He’s Difficult to Overlook at Barcelona

The first thing that catches your eye is Carl.

Look, it’s Carl!

There he is again!

Over there! Carl!

Here a Carl, there a Carl. A colossal cardboard Carl, at least 20 feet high, gazes down from an aeropuerto billboard. A more or less life-sized Carl illustrates an electronic-equipment advertisement, right beside the “Batman Vuelve” poster inside the Metro subway station. A thumbnail-sized Carl graces the upper right-hand corner of a magazine cover at the Macy’s-like El Corte Ingle’s department store, a few aisles from the Carl cut-out coloring books. It’s a cavalcade of Carls. Carl-o-rama. Barcelona has practically everything but a Carl’s Jr. hamburger joint.

Carl, Carl everywhere.

Not a bad little welcome to Spain for America’s second-leading long jumper. Which is what Carl Lewis is, if you want to get technical about it. He is not in the Olympic 100 meters. He is not in the 200, either. To the best of our knowledge, he will not be in any relays.

The sole duty of Carl Lewis in the XXV Summer Games, when you get right down to it, is to accompany world record-holder Mike Powell arm-in-arm to the Estadi Olimpic long-jump sand pile, where he will do his level best to leapfrog over Powell into even greater fame and lore.

Sometimes one forgets what a mega-jock Carl is elsewhere in the world. In a certain sense he is to sport what Josephine Baker was to the stage, or what Jerry Lewis is to the screen; that is, more revered in Europe than in his own native land.

In the United States, should one inquire of a typical tube-glued sports observer or of an average school child, “How do you think Carl will do at the Olympics?” the response is likely to be a positive one, but principally because the question is presumed to regard Karl Malone, the basketball player. So turns the wide world of sports. Carl isn’t even America’s favorite Carl any more.

And yet . . .

A professional basketballer maintains an identity of his own, separate and apart from all this. Who but Carl Lewis, conversely, better typifies pure athletic heroism, genuine idealism and Yankee know-how? Twice he has been the flat-out star of the show. He is the human cannonball of the Olympic five-ring circus. He flies through the air with the greatest of knees.

And who better than Carl Lewis provides more persuasive evidence that the race does not necessarily go to the swiftest? After all, he beat Ben Johnson even when he didn’t beat Ben Johnson. He retained his title as the world’s fastest human in 1988 by running second . That is what makes Carl a world-beater. That’s what makes Carl, well, Carl.

And, should he be hailed afar greater than near, so be it. Occasionally one cannot appreciate art without traveling abroad; hey, that’s what Louvres are for. It also could well be that this is what Lewises are for; Carl or, heck, even Jerry. The former is 31 and slowly slowing. He can still run, but he can’t hide.

By Atlanta, come 1996, the prime times of Carl Lewis will be available strictly on records and tapes. This is not some artist who has one last landscape to sketch or one more picture to shoot that might prove superior to all others previous. This is it. Barcelona and over and out. Lewis may continue to leap and lope for months or even years to come, but by the next Olympics, unless his legs have more life in them at 35 than your average world’s fastest human (and they might), Carl will not be putting his pedals to any more gold medal. The spirit will be willing but the flesh isn’t fresh.

Which does not mean we have to bump him from his pedestal. Lewis belongs on one. Whether in the Coliseum or Korea, the man ran and jumped to glory and gold galore. Carl Lewis didn’t carry America’s torch; he was America’s torch.

Oh, OK, did he once bypass an attempt at a long-jump record because he was too pooped to hop? Yes, Carl did. Did he once seem a tad aloof, or perhaps a wee bit precious in that leather wardrobe only a Catwoman could love? Yes, Carl did. And did his personal promoter suggest that Carl’s future would find him rubbing elbows more with the Michael Jacksons of life than with the Michael Powells? Yes, he did, but remember this: Here in Europe, as well as in Asia, the popularity of Carl Lewis is somewhat closer to that of Jackson, the singer, than to Powell, the springer.

There has been talk of late that Lewis is not well, that a nagging sinus condition sapped his strength before the U.S. Olympic trials, that his well-being remains in question even now, as Barcelona beckons. Carl’s body is his jousting steed. He feeds it, exercises it, pampers it and rarely tampers with it, unlike others in his chosen field, including Ben (Better Running Through Chemistry) Johnson. If he is less than perfectly fit, it would not be altogether shocking if Lewis, at the last second, decided to sit this one out.

Ordinarily, the last second is when Lewis wins his medals. Such would not be the case here in Spain, where Carl’s feats are to be measured, not clocked. One could, conceivably, end up seeing more of Carl Lewis on billboards than in actual action. Better look fast, then, because there he goes--Carl vuelve!-- and he might not pass this way again.