Fading images of Atlanta

As is all too common these days, my elderly father is stricken with dementia.

Now in his late 80’s, he’s physically fine but the short-term memory is largely shot. His long-term memory is also faulty, as is his situational awareness.

Sadly, this highly accomplished man’s intelligence and personality are now mostly shrouded in a near-constant state of confusion. It’s a cruel irony that he’s only partly able to appreciate the late-in-life accolades and honours coming his way.

Recently he was awarded an honourary doctorate by the University of Guyana for longstanding contributions to Caribbean music and culture. He’s been a performing songwriter for all of his life, writing mostly, as we all do, about things remembered. 

His name is Dave Martins. Just a few days after accepting the doctorate and giving a speech, he had no recollection of the occasion and insisted that it had not yet happened.

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The other day I sent this 8×10 photo of mine to the woman pictured in it, Margo Malowney. It should make a great memory refresher for her. She’d commented online recently that she had very few photos of herself representing Canada in beach volleyball at the Atlanta Olympic Games in the summer of 1996. 

I was present at the those same Games as a “specialized photographer,” accredited to shoot specifically at the venues for beach and indoor volleyball while serving as editor of the late, great True North Volleyball Magazine. 

I’d held onto the picture of Margo and many other prints for almost 30 years until I started getting hints that they should be shared to help enshrine memories and honour achievements. A few years ago, another of Canada’s beach volleyball competitors from Atlanta, Marc Dunn, also lamented a lack of photographic evidence from the event, so I sent him one my saved prints as well.

Photos sharpen the memories, of course. And what are we but our memories?

I recall vividly taking the shot of Margo on my first day at the pristine, brightly hued beach volleyball venue in suburban Atlanta. As she prepared to serve, I pulled back far enough to include the word Atlanta in the frame, making it a postcard picture of sorts. I also remember thinking that Margo might like a copy someday.

Sharing prints and rummaging through my Atlanta mementos brought back a flood of imagery from those few weeks in Georgia. Being there was a remarkable experience in many ways; a blessing, really. I was aged 30, still a bit young to fully appreciate what I was going through. Even so, when I returned I raved about it to all who would listen.

The emotion that I recall best is the inspiring atmosphere of human spirit that seemed to engulf the city, something that I imagine spontaneously forms at any Olympic Games (save, perhaps, for the recent ones plagued by Covid and foolish politics). 

Here are some other remarkable things I recall from Atlanta:

• Canada won an historic Olympic medal in beach volleyball when John Child and Marc Heese went on an incredible run and captured the bronze. I was courtside, shooting from the photo pit, as the two Toronto boys (both volleyball peers of mine) made history. My most poignant photo-making memory of all came during the medal ceremony when I captured the image that appeared on our magazine cover. It was an overwhelming moment but I kept my head well enough to intentionally frame some shots that left room at the top for the “Truth North” masthead.
  
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• During some down time at the Centennial Olympic Park, our magazine publisher Ted Graham and I were tooling around inside the Swatch pavilion. On display was a colourful Swatch “car” that looked and felt more like a futuristic golf cart. We climbed in for a few moments and sat on the hard plastic seats, where, for some levity, I let Ted know that I had just passed wind. Now laughing like schoolboys, we exited the vehicle and had walked just a few steps away when a commotion began. With startling swiftness, the then-president of the International Olympic Committee, Juan Antonio Samaranch, was ushered into the same Swatch car for a promotional photo, sitting exactly where, moments ago, I had gleefully farted.
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• Later in the Games, just hours after we had walked through it again, that same Centennial Park was bombed with something far more violent than a fart. During an open-air concert, a pipe bomb detonated, killing one person and injuring 111 more. The act was eventually attributed to “domestic terrorist” Eric Rudolph, years after Games security guard Richard Jewell was wrongly accused. When the bomb went off, I was heavy with drink, partying with hundreds of others inside the massive House of Blues music venue located nearby. James Brown was performing that night. Reports of the event spread and the place was abruptly emptied, although I was too inebriated to understand what was going on. When we spilled out onto the street, a news cameraman rushed past and knocked me to ground. I yelled obscenities at him before Ted shushed me, saying “They’re going to report on the bombing!”
  
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Of course I hang onto many more fading memories of Atlanta, some still vivid and others undoubtedly now corrupted by time and the frailties of the brain. As I age, the experience of being there becomes all the more valuable to me. That’s why I wrote some of it down here.

It’s a cruel irony that in spite of all the fond recollections and sharply focussed photographs I keep of others, I, too, have very few physical pictures of myself in action at the Atlanta Games.

Truth be told, I have none.

If you, by chance, happen to have such a photo, would you do me a small kindness and share it?