This Holy Cow Town Did Keep Everyone Hobbin and a’Bobbin’

CALGARY, Canada —  Last one out of town, turn off the flame. So long, Calgary. So long from Tomba la Bomba, Eddie the Eagle, Prince Albert, Matti Nukes, Katarina and Ekaterina, bubbly Bonnie Blair and breezy Brian Boitano. Das vedanya from Viacheslav Fetisov and sayonara from Midori Ito. We’re gone. We’re history. Now get outta here, you Canuckleheads.

So long, also, from the hobbin’ and a’bobbin’ Jamaican bobsled team, and from Guam’s biathlon team, and from the Puerto Rican luge team, and from Guatemala’s ski team, and from the Perea brothers of Dallas--Luis, Jorge, Roberto and Jose Eduardo Jr.-- Quatro Amigos, who left their jobs as waiters in a Tex-Mex restaurant, bought a used sled, painted it black, christened it with a Mexican flag made from colored tape, and represented their native land in an event Fernando Valenzuela probably never tried as a kid, the bobsled.

Calgary, we kiss you goodby. We will miss your Dudley Do-right impersonators, who always get their man, and your exotically dressed women, who often do. We will miss your “ya-hoos” at the hockey arena and all the other things you talk aboot, eh?

We will remember a Czech hockey player named Vlk, who somewhere along the line got disemvoweled.

We will remember Captain Canada, some dude dressed in a white, Superman-like costume with a blue maple leaf on the front, who rode through the public square atop a long-horned steer.

We will remember the slope opera of Pam Fletcher, a U.S. skier who missed out on the Olympics because she broke a bone in her leg bumping into a civilian, and the ice escapade of Caryn Kadavy, who, after years of underdressed practice on chilly rinks, missed out on the Olympics because she caught the flu.

We will remember Howdy and Hidy, the Winter Olympic polar bears, and the unintentional sexism of the Calgary organizing committee’s computer information system, in which the official duty of Howdy, the male, was listed as “mascot,” while alongside the name of Hidy, the female, were the words: “No function.”

We will remember Dave Peterson, the U.S. hockey coach, who also should have been listed in the computer under: “No function.”

We will remember Debi Thomas, who deserved better.

We will remember Dan Jansen, who deserved much better.

We will remember short-track speed skating, roller derby on ice, which had everything but Joanie Weston, Bay Area Bombers and jammers.

We will remember Alberto Tomba, alias Tomba la Bomba, the playboy Italian skier, doing everything but pinching Katarina Witt to get a date with her after the figure skating.

We will remember Witt, guzzling a beer at the blood-doping center, giggling and mugging and doing everything but chug-a-lugging after the figure skating.

We will remember Eddie (the Eagle) Edwards, one tiny leap for mankind.

We will remember Matti (Nukes) Nykanen, the Flying Finn, who, if you ever met him, would make it immediately obvious to you why everybody invites him to go take a flying jump.

We will remember His Serene Highness Albert Alexandre Louis Pierre Grimaldi of Monaco, whose sled should have been called Prince Albert in a Can.

We will remember Frank (Howdy) Gifford and Kathie Lee (Hidy) Gifford.

These were the sights and sounds, the names and games of the XV Winter Olympics, which, over the course of 16 days, were the second-biggest story in all the world, right behind lights at Wrigley Field. More people watched ABC-TV in the United States in just these past 2 1/2 weeks than probably did during the past 2 1/2 years, which is understandable, considering “The Colbys” and “Life With Lucy.”

The Olympics brought all kinds of people together. The U.S. curling team included a 51-year-old man and a girl who in January turned 15. The disabled skiing competition included young amputees and a gold medalist from Norway who was blind. That Puerto Rico luge team? Well, it was made up of a 31-year-old fireman and a 40-year-old physicist.

Seba Johnson, 14, wanted only two things. She wanted to ski for the Virgin Islands team in the Olympics--matter of fact, she wanted to be the Virgin Islands team in the Olympics--and she wanted the United States to recognize her as an ally, a friend, an unofficial teammate. She wanted some financial aid, because on the Islands, nobody was giving her any.

An official of the U.S. ski team said he wrote Seba to tell her of a $6 million “Friendship Fund,” established from some of the profits from the 1984 L.A. Summer Olympics, but Seba and her mother never got the letter. They ended up having to scrape for money themselves, and Suzanne Johnson, speaking for her daughter, said she resented the Americans, because “they don’t want to recognize the Virgin Islands as being part of the United States.”

So, without publicity, while Debi Thomas was very publicly becoming the first black ever to win a Winter Olympics medal, Seba Johnson became the first black Alpine skier in Olympic history. Doug Williams, Debi Thomas, make room. You have company.

So long, then, to everybody, old or young, gold or bronze. So long to the figure skaters, who skate to “Carmen,” but would still look good skating to the theme from “Gilligan’s Island.” So long to the hockey players, who proved that you don’t have to punch anybody’s teeth loose to keep the game interesting. So long to the lugers, who proved--what? Something.

Happy trails, Calgary. Catch you later, Canada. We’re outta here. We’re going to Disneyland!