Hours after he clinched his seventh and final gold medal at the 1972 Olympics, the swimmer saw his unprecedented accomplishment overshadowed by an act of terrorism. The author was with him the whole way.
If he’d had a mind to, Mark Spitz could have celebrated on a far grander scale. He could have whooped it up with coaches, teammates and his legion of fans who now were everywhere in Munich. But he wasn’t a party animal, and even on this night of epochal triumph, he wouldn’t become one. Nine days of pressure—actually, four years of pressure—had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him relieved and happy but with emotions in check.