“Once Upon a Time in Australia”

An alternative view of history.
 
Once upon a time, when I was young and naive, and the world was a better place an amazing spectacle took place in Sydney: A modern day version of ‘The clash of the Titans’. Only the second time in its history that the supreme crown in the bodybuilding firmament, the Mr. Olympia would be contested outside of America.
 
The putrefying albatross of this “contest” still hangs from the neck of those that allowed this disgraceful episode in the history of bodybuilding to take place, to forever sully, besmirch, tarnish and stain its reputation which it could ill afford to lose, and perhaps never fully recover from.
 
On that day in October, 1980, romance, realism and truth met on the stage of the Sydney opera house.
 
Romance and truth did not just lose, they died on that day. Some might even suggest that they were executed, some, assassinated, others, sacrificed on the altar of expedience, as nothing could be left to chance, or be left to stand in the way of the triumphant return of the demigod.
 
There have been countless attempts by various amanuensis to cunningly and deviously conflate many different stories, Mephistophelian like, in their efforts to divert us from the truth on this matter. Even to this very day they are hard at work. Wikipedia displays an extremely good example by some, of their ongoing efforts to convince us that this was in fact a real contest.
 
Many fans walked away that evening in Morlock ignorance, completely unaware that what they had just witnessed was not in fact a bodybuilding contest at all, but an act, torn from a grubby, well thumbed page of a much used WWF play book.
 
I was already resigned to laconic equanimity because I understood only too well that the last grains of sand were already in the neck of the glass before this sordid charade had ever begun. It was able to begin on the day that the Mr. Olympia was awarded to the Australian president, when a whole raft of favours was finally able to be repaid.
 
Act one was played out in sunny California sometime in 73. There had been a long running battle between Uncle Joe and Dan Lurie over who could claim the top dog position in America. They had been fighting over, in affect who owned what bodybuilder, and the rights, and choices of bodybuilders to appear in both antagonist’s magazines and contests. A battle by Dan, driven by passion and a true love of one of the world’s oldest activities known to mankind, and the other antagonist driven by a naked lust for power, that more resembled the actions of a potentate of the medieval age. And to be fair to Dan Lurie, most of this nonsense was coming from Uncle Joe’s camp. Some years before, Dan had thrown down the gauntlet by publishing an open letter to Joe via his magazine. In it he had challenged Joe to prove, once and for all who was the better man.
 
Dan was of the opinion that many of the claims made by the self titled “Master Blaster”, were less than truthful. In plain English, he was doubting the veracity of most, if not all of Joe’s claims. Claims that included bodybuilding titles and weight lifting records, amongst others.
 
Although the gauntlet remand on the ground, ignored and untouched, Joe never forgot. He would have his day. He would have his revenge for the attempt by a mere mortal at public humiliation. To many there is no better joy than that of schandenfreude.
 
Joe finally hit upon the strategy of using a disciple in the form of his prize possession and star pupil, Arnold S. He would be the one that would bring the lawsuit that would financially cripple and bankrupt Dan out of the game, leaving the field free for the Weider Empire to expand and for the myth of the Father of World bodybuilding, and the Weider research clinic to take root, without having to sully his own hands.
 
One does not need to be a reader of Sherlock Homes to deduce that this litigation was fully funded, not by the litigant but by Weider himself, and although Arnold had learnt a valuable life lesson in how to shaft an opponent, the “favour”, or debt would remain for him to draw down later. So began a marriage of convenience that would be consummated, unlike most, in full view of the public.
 
Act two, strange as it may seem happened sometime before this episode.
 
Paul Graham and Arnold’s relationship goes back some way, to when Arnold first moved to the States, almost penniless, as he has claimed. He was befriended by Paul, who is no stranger to the art of the scam or spin but a complete stranger to any form of integrity who offered him and his little mate the opportunity to make a little extra loot on the side.
 
Paul had a love of cars, other people’s cars. Most of all he loved Corvettes, and had built a network across the country to borrow and then move cars interstate. For this, he needed drivers.
 
Sadly, as is always the case, every good scam must come to an end. It was time for Paul and his ill gotten gains to take steps, big ones, and leave town and head off back to the safety of Sydney. Unfortunately, this part of his life ended in tears. He and the bag of loot were intercepted at the airport, with one foot on the staircase leading to a better life, it was not to be.
 
As it is a federal offence in America to borrow other people’s cars without their consent and then drive them over state lines, Paul spent a leisurely two years in San Quentin. During that period of his incarceration he received a number of visitors, one of them being none other than Arnold. If you are lucky enough to get your hands on a copy of the first print of the book “Pumping Iron” you will see a picture of Arnold in the exercise yard of the penitentiary.
 
