BARCELONA ’92 OLYMPICS / DAY 16 : Dream Team Was Really Poetry in Motion

LA HISTORIA DEL EQUIPO DE SUENO

(Story of the Team of Dreams)

The sun was nearly blinding on a summer’s day in Spain.

Yet the stars shone even brighter who descended from the plane.

They waved their hands, they ducked their heads, blew kisses to the crowd.

“Hola! USA!” the Barcelonans cried aloud.

The smallest one, named Stockton, led the athletes down the ramp.

The tallest tourist, Robinson, winked at a mini-cam.

The youngest player, Laettner, heard the cheers their landing drew.

Barkley heard them, too, and told the kid: “They’re not for you.”

Children’s eyes grew wide as the Americans moved forward.

Pencils thrust from outstretched hands came toward the men like swords.

Jostling for position, paparazzi got their shots.

The crush was such, security’s precautions went for naught.

Seldom had a team been seen with skills and gifts so awesome.

“We haven’t won one game yet,” U.S. coaches tried to caution.

No one heard, no, not one word; the issue it was settled.

Our team would win, could phone it in, and go home golden medaled.

For after all, in basketball, what else should we be doing?

How could we lose with Drexler, Mullin, Bird, Malone and Ewing?

What little chance did rivals stand by keeping an appointment

With the USA? (They should run away! Would they even score a point, yet?)

In Games of old we went for gold and won most every game.

But then in Seoul our team went cold, and nothing stayed the same.

To the NBA went the USA with an offer it couldn’t refuse.

Have our best go along! Not a thing can go wrong! And America no longer will lose!

They even asked Air Jordan if he would make the flight to Spain.

“By the way,” one aide was heard to say, “does Mike require a plane?”

An invitation went to Jordan’s friend; Pippen was added for good measure.

And when Johnson was approached by the U.S. coach, Magic said: “It would be my pleasure.”

Many believed it would be perceived as the best team yet assembled.

They were fast, they were tall, these guys had it all, and opposing coaches trembled.

Patrick slammed! Magic ala-ka-zammed! And Charles said: “In your face!”

But their foes were all smiles all the way through the trials, saying: “Let’s play for second place.”

Well, the Dream Team had fun, and it usually won without getting its uniforms dirty.

For Jordan each game was as routine and tame as a 30-inch putt for a birdie.

It was easier making a basket than shaking off autograph seekers.

Big wins could be gotten even had Mike forgotten to lace up--or pack up--his sneakers.

On opening night, it was quite a sight as a parade formed in the arena.

There was Ireland and Iceland, Taipei and Thailand, Kenya and Argentina.

Oman and Sudan, Iran and Japan--and wait! Iraq and Kuwait!

But the greatest of hands from the fans in the stands would await the United States.

As they entered the ring, all from peasant to king rose to welcome the basketball matadors.

What a clamor they made for the U.S. of A. and its regal young good-will ambassadors.

There were whistles and yells from the athletes themselves who broke ranks for a handshake or photo.

Somalians went wild and Mongolians smiled--we were famous from Tonga to Togo.

The games soon commenced but were hardly intense as Angola the USA mangled.

Croatia was next but not much of a test as America’s stars remained spangled.

Though the Germans were game it was more of the same; Brazil they must beat then and did.

And soon came the Spanish who instantly vanished and were last seen holed up near Madrid.

By 40! By 50! The Americans led, stampeding the length of the court.

Had ever a team like this ever been seen in the annals of popular sport?

From Rome to Firenze there built such a frenzy, it practically bordered on mania.

From Bonn to Berlin, TV viewers tuned in just to see our boys lick Lithuania.

Every boy, every girl in the civilized world seemed to value these talents so vast.

They cheered Malone’s toughness and jeered Barkley’s roughness, said “Bravo!” to each Magic pass.

Drexler delighted and Ewing excited the people of Barcelona.

And Jordan and Pippen, well, Bulls such as these should be running the streets of Pamplona.

They won the gold medal and then tried to get all the players to pose one last time side by side.

Michael stuck out his tongue but from oldest to young they lined up, by request, left to right.

And sooner or later from Larry to Laettner they stood still for a portrait as one.

Then with one final toast each man said, “Adios!” and went home, for their work here was done.