A Wild Surmise

Louganis

130 Louganis If Praxiteles had been an animator, this form is the one he would have set in motion— a spinning diver hurtling down toward the surface of a pool, its smooth skin raised to ripples by an automatic wind machine. He’d sculpt Louganis like a beautiful machine poised against the cloudless sky, then charge his form with action—the rippling muscles of the torso tensing with explosive motion as the diver vaults, kicks out and plunges into the pool where cameras follow him down, a sheath of bubbles wrapping him, down where applause is a watery blur, the machine of celebrity waiting above him, the press pool of reporters eager to surround, touch his form— a boy-god, perfect in stasis or motion, an athlete who could ignite any crowd, send ripples of excitement through an arena, ripples of awe around the globe, even after he stepped down from competition. I saw him once, pure motion in a dog show ring, his Great Dane puppy not yet machined into perfection. Greg was the one all form, perfectly balanced on his toes, emerging from a pool of dog handlers as the star. Outside a swimming pool, nobody recognized him at first, but ripples of applause picked up, formed a little cup of sound, then settled down again as he was one of us, no machine of glory, just a guy and his dog in motion. 131 That was before rumors of HIV set chaos in motion and sports shows ran films of his infected blood coloring the pool. Predictably, the story fed into the tabloid machine, and the customary scornful ripple of reaction to anybody gay threatened to drive his name down from Olympus, but no bigotry could change the form of his achievement, no machine of hate or ripple of fear for his life could alter the timeless motion into a pool of a beautiful boy falling down from heaven into perfect form. ...