They Still Carry a Torch for Babis

It is 8 a.m. and the sky is bright blue, almost startlingly so, on this Friday, the first day of the rest of their lives for the Greek people who are about to put on their second modern Olympics. They have waited only 108 years.

The heat that will arrive, like somebody opening the door at noon in the Everglades, is still a few hours away. Here, at the foot of the Acropolis, there is peace and quiet and a slight rustle of anticipation.

TV announcers from Greek stations pace, rehearsing questions while answering voices coming through earpieces. An elderly man, cane resting against his knee, sits on a bench under a shade tree.

On the road above that winds from the Acropolis, the sounds of motorcycles and footsteps blend and grow. The announcers straighten their collars, the elderly man leans forward. And around the curve, flaming torch in his right hand, support runners on each side, comes Haralambos Holidis. In this country, he is known as Babis, which is both a nickname and a term of endearment.

Babis Holidis, a two-time bronze-medal winner in Greco-Roman wrestling for Greece, is the first torch runner, No. 001, on the final day of the Olympic torch relay. It is a day that will end at the Olympic Stadium, with the ceremonial beginning of fireworks, dancing and theatrics.

For Babis to be the first on this last day is a huge honor. He is as proud as he is square. Even if you didn’t know, the shoulders and the jaw would say that this man once wrestled or lifted weights. Were he American, he would have been made a linebacker at 14.

His 300-meter trip ends with the passing of the flame to the next runner, and in seconds, the flame departs with No. 002 as Holidis turns to meet his public.

There are pictures to be taken with friends, with fans. He is handed the torch he ran with. The flame is gone, but its memories are forever. His son, Demitri, 5, and his daughter, Eleni, 3, get their turns to pose and smile. So does his wife, Violette. The fans and friends circle him with loyalty, love. As he awaits a TV interview, a woman steps forward and wipes the sweat off his forehead.

He says he is thankful for this honor and is proud of his country. The interviewer turns to get reaction from the crowd and one man shouts into the microphone that Greece will win all the medals. She turns to another, who tells her that, while the rest of the world was cavemen, Greeks were building the Acropolis. Greek pride oozes. Babis Holidis listens and nods.

It is not happenstance that he has run first on the last day. In 1984 in Los Angeles, his bronze in the 125-pound category was one of only two medals won by Greece. Four years later, in Seoul, he won the same medal in the same weight category. This time, it was the only medal Greece won.

He is 48 now, a police officer whose Olympic deeds have allowed him to remain among the country’s leading celebrities. He remembers Los Angeles both fondly, and with regrets.

“I was not lucky there,” he says. “I should have won the gold medal, but there was a tie in a match and a Japanese wrestler [Masaki Eto] was rested when he got to wrestle me. I had only 20 minutes’ rest.”

But when he came home, he says, he was a hero.

“There was a parade and I rode in an open car.”

He says that his second Olympic medal in Seoul was not as exciting as his first, because it wasn’t his first. And he says that, in his day, to win an Olympic medal for his country was so important and so difficult because there weren’t the chances to travel and compete that there are now.

But that doesn’t mean his fame has diminished.

“Even all the rocks know me here,” he says.

It is quieter now. The TV announcers have moved on, waiting for interviews down the road with Nos. 006 and 007. Babis Holidis is talking about where he will build in his home, a place where he can display his medals -- and now his torch.

It is starting to get warmer. The old man on the bench has nodded off.