Sergi OH!

Flex, August, 2003 by Peter McGough

So there I sat in the Victoria Palace theater, London, on a Saturday afternoon, in September 1971. Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" was at the top of the charts, Arsenal (you will be riveted to hear) were on course to win the English First Division football title, Richard Nixon was in the White House, and I--wearing bell-bottoms, sideburns and an exaggerated lat spread--proudly made my way to my seat to witness that year's NABBA Universe bodybuilding show. I was the kiddie, down in the Big Smoke for my once-a-year outing with the rest of Stewart's Gym Nottingham, for the big annual event, where we took ample opportunity to strut and flex our growing stuff with the rest of the nation's muscle wannabes.

The previous year, I had witnessed Arnold Schwarzenegger win the Pro Universe, with Reg Park second and Dave Draper third. This year, the big names were Bill Pearl, Sergio Oliva and Park. This clash I would take in my stride. After all, I was a veteran of all this, read all the mags and was, in my own quiet understated fashion, a Weider Wild Cat--a blurb that accompanied many of Uncle Joe's ads of the day.

After a four-year layoff, Pearl, age 42, walked onstage and at 242 purported pounds was stupendous, an amalgam of shape and proportion accentuated by exquisite posing--he was synchronicity in motion. I was impressed.

And then it happened. Out ambled (there is no better word to describe his gait) Sergio, and at my first sight of him, I shot back in my seat, nearly spilling my ice cream on my flowered shirt emblazoned with the logo "Mungo Jerry World Tour 1970." I was shocked. I'd seen all the pics, read all the press, but nothing had prepared me for my first sight of the Myth. He was just friggin' huge--his wasp waist seemed at risk of collapsing under the strain of the mighty dimensions of his upper body. His biceps were like ham hocks, and his hanging triceps no less so; his deltoids were as round as his shaved head; and his chest swelled up like an inflatable life raft.

I sat in awe, gobsmacked by the sheer majesty, the sheer muscle of it all.

In the final analysis, Bill Pearl won the contest, but Sergio won my senses. Thirty-two years later, I can state unequivocally that I never again felt such awe in viewing a physique for the first time. Sergio, thanks for the memories (and the mammaries, arms and delts). Beginning on page 132, we celebrate the Myth. Don't myth it.