Patriot Hearts (45 page)

I decided the ceremonies could be reworked and I could deliver my speech early if the
IPC
would agree to a protocol adjustment. But even then, there was the issue of getting to the airport in time to catch my flight. There was no commercial air or helicopter service available from Whistler. One thing at a time. First I pitched the change in the ceremonies program to Sir Phil. He agreed to go along and understood the significance of what I would be leaving for. I would now be on early in the lineup. My team got to work looking for a transport solution from Whistler, having secured a couple of seats on the last flight to London on Sunday night. Renee Smith-Valade would be coming too, as we expected a media frenzy in Georgia.

At the eleventh hour, with no solution in sight, I went back to an old friend. I thought that if the Canadian Forces, which had thousands of personnel in the mountains, had choppers in the area they would surely be flying back and forth to Vancouver and might be able to help out. It was a Hail Mary option. Their helicopters were rough-and-ready machines designed for duty in war zones—not exactly passenger-friendly, but who cared? I would have been happy to stand in one. True to form, the army reworked its plans and scheduled a chopper flight to take off minutes after my speech. So failing a last-minute emergency at its end, we had an arrangement in place. It would be a basic flight in the dark that would get us to
YVR
on time for me to make my flight to London.

I liked my chances even if success meant flying for the better part of two days, stopping first in London, then Munich and then Tbilisi at 4
AM
. It was one of those rare occasions when sleep seemed unimportant. I wanted us to be there and felt anything less would look bad on Canada and reflect badly on the Games. So I sent a note to Georgia that we were moving heaven and earth to get there. The
IOC
was sending Pat Hickey, the head of the European Olympic Committees, though I thought Jacques Rogge might travel too.

The last days of the Paralympics were pretty hectic. I went to every venue several times, shook as many hands as I could, hugged those Blue Jackets who were still going strong, attended many receptions and sponsor-hosted occasions and in the final hours attended the
IPC
closing reception, where the Paralympic Order was awarded to me and, posthumously, to Jack Poole. I practised my closing speech, making a final effort to get my French into better shape. I did some media interviews as well, where I revealed just how exhausted I was. But I also told reporters how much the Olympic experience had affected me. “I have an even greater appreciation today than I’ve ever had in my life about the power of a vision and about what happens when people pursue something with the kind of vigour you can,” I said. “I think something pretty extraordinary has happened in the country and I am glad to have been a part of it.”

And then I was off to the closing ceremonies.

At Whistler’s Celebration Plaza, the rain had cleared. The athlete parade came down through the village, past rapturous crowds who were giving them a memorable send-off. The plaza was packed and Patrick Roberge and his backstage crew were ready to deliver a great show. Minutes into the ceremony, with the athletes all in place and after a beautiful rendition of “O Canada,” I was at the podium in my Blue Jacket delivering my very last speech of the Games. “Tonight, together with our many partners, and in the name of all Canadians, we take our final steps across the finish line of Canada’s Games,” I said. “Our work is done. Our best has been given—our dear friend Jack Poole would be a very happy man tonight.”

I thanked everyone who had made a contribution and especially paid tribute to the athletes, who had “dazzled us with your agility, your strength, your endurance and your sportsmanship. You reflect the best kind of character, integrity and focus and have shown that pain is no match for your courage.”

Minutes later it was time to go.

“It is with humility and more than a little regret that we now say goodbye—it has been a true honour to serve. Thank you very much— Go Raibh Míle Maith Agaibh Go Léir. Slán Agus Beannacht.” It was a traditional Gaelic farewell. My dad would have smiled.

The engine of the
SUV
was running outside, my bag loaded in the back. I walked off the stage and jumped in the back seat and we were off to the Heliport 15 minutes north of Whistler. It was a strange departure for sure. We met the two pilots and senior armed forces personnel on the tarmac, got our safety briefing, loaded ourselves in and were soon airborne. They were thrilled to help us out and treated this like any serious mission. Heading south, we passed the plaza as the ceremonies continued. There was a glow over the area. I was sad to miss the end and regretted not being there to hear what Sir Phil had to say.

Dave Cobb was ready to face the media and would take charge for the coming hours. We were in good, safe hands. The rest of the team would also be there. I was certain we would send our Paralympic friends home with the same efficiency and spirit we had for our Olympic guests.

This was one time I would have liked to wake up the next morning and read all about it. Sitting beside Admiral Pile, who was himself beaming with pride, I donned night goggles to see the amazing visuals below. As we headed toward Squamish I reflected in solitude on the men and women in uniform around me, and others like them who serve and protect us the world over. Courageous, loyal, proud and driven. My work was easy compared with theirs.

Forty-five minutes later we were all aboard for London. The trip was mostly a blur. After landing in London, we had to grab a connection to Munich. From Munich we flew to Tbilisi, a beautiful city that sits on the banks of the Mtkvari River. Not that there would be any time for sightseeing or exploring. Not long after landing we were being picked up by members of the Georgia National Olympic Committee and off in an entourage of Land Rovers for what we were expecting to be a three- to four-hour trek to Bakuriani, 160 kilometres to the west.

At least that is what the people with the Canadian consulate in Turkey had told us. Maybe with normal drivers behind the wheel but not the guys we had, professionals who took corners at great speeds. There were times where I was almost afraid to look at how fast we were going. When I did peek, the speedometer often said 170. More than once Renee and I exchanged glances, wondering if this was going to be our last ride together—our last ride, period.

