Breaking the Surface (19 page)

The one down-note for me was the boycott by the Soviet Union in response to the U.S. boycott in 1980. I wanted to see my Russian friends again, but in diving, my main competition came from other American divers and the Chinese.

Springboard was my first event, and from the start I was steady and focused, until the middle of the final round. Even though I tried to concentrate on nailing each individual dive, I got caught up in wanting to win the gold. After all those years this was my chance, and I had trouble not thinking about the final outcome.

Up until that point, everything was working so well that after each dive, I couldn’t wait to get to the surface of the pool to hear the reaction of the crowd. Every time I mounted the board to do my next dive, the twelve thousand people in the stadium cheered, “Greg! Greg! Greg!” as they waved little American flags. It was incredible.

Garvey, my teddy bear, helped calm me down. Between dives I would go for walks with him and listen to “Fame” and “Chariots of Fire” on my headphones.

Mary Jane had given me Garvey before the start of the springboard preliminaries. I got so attached to him that just before the springboard finals, when I realized I’d left Gar in my dorm room at the Olympic Village, Ron ran back to get him for me. All the reporters wanted to know how I came up with his name. It was easy. His name was tattooed on his butt.

Garvey wasn’t my first Olympic teddy bear. Back in 1976, just before the Olympics, Dr. Lee’s wife had given me a little Paddington Bear dressed in overalls. There was a note in his pocket that said “Take me to the Olympics,” which I did.

Garvey was my constant companion at the ’84 Olympics. He actually did give me strength, because he was the one safe person I could talk to. I never had to worry about him judging me or talking back. It’s amazing that a stuffed animal can give you strength, but it did. Many athletes use a small object to focus their concentration. Thanks to Mrs. Lee, my object of choice was a teddy bear, which for some reason the press and the public felt matched my personality.

With Garvey’s help, I got myself focused, and a few dives later, I won my first gold and broke 700 points—the first time anyone had done that on men’s springboard at the Olympics. When I got out of the water, Ron gave me a big hug and told me, “If anyone deserves to have a gold medal around his neck, it’s you.” My total score was 754.41, more than 92 points ahead of the second-place finisher. I’d really done it. After all that waiting and diving, I was an Olympic champion, a gold medalist.

It was an incredibly happy moment, but I was more relieved than anything. Now the pressure was off, and I didn’t have to worry about winning a gold in the upcoming platform competition, because I already had a gold medal. I still intended to win the second medal, but it was a different kind of pressure than before, because I’d already proven myself.

I knew the platform event was going to be more competitive, because the Chinese were always close on my tail. There was no way I was going to win by the same kind of margin as I did on springboard.

One of my goals at the Olympics was to break 700 on platform, which Ron had warned me would be very difficult to do. I would have to nail every dive and get at least 9s. I wasn’t sure I could do that, because one of my dives, an inward three-and-ahalf, wasn’t as strong as it needed to be. If I got 7s, I might win the gold but not break the record.

The morning of the finals, Ron and I went to the pool around nine to warm up. We always went through the same ritual. I’d do one of each of my dives and then I was done. When I got to the inward three-and-a-half, I ripped it—no splash at all. I usually had good entries, but not like that.

When I got to the side of the pool, Ron asked, “Where did that come from?” I shrugged my shoulders, because I really had no idea. Ron didn’t think I could do that again, especially in competition. But later that day, during the final round, I ripped it again, and I got all 9s. That’s when I started getting really scared, because with that kind of score, breaking 700 was within my reach. Now I had to hit all my other dives.

I had three more dives after that. I knew I could do those well enough to win the gold, so now I became terrified about the world record. I started second-guessing myself: “What if I come close to 700 and don’t make it?” “What if I get real close and I never get that close ever again?” And then, “What if I
do
break 700?” “What would I have to look forward to?” It was fear of success, fear of failure, and fear of just getting through it all mixed together.

Throughout the final round, Ron’s primary goal was to keep me relaxed and on an even keel. After each dive, I went back to one of the tents in the training area and Ron came back and talked to me. Sometimes I asked him if I was doing as well as I should, but most of the time we just joked around. Then Ron would leave me to myself, and I’d sit down with Gar and listen to music on my headphones until it was close to the time for my next dive.

My final dive of the Olympics was a reverse three-and-ahalf—the same dive that had killed Sergei Shalibashvili. I was scared, but not so much because of the danger. I was afraid I would blow my final dive. As I stood on the platform getting ready, I quickly glanced down at my mom in the stands and reminded myself that she would love me no matter how I did. Then I started playing “If You Believe” in my head, and I executed the dive.

Despite my last-minute jitters, I earned 92.82 on the dive, which gave me a total of more than 710 points. Bruce Kimball did an incredible job, and he came in second, 67.41 points behind me.

I was genuinely thrilled about winning that second gold medal. Today, when I watch the videotapes of my two awards ceremonies at the ’84 Olympics, I can easily tell which is which. I look relieved in the first one but not really excited, because I still had the platform competition to get through. But you can see that I really enjoyed the second awards ceremony, the one for platform. It was a dream come true. I won platform exactly the way every athlete dreams it; you want your best performance ever to be the one in the Olympic Games for which you win the gold medal. In Los Angeles, I don’t think I could have done much better.

