Darren Campbell produced the most fluent riposte to his critics here in Athens last night. Before the Olympic Games, the British sprinter had reacted sharply to criticism by Colin Jackson; two nights ago, he confronted Olympic champion and BBC pundit Michael Johnson, who had accused him of feigning an injury. But until last night, not even his closest allies knew how hurt he had been by the disloyalty of an old friend and the antagonism of a great champion.
“There’s something I’d like to say to Colin Jackson,” said Campbell in a mocking voice. “I’ve got a gold medal.” One more than his accuser, as it happens. Campbell has also put the allegations made by Johnson, the former world champion, into the hands of his lawyers, though he has no need. No lawyer could speak more eloquently in his defence than Campbell and his sprint team did for him last night. On the night that Steve Backley bowed out of competition, a gallant fourth in the javelin, Campbell too might call it a day.
“I’m getting tired of all this,” he said. “It’s stressful. This has been the most emotional week of my life. What was said about me, I didn’t deserve that. I have always gone out there and done the best for my country and I didn’t deserve that, especially from someone (Johnson) who doesn’t pay taxes in my country.”
Most thought they would not live to see the day that a British sprint quartet finally beat a crack American squad, but there was a particular magic in the Athens air last night. Deep inside the corridors of this vast arena, Kelly Holmes was explaining how she had turned history on its head by completing the impossible double. On the track, the British quartet of Jason Gardener, Campbell, Marlon Devonish and Mark Lewis-Francis were running as if the very devil were on their heels. And Backley? He hurled the javelin further than he has all year in his last ever competition.
Coming into the Olympics, the British sprinters’ heads were bowed by the weight of their accusers and they ran as if carrying the cares of the world. Not one of them had reached a final. Against the background of this Greek chorus, against the litany of disasters which have befallen our sprint relay teams down the years, against the rumbling backdrop of Dwain Chambers’ suspension and the downbeat mood on the eve of the Games, this was perhaps the most unexpected cut of all. Just recite the names ranged two lanes beyond the British sprinters.
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Shawn Crawford, 200m Olympic champion, fourth in 100m, the lead-off man. Then Justin Gatlin, the 100m champion, and Coby Miller, no slouch either and, on the anchor leg, the former Olympic champion and current bronze medallist, Maurice Greene. No wonder the Americans strutted to the blocks with all the swagger of gunmen in Dodge City. The contrast was stark. But something has changed since Gardener, Campbell and co took to the track for the individual sprints. Not one of them had produced even close to their best in the previous week. Perhaps, deep in their souls, they were saving their best for last, Luring the Americans into a web of self-confidence.
Nobody had foreseen the overturning of a birthright. This is the Americans’ race, the moment they can display the awesome power and teamwork of their sprinters. Who will forget the antics of the sprint quartet in Sydney? Who, too, will forget the disrespect shown by Crawford and Gatlin to their rivals in the semi-finals of the 100m here? But the Americans were ripe for defeat. Nobody, though, would have guessed the name of their conquerors.
From the gun, Gardener put his head down and matched Crawford stride for stride. The sight of the lithe elegance of the Bath sprinter seemed to galvanise the rest.
Campbell? The chief spokesman for the British team in the lead-up to the Games, the major medal-winner too, yet so indifferent in the heat of Athens. At every major Games since 1996, the kid from Moss Side had brought a medal home to his mother, Marva. You could see from his eyes that he was not going to let that record slip.
On the third leg, Devonish, the unknown sprinter, always promising, never as productive as his talent suggested. Devonish v Miller. No contest. Then the decisive moment, a bungled handover gave Devonish a precious length.
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The baton moved smoothly to Lewis-Francis. Surely now Greene would fly for home. Surely now the young man with the fragile mind and a blessed talent would crumble. Not so. Lewis-Francis pumped his arms, ran for his whole life. At the line, it was a mere fraction, but it was enough. Relief, disbelief, mingled with the exultation. “Take that” was the message. We did. So, more significantly, did the Americans.