Keith Quinn: Walker's triumph had golden glow

Many people who associate my broadcasting career with rugby might be surprised to know that my personal highlight as a commentator does not come from that sport.

Instead, I go most misty-eyed with memory when I hark back to a drizzly day at the 1976 Olympic Games in Montreal. Over there (mid-morning back home in New Zealand), John Walker, running as if he had the burden of the country on his shoulders, took the greatest prize: an Olympic gold medal.

In the commentary box for his 1500m final, I did my best to broadcast the unfolding dramatic action for the audience at home.

It was supposed to be a contest between Walker and his great rival, Tanzania's Filbert Bayi.

Alas, that was not to be. Politics and sport - that catchphrase of the time - meant that Bayi never turned up.

His country had become part of the African boycott of those Games, a boycott brought about by the New Zealand rugby tour of South Africa that year.

Around Montreal in the days following the opening ceremony, being a Kiwi meant often being called the ones who had caused all the trouble "here". So we looked to Walker to make New Zealanders feel on top of the world again.

And so he did.

In memory now, the 1500m final is a whirl.

John Davies, himself a bronze medallist at the Tokyo Olympics in the same event 12 years earlier, was commentating with me and I recall him telling the audience at home - some in morning church services with TV sets in place - how pedestrian the pace was.

Slow? For me it was racing along.

Walker, wearing No 694, sat in the middle of the field, looking comfortable. Around him, even without Bayi, were runners of legend, such as Eammon Coghlan, David Moorcroft, Ivo van Damme and Paul-Heinz Wellman.

But as the field swung past the start-finish line with a lap to go there was still no sign of a strong Walker surge. Was the weight of expectation too much for him? Was he struggling?

No way. At the 300m mark, with chest pushed out and pumping, the black-shirted Walker changed gear, and a leap came into all New Zealanders' hearts.

He took the lead as the field turned the corner and headed for home. In the whirl of words and vision I remember seeing, dangling over a low wall, a large New Zealand flag, waving frantically.

As he swung into the straight, I, in the broadcast of my life, yelled out a silly line: "Walker's in front. He's got to stay there!"

Forgive me. It was simple and to the point, I suppose. But then nothing more came out.

In the mad dash to the line, in the din of 100,000 Canadian throats, I sat silent, dumbstruck and awestruck in the greatness of the moment.

Sure, Walker's winning time was slow, the slowest in fact over the distance for the previous four Olympic Games, but it was so satisfying for all of the complicated reasons of the weeks and years before.

And of decades before, too, for when Walker crossed the line and held his hands up to his head in relief, my next commentary line was a lot better: "In the best traditions of Jack Lovelock and Peter Snell, John Walker has won the Olympic 1500m gold."

I loved that moment.

And the feeling has never left me.

I loved the moment for him, such a great New Zealander, for his mum and dad sitting in the stands, and I loved the win for my country too, which had willed him on over those last desperate metres (with their prayers added, perhaps).

And it was great for one other reason.

When John Davies and I switched off our microphones and stood up, broadcasters and reporters from other countries came up and shook our hands in the New Zealand commentary box.

John seemed comfortable with that; he had experienced this type of Olympic feeling before in his running days, but not me.

I have been to the Olympic Games six times over the past 30 years, but never before, or since, that moment 26 years ago, have I basked in the warmth of the glow of broadcasting a New Zealand Olympian's gold-medal performance.

I can tell you, thanks John Walker, I truly loved it.