SEOUL, South Korea — She ties her shoes and grabs her tennis racket. She squeezes in the elevator behind two fencers and an East German handball player.
Chris Evert.
Olympian.
She walks among swimmers and Greco-Roman wrestlers. She waits behind cyclists and discus throwers. She asks the cafeteria lady to hold the gravy on those potatoes, thank you.
Chris Evert.
Olympian.
SEOUL, South Korea — He was the Olympian who went bump in the night.
“Did you see that?” someone whispered.
“Did you see that?” someone shrieked.
SEOUL, South Korea — They never found the men who killed Damon Hembrick. Whoever did it robbed him and stabbed him and threw his body in the street in front of the McDonald’s where he was working. And they got away. This was two years ago, they are still out there somewhere, and Anthony Hembrick, Damon’s older brother, thinks about them all the time, even here, at the Olympic Games.
SEOUL, South Korea — The door swings open on weak hinges, and we step inside, tracking mud from the empty lot.
“Excuse us. Is anyone here?” the translator asks. The house is old and silent and it smells of stale food.
“Excuse us. Hello? Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello? Hel-
“Who is there?”
SEOUL, South Korea — So let me tell you what happened yesterday. I mean today. I mean . . . tomorrow. No. Wait. Do I? Forget it. It wasn’t that good a story.
Welcome to Korea, home of the Summer Olympics, where you never really know what time it is, but if you ask enough people, you definitely won’t know what time it is. You will, however, end up with lots of business cards, which you can give to other people, and maybe one of them will have a watch.
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