Olympic Gold

By John McWilliams | Wednesday, October 2, 1996

I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia. Like most other Atlantans, I couldn't wait for the 1996 Olympic games to roll into town. Freshman year was great and all, but frankly I couldn't wait to return back home. This was the biggest event to happen to Atlanta since General Sherman's soldiers burnt the city 132 years ago.

The first thing I noticed about these Olympic games was the proliferation of Olympic advertising. Mug shots of Michael Johnson surrounded me. Shaq in his multi-million dollar L.A. Lakers jersey was all over the TV. And who can ever forget Coca-Cola. If the Olympics were a postman, then Coca-Cola was there to bite its leg. Coca-Cola showered the city with advertising, and even sponsored its own Olympic park near the Centennial Olympic park. I think it was a capital offense even to mention the word 'Pepsi' within 10 miles of the Olympic village.

But it was fascinating to see companies bitterly fight for official Olympic licensing. Everyone wanted their product to be associated with the Olympic games, to get in on the act.

So did I, and with help from my friends, I decided to become an Official Olympic vendor. Olympic fever had struck.

Atlanta may have been ready for the Olympic games, but not for its vendors.
The line for the vending licenses, in front of the Atlanta Police Department, covered two city blocks. It took three days, 36 hours combined, standing in line to get my vending license. Those 36 hours were no laughing matter. The hot sun was unbearable.

Nonetheless, I was among the lucky ones. There were some unfortunate souls who camped in front of the Atlanta Police Department for five consecutive days to get their vending licenses. The scene of makeshift tents in front of the police building looked like a refugee camp.

My friends and I were undaunted. Besides, we were more than happy with the location assigned to us: Elizabeth Street, close to Atlanta's historical district on Auburn Avenue. We reasoned that a wealth of Olympic spectators would visit the district. This would translate into a whole lot of money for us.

So we made plans to sell the official drinking water of the Olympic games, Crystal Springs. Tired but enthusiastic, we set up our booth the day before opening ceremonies at six a.m. It didn't take too long to put up, and we proudly displayed our Crystal Springs Water posters. With smiles on our faces, we eagerly anticipated the crowds. After all, we were official vendors of the official water — what could go wrong?

Turned out our early estimations were a little off. During the eighteen days of the Olympics games, we only sold twenty 16oz bottles of water. Now this left us scratching our heads in disbelief. Other vendors in various areas of the city did
well. How could we do so poorly with the amount of visitors in Atlanta?

It urns out that the ACOG (the Atlanta Committee on Olympic Games) promised to block off the Auburn historical district to automobiles, making the streets accessible to pedestrians. They neglected to do that.

I tried my best to sell my water to the moving cars. When one car moved along the street, I ran along side it screaming at the driver to buy the Olympic water. Some cars drove slowly, and I was able to move in front of them and show off the water. My cronies just laughed at me as I risked my life.

Sitting at the water booth may not have produced any money for us, but it did produce something we really needed: fun. The excess water we did not sell (and believe me, we did have plenty of it) went into our water guns. We not only drank the Olympic water, we basically bathed in it. We naturally teased all the girls that passed by our booth. Unbelievably, most of them ignored us or even shouted words I dare not repeat.

Through all the excitement, I missed the Olympic bombing of July 26 by an hour and twenty minutes. Our booth was around that area, but not at the Centennial Olympic Park, the place of the bomb. I definitely would have caught the action if I had stayed longer. All the commotion, though, proved to be a one night affair, and we were back to work the next day.

When the Olympics ended, my 'business associates' and I shut down the water booth for good and parted company. As I walked to the subway station at midnight, I wondered to myself how these Olympic games would change me. I was now broke. The thought of money just clouded my head as I entered on a crowded subway car. I could not help thinking about how much debt I'd accumulated. So for the rest of the summer I had to work doubletime as a cook, first throwing pepperoni on pizzas at Pizza Hut, and then broiling fish lunches at Captain D's. My quest for Olympic Gold went from boom to bust, but it was a summer I won't soon forget.

Olympic Gold

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