By his own admission Michael Johnson is a man who keeps his grey socks in one neatly ironed pile, his navy socks in another and his pressed jeans neatly folded in a separate spot, just the place where his pressed jeans always go.

He's the most unlikely hero in sport. Michael Johnson is the man who, when his parents came to embrace him after a notable triumph, pushed them back with the words "Don't touch me, I'm sweaty."

No charisma, no style, no good looks. He's come a long way.

He looks like Eddie Murphy but doesn't laugh nearly as often, which is a pity because with $12 million of Nike's money in his pocket and millions more in bonuses yet to come, he should be hooting like a hyena.

He's the man who got food poisoning weeks before the 1992 Olympics, lost 10 pounds in weight and strength but still never went to the doctor because he thought 10 days in bed would clear it up.

He's the man who Donovan Bailey called a chicken.

He's got an earring which doesn't suit and a moustache which hasn't taken and a pair of locks which did duty on a James Brown lookalike in the seventies.

Deep down we all despise Michael Johnson and his eight years of perfection and his ironed pile of navy socks.

We hate him but in the press seats we sit in our shorts and our puddles of sweat and we worry about Michael Johnson for some reason or other. As Brendan Ingle, late of Ringsend now of Sheffield, might say to Johnson: "I don't like the way ya are Mick but I luv ya, I've got to luv ya."

On Sunday night those of us in the press section were in a little tizzy, daft with worry that something was wrong with Michael. We don't like him, see, but we love him. We measure all the other 400 metres runners against him. In the second heat of the second round of the 400 metres which he is competing in this week by dint of divine intervention from the athletics god, Primo Nebiolo, a shocking thing happened. The cash cow got beaten.

Not one, not two, but three runners went past Johnson as he huffed and puffed up the home straight, his little head swivelling in surprise atop his ramrod straight back as, most humiliatingly, Ibrahima Wade of Senegal blew past him, pushing him out of the automatic qualifying positions. Johnson scraped into the next round by dint of being the fastest fourth-placed finisher in the heats.

Johnson said later that it was all a mistake, a mere slip-up, but the American journalists, huffy to start because of the seven-hour time difference between themselves and the USA, worked up a lather of concern anyway.

Michael is the face of modern athletics, possibly the only track guy whom Americans will switch channels to see. Whenever he slips on his Nikes the American press corps make a day out of it.

Familiarity and dependence has made fans of them all. We beet-faced paddies may simper like supplicants before Sonia when she finishes her business and we need her thoughts, but we look like a proud and dignified band when one considers the great oily slick which the American media leave behind every time they slither after Michael Johnson.

Last night, running in the second of the two semi-finals, it was back to business as usual. Johnson steamed off on his own around the last bend, grimacing with the strain of holding himself back as he chugged home.

He hit the media mixed zone running, still not in the sweetest temper. TV first. The TV people would provide sexual favours for Johnson if he asked. If he doesn't stop in front of their cameras, their heads will be chopped off by people in suits.

"Michael, Michael, how did you feel tonight?"

"I felt good tonight," he says over and over, staring meaningfully into each successive camera like a good Nike boy, "but I didn't feel bad last night. Looking forward to the final tomorrow night."

We marvel at his versatility with tenses. College-educated you know.

The final is tonight at 7.05 and to all intents and purposes is a closed book. Nobody insults Michael by asking him if he fancies his chances. He hasn't been beaten since prohibition.

All the written media and radio media in Athens have been straining forward to hear if Michael feels good. He proceeds as usual to the radio section and pauses to say it all over again. "I feel good".

The TV people make a charge from behind in case he says something different on radio and they get sacked for not having it. If the GAA allowed crushing like this at its games, it would be all over the front of the Evening Herald. We are only sports journalists however.

"Crush Horror", the headlines will read. "Much equipment lost. Cash advances feared lost. Athlete startled. Dog injured. Three hundred journalists missing. Replacements sent."

He proceeds to the land of the untouchables, the lowest of the low, the print journalists.

"Howja feel Mike?" shout the print journalists, expecting him to announce exclusively perhaps that he has just now contracted a bad chesty cough and will be wearing a woolly scarf in the final.

Michael ignores the print lowlifes and delivers an excessively hearty high five to a surprised competitor. One slip and it might have been GBH. What a story.

He feels good tonight and we believe him. Sure he's high fiving. He sits bare-chested, fiddling with his laces now and all the cameras, mikes and tape recorders keep pointing at him in case he announces suddenly that he had a part in the Kennedy assassination.

"Weren't going to let anyone past you tonight huh Mike," shouts a journalist.

"Sure wasn't," says another.

While he is sitting there tugging his laces however with the world's media gazing at him, a remarkable thing is happening. A series of young Greek women working as volunteers for the World Championships take turns to sit in the seat beside him and beam at the little instamatics which they have handed to journalists on the other side of the barrier. They look like sparrows venturing too near a cat but they all get their snapshots of themselves and the top of Michael Johnson's head. The journalists hand back the cameras beaming.

When Johnson goes jogging off into the night, a remarkable thing happens: the media vanishes leaving nothing but an oily stain on the floor.

Leaning against the railings watching the circus come and go is Tyree Washington, the young American runner whose hand is still smarting from the enthusiastic high five delivered to it by Mike.

Tyree's entire audience now consists of those with whom he has made eye contact, that is Swedish TV and the The Irish Times.

"Is Michael too strong for everyone?" asks Swedish TV tactfully.

"I'm tired of hearing about Michael," says Tyree with theatrical exasperation. "Michael this, Michael that. I don't care about Michael. I'm 20 years old. I'm tired of hearing about him. Whatever he does, he does. So what. I don't care about that. There's got to be a next generation. Let's talk about something else besides Michael."

"Do people give Michael too much respect?" ask Swedish TV while The Irish Times catches Tyree's eye and sells out the Scandinavians by rolling his eyes towards heaven. Those dumb Swedes eh Tyree.

"Too many people go out there and run for second or third place. Michael this. Michael that. I don't know what's going on with Michael right now. If you want to ask questions about Michael best thing is that you ask him."

Behind Washington, lying flat on the floor like a corpse, is Ibrihama Wade of Senegal, waiting no doubt for a Senegalese journalist to ask him how he feels.

We look up the corridor and Michael is striding back towards the media mixed zone. The Swedes panic. Tyree disappears. The Irish Times says "Hey Mike" but Mike's head doesn't turn. "Howja feel," continues The Irish Times, "about the final tomorrow?" but Michael has picked up his walkman earphones and vanished again.

That close to an exclusive. That close. Hate him really.