in horror when Greg’s skull grazed the edge of the springboard, hearing the unforgettable twick noise he made on the way down.

I looked up a wire-service dispatch Thursday from that day’s event.

“He was smiling by the time he had walked to the divers’ rest area,” the sixth paragraph began. “ . . . He immediately went to the doctor to have his head stitched and returned 30 minutes later, about five minutes before his last dive.

“Amused at all the fuss, the American mouthed his thanks to those wishing him luck before locking himself into a cocoon of concentration on the board for his final dive, a reverse 1 1/2 somersault with 3 1/2 twists.”

Which he did, flawlessly.

How vividly we remember the admiration we felt, upon leaving that bloodstained blue pool of Seoul, for the courage and fortitude of Greg Louganis, a young man teddy-bear tender on the outside but strong and resolute on the inside, able, in a manner common to Magic Johnson and precious few others, to keep grinning through any circumstance, whether it be infirmity or victory. We marveled at Greg’s greatness that day.

But now we know what he knew then. What this “amused at all the fuss” American knew but was keeping to himself, when he must have felt like screaming.

He should have gone ahead and screamed. He should have shouted out the truth, with whatever bravery it took. For instead, we cannot help but wonder, more than a little appalled, what possibly could have persuaded Greg Louganis to continue as though nobody, not the doctor who sutured him, not the divers who succeeded him, had any business knowing what he knew, that he was HIV-positive with contaminated blood. Lord, what a lethal secret this was.

Our prayers go out to Greg, who at long last is revealing that for something approximating seven years, he has existed with the viral specter as his constant companion. Magic in the water, now Magic beyond, the smile never leaves his face even as he breaks the news to Barbara Walters, who has built up no immunity to news so bad, that technically yes, AIDS is indeed what he has. His new book will detail everything he has been through.

Better late than never? In most cases, such as Arthur Ashe’s, this axiom certainly would apply. Louganis, though, is years late in acknowledging the potential danger to which he exposed others during his final competitions, no matter how slight those risks might have been estimated scientifically. Private lives kept private may be understandable, but it also is sinful to be so inconsiderate of the lives of others.

Louganis would have been shunned. It would have been a terrible time in his life, limiting the opportunities that would come along later, the off-Broadway shows and the theatrical ambitions. He desired and deserved these rewards, having been peerless among athletes in his chosen field and fully trained for a very public life thereafter. Greg is a born entertainer. He has personality galore.

I was in Indianapolis for a sports festival one day when a contemporary of Greg’s, his top American rival, Bruce Kimball, began his comeback from a serious automobile accident caused by someone else’s drunk driving. When that competition was over and Louganis was the victor, he magnanimously tugged Kimball to the high pedestal so they could wave to the audience as one. This was among the last pleasant memories for Kimball, whose own drunk driving later resulted in two deaths.

That day in South Korea, the water barely rippled as Louganis gained an eight-point lead through eight rounds. He flew from that springboard like an eagle, contorted his hard body on the way down as rigidly as a Swiss Army knife. With his vaguely Polynesian features, more than once Greg Louganis resembled one of those island divers, soaring off a cliff in search of pearls.

It was the preliminary stage of a two-day Olympic event. While doing a reverse 2 1/2 somersault, Louganis misjudged his distance from the board, which fortunately had flexibility. Had it been a platform, the possibilities are unimaginable.

I felt such relief that day that Greg was safe. I had no idea, and neither did virtually everyone else, that he was not. Seven years is a long time to live with both a terrible truth and a terrible lie.

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