 
On Paul’s eventual return to Sydney he ennobled himself with the titles “Australia’s strongest man” “Mr. Australia”, and “Mr. Universe”, a fine example of the veracity and nature of the man. At his last tilt, quixotic like at a genuine title, the Mr. Australia of 73, held on the Gold Coast, he failed miserably, collapsing unheroically in a toilet stall, even before the pre-judging had begun, never to attempt to contest a genuine title again.
So, at this point we now have another of the troika being owed a small favour. A grubby little daisy chain is beginning to form.
 
Let’s recapitulate for a moment; Joe is in Arnold’s debt, but Arnold now owes Paul a motza. When would the stars align so that all three can collect their pound of flesh? It would happen soon.
 
It would happen when Paul Graham was awarded the honour of staging the most prestigious contest in the bodybuilding world, for only the second time, outside the confines of the USA. One can only speculate why Weider entrusted his baby to a man of dubious character. At this point I need to add, for the sake of background, that although Paul had been voted in as Australian president, he had been voted out of office soon after at an extraordinary meeting of the ABBA. Not being a man who accepts the will of the masses he immediately went running, snivelling, and complaining to the Weiders, who dried his tears, and promptly endorsed his brand new organization, and his position as president of it. That moment also marked the end of any pretence, in Australia anyway, that the IFBB was in any way democratic, and in turn, also spawned the birth of three other national bodybuilding organizations. That schism remains to this day.
 
This part of the saga is the most unbelievable of all. Did Arnold suddenly wake one morning after being imbued by the spirit of the holy ghost, or visited in his dreams by a succubus, and thus being inspired, decide that he would take one more roll of the dice; risk his legacy, reputation, and what he hoped to bequeath for one more title? For a handful of silver? When he threw the dice, were they weighted? This part of the story would insult the intelligent of an ant. Three months, or as the Wiki fairy tale has it, two months preparation for the Mr. Olympia?
 
There was some research done a number of years ago at a US university in regards to how long it takes for an athlete, after a layoff to return to his or her previous peak. They gathered a group from a cross-section of sports and gave them all an enforced rest of two weeks. Their fitness levels were checked and measured pertaining to their event before and after their rest period and thereafter every week.
 
On average it took them 12 weeks to return to their previous peak. Arnold had been out of competition, not for two weeks, but for five years; a lifetime in an athlete’s life.
 
 
Arnold could not help but boast immediately after the “contest” that he had defeated the cream of the cream, who had been training, and preparing for this ultimate contest of contests for up to an entire year, and reserved, in this period, for men who had been awarded the Mr. Universe title. There were no dummies here, no morons, and no idiots, and certainly no cannon fodder to make up the numbers. No; Arnold would now have achieved his victory in just 12 weeks of training. He would now be elevated to demigod status. He had performed a miracle, not quite up to par with the water and wine trick, and defiantly below that of walking on water, but never the less, he would take his place in the Parthenon of the gods. What he had succeeded in concocting, perhaps unwittingly at the begging, but certainly consciously in the end was a Thucydidean trap. For all concerned, his wish had to be granted. He had transcended, God like, the ultimate power of the Weiders.
 
But how does one weight dice? It takes time to put in place all you need for a stunt of this magnitude. Nothing could be left to chance, for one slip, one miscalculation would leave Arnold’s legacy in tatters. Would this contest be, as the Duke of Wellington described the battle of Waterloo, “a close run thing”. Not on your life.
 
The fawning judges, whose love of Arnold bordered on idolatry, were lined up, all too ready to fawn and paw once more, and genuflect at the feet of him who must be worshiped, whose reputation must, at all costs remain intact for posterity. It would be fair to add at this point that there were a couple of judges who still valued their integrity. Once they realized what the game was, they withdrew, unfortunately though, for those in the cheap seats, with no understanding of what was soon to unfold, they withdrew, sotto voce, with little publicity.
 
Added insurance was provided by none other than Oscar State, as always the portcullis that guarded the gate to any outcome that might endanger the noble reputation of the Weider Empire, and their will, as he had done with preternatural skill and élan in saving the presidency for brother Ben in 75, when he had lost the annual vote for head honcho of the IFBB in Pretoria to Serge Nubret. With the sleight of hand of a riverboat gambler, he had deftly recounted the ballots to ensure that Ben would continue as the head honcho, and to doubly ensure that this aberration was never repeated, the position became President for life. Serge, for his pains would soon to be banned for life on charges of appearing in Blue movies, but more for the temerity, and audacity of challenging for the position. The accusations levelled would have to be considered cute in the extreme, and particularly in light of the Welder’s antecedents. Serge would be allowed to appear and compete at the 75 Olympia, when there were but three in the contest, and then go on to established his own organization, with his honour unblemished.
 
Whose organization was it anyway? Certainly not the peoples! It was, after all, only meant to look democratic, not be democratic, and only until the IFBB had attained one of the major goals that the Weider’s yearned; full membership of the Olympic committee, for, as it is known, even dictators and despots crave legitimacy for their fiefdom.
 
