By Sugar Mama
Back in the 1990s I went on a date with a German guy named Sven who ran for our Olympic track team. This was during Carl Lewis’ day, so I glossed over the fact that his German-ness didn’t seem very legal or fair. Cozying up to him meant a chance at meeting Carl—the fastest and hottest guy in the world at the time.
I met Sven at a restaurant in LA that took me 2.5 hours to get to. I didn’t really mind because it gave me time to plan what I was going to wear in Sydney during the camera pan, teary eyed from my soon-to-be boyfriend’s medal triumph—Carl’s or Sven’s.
When I arrived, Sven was waiting for me at a table, along with his … mother. “Probably a German thing,” I told myself, and I glided up to the table undeterred.
“Don’t vorry,” he said. “She doesn’t speak Enklish.”
I smiled and shook her hand.
Soon she began to ask Sven, in German, questions to ask me.
“Cat or dok?” Sven translated over appetizers.
“What?” I asked.
“My mom vants to know vich you prefer—she tinks it tells a lot about a person.”
“Well, I like both,” I told him. And her.
I could tell by her grimace that she didn’t like my answer.
“She tinks you’re washy-washy.”
“Oh,” I said, and smiled at her with a little shrug. “It’s actually wishy-washy.”
She eventually lost interest in me after learning I had no fortune, fame or hunting skills, so Sven and I continued our date getting to know each other a little better. Sorry, him a little better. But with Sydney around the corner and an Olympic track team Christmas party invite on the tip of his tongue, I wasn’t about to interrupt.
Let’s fast forward to the Christmas party, where I actually did meet Carl Lewis and Sven actually did stop talking about himself. There I was, all aglitter, surrounded by world-class athletes with an affinity for beer bongs and bimbos, when Carl came right up to me and asked if I was the girl with Sven.
Beaming, but noncommittal, I said, “Sorta.”
“He told me to tell you that he left with someone else and that you need to find a ride home.”
And with that, Carl left.
Had I been able to run at half the speed or distance the rest of this party could, I would have laced up some sneakers and run the 60-something miles from LA to Orange County. Unfortunately, I had to take an hour-long, $100 cab ride home instead.
We all know what happened to Carl’s career after that, and no one has even heard of Sven today. While I can’t claim that any of this was my doing, I can say that you don’t have to be an Olympian to know what it feels like to win. LBM