Ron told me recently that it gave him chills to watch the old videotapes of my performance on platform. Years ago, Ron was more restrained than he is now. Back then all he told me was that I’d done well.

With the Olympics behind me, there was only one more diving event to compete in before I could take a break and hang up my Speedos, possibly for good. There was still Cynthia Potter’s record of twenty-eight national titles to be broken. I already had twenty-six, so I needed only three more wins to do it. Two weeks after the Olympics, I competed in the U.S. Nationals in Santa Clara and won my twenty-ninth title.

For the first time, I thought seriously about retiring from diving. I’d been diving for a long time and I’d had a number of injuries. I’d met my goal of winning the two golds, and it was time for me to think about doing something else with my life other than diving.

At the time, the other good reason to consider retiring was money. The existing rules made it impossible to retain my amateur status and take advantage of some of the opportunities from endorsements and commercials that were likely to come my way after the Olympics. I didn’t care about getting rich, but I wanted to make a decent living, especially after struggling for so many years. Shortly after the ’84 Olympics, in part because of my efforts, U.S. Diving revised the rules to allow divers the opportunity to earn money through commercials and endorsements and still maintain their amateur status.

There were good reasons to keep going after ’84. If I wanted to be remembered as one of the best divers of all time, there was a major record out there to be broken; no male diver had ever won
four
Olympic gold medals. And there were always more national and international competitions to be won. So if I chose not to retire, I could continue building my record. Besides, I didn’t have any clear direction, and setting my sights on ’88 would at least give me something to work toward.

Whether or not I retired, what I needed after the nationals was a break from diving and a vacation. I got the break from diving, but it was no vacation after the Olympics. It was an absolute whirlwind. I did appearances, exhibitions, and speaking engagements, one after the other.

I also did all kinds of other things, from appearing in an antidrug commercial to visiting the Children’s Hospital of Orange County, where I gave away the two dozen teddy bears that I’d received from fans during the Games. I even gave away Garvey. There was a seven-year-old boy named Rex Ryan, who was recovering from a burst appendix. His mom told me that whenever he got up on the diving board, he’d say, “Look, Mom, I’m Greg Louganis!” He was this cute blond-haired kid with blue eyes. The way I looked at it, Garvey gave me strength during the Games, and maybe he could give Rex strength, too. I was sorry to say good-bye to Garvey, but from the way Rex held him, he needed Garvey more than I did.

I would need more than teddy bears in the next four years.

I
THINK
I
GAVE
G
ARVEY
away too soon. After the 1984 Olympics, I moved in with Tom, whom I’d been seeing for about two years. By then, Tom was also my manager, and we would be together for the next four years.

Before I say another word about Tom (that’s not his real name), I have to explain how difficult it is for me to write about this part of my life. For one thing, many of the memories I have about Tom are painful to recall. I’m embarrassed by what I allowed Tom to do to me and by the fact that I stayed in a relationship with him for as long as I did. I’ve decided to write about this experience because I think it’s important for people to know what happens in an abusive relationship. Maybe I’ll save someone from what I’ve been through. Perhaps my story will give someone in an abusive relationship—straight or gay—the courage to find help and get out. If you’re in one now, get help now.

The first time I remember seeing Tom was in late 1982 at a bar in Orange County, just a few months after I broke up with Kevin. I was there with my friend Kris from the University of Miami, who was also my roommate. He’d moved to California to look for work, and we shared a house in Costa Mesa. At some point, I glanced across the room, saw Tom, and our eyes met.

Tom wouldn’t be on a magazine cover, but I found him attractive. He was bigger than I, which was something that had always appealed to me. He was about six feet tall, and he had broad shoulders and a good-size upper body. He told me he was a rower, which made sense given how he was built. He had brown hair and hazel eyes and he was about five years older than I was. I was twenty-two at the time.

Before Kris and I left the bar, he passed Tom my telephone number. I’d told Kris that I was interested in Tom and that I was too shy to go over and introduce myself, so he decided to help. The next day, Tom called and asked me if I’d like to come to his condo for dinner. I was delighted and said yes.

During the phone conversation, Tom reminded me that we’d met a year or two earlier at a mutual friend’s birthday party. I had been talking to some guy and smoking a cigarette. I was trying to blow the smoke away from the guy I was talking to and didn’t realize that I was blowing it right into Tom’s face. Tom tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Get that fucking cigarette out of my face.” He was nasty, and I didn’t feel like dealing with someone like that, so I left the party. Until Tom reminded me on the phone, I didn’t realize he was the one who’d cursed at me. I should have hung up right then, but I didn’t.

Tom prepared the whole dinner by himself—or so I thought—which impressed me. Although he wouldn’t let me help in the kitchen, he let me help clean up. It was then that I saw empty frozen-dinner boxes in the trash. Despite the boxes, I appreciated the effort and I was charmed.

Tom lived in a small one-bedroom condo in Laguna Beach, about a half hour south of where I lived. It was modest, but it was furnished with a number of antiques. Tom owned the place, so I was impressed, especially since I was still renting. He told me that he had gotten started by buying a fixer-upper, going in and tearing everything out, rebuilding, and then selling it. After he fixed up and sold the first one, he was able to buy the condo and his next fixer-upper.