And so, the stage was finally set for the last stanza, the last act in the play, the stunt of all stunts that would bring everlasting glory and fame to all that were involved. The ‘Corps de ballet’ obediently and unwittingly took their place. Shakespeare himself would have laboured to construct a better scenario than that which was about to unfold.
 
The contest started, as most do with a meeting to decide whether there would be, as in the past, two weight divisions or just the one. It was decided to proceed with just one combined class, with the only dissenter being Arnold. One would have to presume that he thought the contest already in the bag, so to speak, and the pose down would look better between himself and a smaller man. At this point the room was calm, as one would expect of contestants mentally preparing themselves before the first round.
 
But then behold, the fun began, suddenly, quite out of the blue and out of context with the discussion Arnold then blurted out an ad hominem aimed specifically at Mike M.
 
“You’ll never win an Olympia with a gut like that”. Strange as it may seem, Mike took immediate offence to this attack, and started to move in the direction of where Arnold had seated himself. Was this going to turn into a physical confrontation? Unfortunately, and sadly to some minds it would not. Ben stepped in-between the pair. It was obviously no accident on the part of Arnold in regards to this personal comment. A ploy and a weak one at that, to deflect and unbalance Mike’s mental preparation?
 
As an aside, Mike would never again grace the Olympia stage and immediately after, announced his premature retirement from professional bodybuilding. Like most others in the line out, he had thought that this was a real contest, as did Frank Zane, who in complete disgust and contempt, destroyed his trophy.
 
Once, upon the stage, it could be seen by those who were standing close that Arnold’s pupils were dilated, and there was a sphincter clenching fear slowly radiating from his body, and anxiety dripping from every pore of his body. But in actuality, he had little to fear.
 
He had, after all, been away from competition for five years, and when he had last competed there were but two other contestants, and not forgetting, the contest format had moved on to a stricter more formal process. It would no longer be the simple case of causing others to mentally disintegrate. Contestants now had strict rules to follow; that is, everybody but Arnold.
 
Dennis Stallard from Wales had introduced the format of the compulsory poses some years before, and sergeant-major like, had enforced them. Unfortunately, and has destiny would have it, he had been removed, some speculate because of his strict adherence to the rules by everyone, and Arnold was given free rein to do as he pleased.
 
 
The results were very much a foreseen conclusion to those who understood and had diligently read and followed the playbook, and the only real challenge that faced the judges on that day of infamy was in what order to place the bit players, the ‘Corps de Ballet’, who had unwittingly taken part.
 
The troika had been triumphant. The planning, meticulous in its detail. Uncle Joe had been convinced to award the Olympia to Paul Graham, the second time that it had left the US, and in doing so, reluctantly repaying a debt to his protégé. Arnold had been able to repay his outstanding account to Paul, and help re-ignite his own public persona and movie aspirations, and Paul had been able to save the tidy sum of $50,000 US in prize money.
 
An American TV company (CBS?) had travelled to Sydney to produce a documentary on this, as it was at the time, an attempted comeback. They departed Australia in disgust. The documentary never saw the light of day, and nor would they attend the Olympia in the future.
 
Such was the reaction from the crowd at Arnold’s acceptance speech, that it was drowned out by a wall of booing, that had never before accompanied any of Arnold previous outings. A much over used word is used today, Charisma, its original meaning translates to ‘one who is touched by God’. How utterly sad, and so devastating to realize that my, and your hero had feet of clay.
 
A miserable ending to the credibility, and integrity of one, who had once straddled the world. He, who had carried the globe, herculean like, on his shoulders. Who had literally been unbeatable at his best, and would have been on this day if he had been in the shape that he presented in 74.
 
Would all the perfumes of Arabia be able to sweeten the stink of this mess?
Bear in mind that this was in the time of no internet, and magazines were the only method of disseminating bodybuilding news. Many of these magazines only real mission was to serve as the handmaidens to the egos of the Weiders. To that end, the scribes obsequiously set to work to spin this tail of victory, and conflate this story as best they could. They performed a wonderful job. Many of them are still to this day, remorselessly, spinning away.
 
I once had a conversation with Paul Graham in regards to how he could tell bare faced lies without batting an eyelid, as it was an art that I struggled with. After pondering for a moment he replied that he found it easy.” I just repeat my version of the story a few times and it becomes the truth, besides, people only remember the result, not what happened”. So true.
 
But he won it, didn’t he you might say.
 
Yes, he did, but honour, integrity, and even bravery wear different coats to different eyes, and we all have choices.
 
Postscript.
 
So successful was this stunt, and so little a ripple it did cause, without even so much as a whimper that the very next year it was pulled again. A one legged man won, and the promoter, Paul Graham would later be awarded a special diploma for services rendered to Bodybuilding, presented by none other than his friend and conspirator, Arnold. Karma:’ the force created by a person’s actions that some people believe causes good or bad things to happen to that person’. Sadly, this is patently not true in this case.
 
La Tache Noure, the black stain, would remain in the hearts of some who were involved that day.