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"I never made myself famous"
Donato Dalrymple defends his role in the ongoing Elián González saga.
By Daryl Lindsey
[05/12/00]

Waiting for November
The Miami family could lose the legal battle over Elián's asylum, but win the war by keeping him here long enough to get a green card.
By Bruce Shapiro
[05/12/00]

End of the rogue
The "Pirate Kingfish" savors his final free days before a jury lowers the boom.
By Matt Labash
[05/12/00]

Civil war in Miami?
The battle over Elián has led non-Cubans to threaten secession, and to back a recall drive against the mayor.
By John Lantigua
[05/11/00]

What Elián learned in Georgetown
Unlike Cuban homes, American houses have swimming pools in the basement.
By Daryl Lindsey
[05/11/00]

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As they say in the Racing Form, "Stumbled out of gate." But why dwell on such peccadillos? The Olympic countdown has officially begun. Four months from now, the youth of the world will gather, flags of all nations will fly and heart-tugging tales of lovable oddballs from impoverished countries who built models of the Parthenon out of matchsticks to buy track shoes will be shown in every TV-owning home on the planet. Let the Games begin!

And when they do I will be there, spanning the globe (hopefully sedated and in business class) to bring you the human drama of athletic competition, the thrill of victory and the agony of crashing through a fence on skis in slow motion every Saturday afternoon for 15 years. But at certain crucial, heart-stopping moments in the unfolding epic novel that is every Olympics, I will not be present.

While Salon's readers clamor for a live report from the gut-clenching ninth inning of the baseball gold medal game, I will be watching well-trained horses defecating in a ring. During the basketball final, that delicious all-American turkey shoot in which robotic white men from Croatia or other nations specially chosen for their population's lack of skeletal flexibility play the role of the turkeys, you will find me observing the épée quarterfinals, copy of "Duelling Scars of Heidelberg Gentry 1745-1780" in hand. As the women's softball medals are handed out and America weeps with joy over our girls, you will find my eyes bouncing up and down, up and down, at the trampoline qualifiers.

Welcome to the world of the unaccredited journalist, dropped with only a credit card into the 17-ring circus of the Olympics ticket-ordering crap shoot.

Actually, it isn't that bad. I just got my ticket order confirmed, and I got into most of the big events. And those I didn't get into (see list above) I am going to somehow finagle tickets for, even if it means I have to auction off portions of American Samoa to those same fish-faced scalpers from Brighton who fleeced me two years ago in Nagano, Japan.

Being accredited has its advantages, as I enviously discovered when I covered the Winter Games sans documents. You get to wear a big laminated press pass on a chain that dangles impressively. You get to ride on the media bus and plug your computer into the media outlet. Mostly, though, you get the best seats for any event you want -- free.

I actually prefer being unaccredited, mostly because it makes it impossible for me to even pretend to be a bona fide sports reporter. Sorry, chief, can't do those formulaic locker-room interviews! Don't even have to pretend I know or want to know anything about the training regime of that phlegmatic Latvian hurdler! Have to go to the bar now for local color! Not enough local color in that bar, have to go to the beach! That beach didn't have the real Aussie spirit, must go to the nude beach! And so on.

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