The first thing that jumps out about “Nancy & Tonya” is the titular placement of names in this NBC documentary, airing Sunday night before the closing ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Sochi.
That Nancy Kerrigan’s name comes first — even though most people think of Tonya Harding when recalling the infamous 1994 knee-whacking scandal — is likely due to the fact that Kerrigan agreed to discuss the incident with NBC, something she didn’t do in last month’s ESPN documentary, “The Price of Gold,” which covered much the same ground (and, like “Nancy & Tonya,” included interviews with Harding).
Whatever the case, it’s interesting to hear the women, 20 years later — Kerrigan, now a mother of two, still in elegant skating shape, Harding puffy, timeworn and hard-edged — recall the events leading up to and following that January 1994 day in Detroit.
For the uninitiated, that’s when Kerrigan, walking off the ice after a day of practice, was whacked on her kneecap with a black baton by an assailant who fled the scene, cameras capturing her agonizing “Why me?” wailing. Her frenemy Harding — Kerrigan’s chief rival for Olympic glory in the upcoming Lillehammer games — was
(almost) immediately implicated in the attack.
What happened in between Harding being found guilty of hindering prosecution — and being barred for life from the US Figure Skating Association — is what’s covered in “Nancy & Tonya.”
Although the story is familiar to anyone who lived through the saga, it’s important to note that Kerrigan’s knee-whacking, and the accompanying media circus, occurred five months before OJ Simpson’s White Bronco chase supposedly rewrote the reality TV handbook. It didn’t — and “Nancy & Tonya” (rightly) reminds us of what Connie Chung, who covered the story, calls “a terrible soap opera.”
Right off the bat, both women, interviewed separately by Mary Carillo, mention the attack, Kerrigan noting that “I guess it at times it’s come up” with her two kids, while a still-defiant Harding likens it to “You can only hit a nail so many times before it’s in the wood, you know?” They also disagree on their friendship prior to the incident; Kerrigan quickly answering “No” when asked by Carillo, Harding giving a resounding “Yes! We roomed together at competitions.”
The nuts-and-bolts of the Kerrigan/Harding saga are recounted here — Kerrigan’s working-class background with loving parents contrasted with Harding’s hardscrabble upbringing in Oregon, including a cold-fish mother who (she claims) once threw a knife at Tonya while drunk and “was beating on” her every day. “Nancy
came from a stable upbringing. I didn’t,” says Harding.
By the time they both achieved skating prominence in 1991, their identities were set in stone (or is that ice?). Kerrigan, while a graceful skater, was “missing that ability to relate to the audience,” says USA Today sportswriter Christine Brennan. Yet she morphed into a media darling (TV ads, magazine covers) following the 1992 Winter Games in Albertville. Harding, known for her rare triple axel figure-skating jump, preferred to skate to ZZ Top, smoked (though she had asthma), drank and was married, then divorced, from Jeff Gillooly.
“A stunning waste of talent,” as one wag describes her.
Then comes the kneewhacking, followed by a monthand-half-long interim in which both Harding and Kerrigan make the US Olympic Figure Skating Team — how’s that for drama? — and the FBI implicates Harding and her minions (including Gillooly) in the attack on Kerrigan, now sharing practice ice time with Harding.
There’s much more, and you’ll hear it straight from both women.
“I have apologized so many times, she is not worthy of my time anymore,” Harding tells Carillo. “I proved my innocence, yet people still think I was involved.”
Kerrigan is a bit more diplomatic — but just a bit. “I can remember saying to the FBI, ‘Well, maybe Tonya really didn’t know, maybe they did [the attack] for her,” she says, “And they said, ‘Nancy, we can’t prove it, but we think she was the mastermind of the whole thing.’
“It’s sad, the bizarre craziness that all transpired,” Kerrigan adds. “It’s too bad, because she’s talented.”