For Moment, Small Town Tastes Glory

The airport has two gates--one for departures, one for arrivals. There are six Iberia Airlines counters, all unoccupied in the middle of a Friday afternoon. There is no other airline.

There are two women with mops, two Coke machines, two restrooms, two TV monitors for listing outgoing and incoming flights--nothing is listed--one rental car booth--empty--one tourist-information booth--empty--and not one tourist.

No, not one.

One hundred tourists.

Then 200. Then 400.

Then cops to hold them back.

Then soldiers to back up the cops.

And suddenly, at a remote and practically sleeping little airstrip 90 miles from Barcelona along the Mediterranean coast, there was activity bordering on chaos.

All because the Americans were coming in for a landing.

It was the first touchdown in Spain for the star-spangled U.S. Olympic basketball team, which left Monaco in mid-day by chartered jet. The arrival had been greatly anticipated, but the exact hour and destination had not been publicized.

Adam, Tony, Kurt and Christopher, four college-aged guys from Ashley, Mich., were among the first to come running.

“We’re on vacation and we’re lying around swimming,” Adam Palmatier said. “And suddenly they say, ‘They’re coming to the airport!’ ”

Who was coming?

“Magic and Michael and them,” Tony Gaston said.

Who said so?

“Oh, some 14-year-old,” Kurt Densmore said.

The kid’s information was solid, though, so Adam, Tony, Kurt and Christopher Sosebee stopped rapping about vacation and girls and what their classes were going to be like at Michigan State, climbed into a car and, to use a word suited to the occasion, vamoosed.

They happened to have an American flag, brought it along to Reus--pronounced “ray-ooze”--and staked out a good spot near the gate. Because they were three hours early and the airport was as tranquil as a library, the guys entertained a crazy thought that they might even have the Olympians to themselves.

Then the blitz hit.

Families came, lugging kids and camcorders. A busload of tourists pulled up and out sprang dozens of senior citizens in a variety of where-we’ve-been T-shirts.

“I can’t believe I’m going to see Magic Jordan!” one woman said.

Yes, she was, and Michael Johnson, too.

Nahum Priego Ferrando, a boy from Tarragona in his late teens, came appropriately costumed. He wore a replica of the USA No. 9 uniform Michael Jordan will be wearing Sunday when the team opens play against Angola.

“Friend in America send me,” Nahum said.

Minutes later, more adults and children came streaming into the airport, wearing an amazing variety--considering the setting--of Michael-or-Magic, Lakers-or-Bulls clothing and merchandise.

Security forces also materialized in greater numbers. Ropes were produced to cordon off the crowd, inside and outside the airport.

Onlookers jostled for position. Every coffee table inside the terminal was carried off from its rightful place to the “Llegadas” gate, where the U.S. squad would be arriving, to be used as a stepladder for a better view.

Because of the arrival’s location and lack of advance publicity, few journalists were present. Some who were, including photographers bearing official credentials from the Olympics and a second set insisted upon by the airport’s security desk, were physically removed by police and soldiers from vantage points they had maintained for several hours.

Blame it on Reus.

The basketball team’s bus pulled up. The MGM Grand luxury jet landed. Chris Mullin descended the jetway with an armload of sleeping baby. Karl Malone stepped off the plane and he photographed the scene. Two players wore shirts plugging a Spike Lee movie. Charles Barkley wore baggy shorts, Larry Bird wore loafers without socks.

Looking tired as a discount tour group, they filed through the excited throng with their families, saying nothing.

Magic Johnson was the only one who so much twitched a facial muscle. “Ma-jeek! Ma-jeek!” voices called out, and Johnson responded with his trademark smile, nodding to and fro, giving a handshake or two. Jordan, called to frequently, kept his eyes low and walked on by.

It was like a Hollywood premiere had come to Iowa. Hundreds of smalltowners gawked and cheered, looking astounded that some of the Olympic stardust had spilled over from Barcelona. They clutched basketballs, scraps of paper and autograph books, thrusting them forward.

Not one player signed a thing or spoke a word.

They boarded the bus and drove off behind a police escort, staring inexpressively through the windows. Nahum Priego Ferrando ran alongside the bus in his mock Michael Jordan jersey, waving. He stopped running and said: “Well, there he go.”