Why, why, why?” Olympic figure skater Nancy Kerrigan screamed and cried after a burly thug whacked her in the knee with a metal bar. “Why, why?” is what I exclaimed when CBS News executives told me I had to cover the sordid soap opera starring Olympic archrivals Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan. I had been co-anchoring the CBS Evening News for six months. Would either Walter Cronkite or Dan Rather ever have been dispatched to chase after two women who twirled, jumped, and glided to the delight of audiences? Absolutely not. Then why would CBS ask me to do that?
CBS had bought the rights to televise the 1994 Olympics for a reported $300 million, and since figure skating was typically the most watched sport, the suits were salivating at a potential ratings bonanza in prime time. CBS had a vested interest in covering and hyping the rivalry between the competitors.
In this era of feeding frenzies, the media happily fueled the fairy tale. Nancy Kerrigan was the beautiful Snow White in Vera Wang tutus. Tonya Harding was an ugly duckling from the wrong side of the tracks. She had lived a rough life, claiming that both her estranged husband and her mother, a night shift waitress, had physically abused her. Yet she had remarkable athletic talent and was a feisty, driven toughie, fueled by guts, not grace. As Tonya’s story unfolded, authorities uncovered evidence that her ex-husband had hatched the attack on Nancy.
What emerged from the Tonya-Nancy saga was a drama that played out like a made-for-TV movie rife with Shakespearean themes:
Love: Both loved and lived to skate.
Hate: Tonya hated Nancy.
Lust: For fame and fortune.
Betrayal: Of fair competition; of the spirit of the Olympics.
Covering First Daughter Tricia Nixon’s Rose Garden Wedding on White House South Portico lawn. June 12, 1971.Courtesy of Connie Chung.
I ferociously fought covering the skaters, but the pressure was intense.
CBS brass told me, “You must do this for the network.” I had no choice.
Soon I was on a plane to Portland, Oregon, to dog Tonya. I was not alone. Media from all over the world had descended on the Clackamas Town Center, a shopping complex near Happy Valley, a suburb of Portland. Jammed into the mall’s public skating rink were cameras and crews from as far away as Japan and Australia, including reporters from British tabloids, the National Enquirer, and even the venerable New York Times.
I found myself staring down a steep eight-foot wall to a large rink below me, dangling my microphone for a word with skating’s “bad girl” as she circled the rink.
“Tonya, Tonya!” I beckoned her to come to my camera. But what swirled in my head was: would Walter Cronkite, in his deep, serious voice, be shouting, “Tonya, Tonya. Come over here, Tonya!”? Not a chance. Oh, how I wanted to leave and defy my bosses.
I had thought my days of covering unworthy stories were over. Yet, knowing I had to deliver, I persuaded Tonya to do an interview for my magazine program, Eye to Eye. The curse, once again, was that the interview resulted in record-high ratings. I could not have been more disappointed.
How embarrassed I was, toddling along with Tonya to the Olympics in Norway, not only to coanchor the CBS Evening News from Lillehammer but also to get yet another interview with Tonya. She agreed to a one-on-one before the Olympic competition. Tonya handled the questions like a seasoned politician, refusing to discuss the dastardly act against Nancy. Then, fed up with my repeated attempts to get her to talk about the attack, she suddenly yanked off her microphone and walked out, just like a petulant Capitol Hill insider. I was criticized for pressing her, which any good reporter would have done. It was not until later that she pleaded guilty to complicity in the cover-up.
