A lot else happened last night. Roman Sebrle of the Czech Republic won the men's decathlon, earning the title of world's greatest athlete by beating out an inspired effort by the U.S.'s Brian Clay. (The procession of the male decathletes around the track is something everybody should see, male, female, straight or gay -- these are the most beautiful male physiques, quite simply, in the world. And that's saying something after watching the procession of bodies here, which is pretty awe-inspiring. They look like they average out at about 6'1", 190, with superbly balanced musculature. They're bodies designed and honed to do everything. Stunning. But not worth becoming a decathlete to achieve.) American sprinter Joanna Hayes roared to victory in the 100 hurdles, as the Canadian favorite, Perdita Felicien, crashed on the first hurdle and immediately collapsed, grimacing in despair and bitter disappointment, knowing one misstep had blown her chance. Tonique Williams-Darling of the Bahamas won a stirring women's 400 meters, beating the great Mexican quarter-miler Ana Guevara and deflating the hopes of the numerous Mexican fans who turned up in huge sombreros and Mexican flags. Williams-Darling, who has an extraordinarily beautiful and sensitive face, won the prize for most heartfelt comportment on the medal podium.

And finally, there was el-Guerrouj. Everyone was pulling for him, an atmosphere that can seem ominous. He ran a smooth race, holding a perfect outside position until he made his move to take the lead midway through the race. He was leading coming out of the last turn, but on the home straight his great rival, Kenya's Bernard Lagat, kicked hard and overtook him. There was no way of knowing what would happen, no form to read, the challenge was too formidable. As they burned neck-and-neck toward the finish, with the crowd standing and imploring, the Moroccan reached down and summoned what was in him. It had not been enough at the Olympics before.

This time it was. He retook the lead and held off Lagat for the agonizing last 30 meters. When he crossed the line, 12 one-hundredths of a second ahead of the Kenyan, and realized he had won, he fell to the ground and kissed it, in prayer, in thanks. Lagat ran over and embraced him, a sportsman in every sense of the word, seeming to take almost as much joy in the victory, in the lifting of the curse, as his rival.

Guerrouj, too, cried as he ran his victory lap around the stadium. "It is finally complete," he said later. "Four years ago in Sydney, I cried with sadness. Today I cry tears of joy. I'm living a moment of glory."

And as el-Guerrouj ran around the great arena, his face radiant with joy, we cheered, we laughed, and we too gave thanks to the god, the force, the spirit that rewards a champion.

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