But make it we did, arriving in the small town in the early afternoon. Bakuriani is situated on the northern slope of the Trialeti mountain range in the Borjomi Valley. It is covered by centuries-old fir and pine forests, and in Soviet times the area was considered an important ski centre. While it billed itself as a resort town, Bakuriani looked like a community that had seen more than its fair share of hard times. The homes were small. Many of the buildings were half-finished. When we pulled up to the home of Nodar’s family there were dozens of people milling around. Everyone had been waiting for us. Nodar’s home was a two-storey grey brick structure. A poster-sized picture of the fallen hero hung on the outside of the house, above the entranceway.

I was happy that my old friend Pat Hickey had joined us in Tbilisi. Pat was representing the European Athletic Association and I welcomed his moral support. He understood the importance of my presence. If I hadn’t made every effort to get there it would have made everything I had said about Nodar’s death seem like window dressing. But I was flat-out nervous and scared when we arrived. We were going into a community where everyone was clearly going to be devastated. Still, I thought, the people in Bakuriani, especially Nodar’s parents, would have thought less of me if I hadn’t shown up. They had invited me for a reason.

We walked inside their kitchen, which was crowded with family members. Nodar’s mother, Dodo, was sitting on a couch dressed entirely in black. There was a table packed with food, a framed picture of Nodar sitting on it, his boyish face staring out at us. You could tell that someone had worked all day to make the place sparkling clean. There were also some reporters and
TV
cameras crowded into the room. Pretty soon people were giving speeches. I was asked to say a few words.

I hadn’t been expecting it. So I just spoke from the heart, saying that I wished I had been visiting under different circumstances. I said I couldn’t begin to comprehend the heartbreak of Nodar’s parents, and that I thought it was important to be there in person to say how grief-stricken all Canadians felt. I didn’t speak long, and when I finished the room went quiet for what seemed like minutes.

After the speeches, Renee and I were led behind the house to some makeshift stairs that took us up to a loft. It was Nodar’s room. The bed was scattered with Olympic paraphernalia and other souvenirs from Canada. Above the bed hung a large picture of Nodar holding the Olympic torch, taken in Whistler. The humble surroundings made me realize just how much Nodar Kumaritashvili had had to overcome to get to the Olympics. It was clear he did not have the benefit of a well-to-do family with the kind of money and resources often necessary to support an Olympic dream. But I could also tell that he had the loving support of an entire town behind him.

Afterward, everyone drove to the church. We walked to Nodar’s gravesite, which was still quite fresh. A robust, beautifully robed priest arrived, along with Nodar’s father, David, and Dodo. There was a short service that was interrupted at one point when Dodo lay down on the grave and began sobbing uncontrollably. It was a profoundly emotional moment that would forever be seared into my memory.

After the service, everyone milled around for a little bit and then it was time to head to the community hall, where a feast had been planned. I needed to find a private moment to talk to Nodar’s father. The family would be receiving the equivalent of
CAN
$150,000 insurance money as a result of Nodar’s death. But who knew how long it was going to take for that to arrive? It was obvious the family could use money now. We had earlier decided to try and raise some cash the family could access while waiting for the insurance to arrive.

We had raised $25,000 by auctioning off one of the podiums that was used during the medals ceremonies at the Games. That money, which we converted to euros, was stuffed inside an envelope that was sitting in the breast pocket of my suit jacket. I had been trying to divine some sense of how this gesture would be greeted. I wanted to make sure the family would feel it was appropriate and not crass in any way. I knew Bakuriani had an all-cash culture, so writing a cheque, which we would normally have done, would have been problematic.

At the community hall, someone helped secure a room in which Renee and I joined David and his brother Felix, Nodar’s Olympic coach. An interpreter was there as well. I explained that my executive team wanted to help the Kumaritashvili family until more money arrived. We figured David and his wife and daughter could use some support. I pulled out the envelope and handed it to him. I told him how much was in it.

His expression conveyed a multitude of emotions. He seemed slightly embarrassed but also relieved. I also saw the slightest hint of joy in that sad, burdened face. He’d have the pain of his loss for the rest of his life, but the money would help make that life easier. David came over and hugged me. I shook his hand, which was rough and strong, hardened by a lifetime outdoors. We walked into the hall where the feast was underway. It was a pretty sombre affair and reminded me of my grandfather’s funeral. People were still in a state of shock and were doing what they could to comfort David and his wife. They too had also lost a son when Nodar died, that much was evident.

It was time to go. I said my goodbyes to Nodar’s parents and Uncle Felix, and hopped into the back of the Land Rover idling outside. I was exhausted and dreading the marathon journey back to Canada. Evening was beginning to fall on the town as we pulled away. I looked back one last time to see the twinkling lights of Bakuriani fading in the cold night air. I lay my head against the window and closed my eyes.

I had done the best I could.

Epilogue

E
VEN TODAY, THE
commemorative
DVD
boxed set and other videos on the 2010 Winter Olympics sit on my living room coffee table unopened.

I’m not sure why I haven’t been able to watch the beautifully packaged coverage of the Games, especially given that I missed so much while darting from event to event. Perhaps I don’t want to listen to my nervous, self-conscious attempts at French in my opening and closing ceremonies speeches. More likely, however, it’s because I’m not sure I can handle the tsunami of emotions that would roll to the surface at the first sight of the athletes, the Blue Jackets, the waterfront cauldron, the crowds, Nodar . . .

There will likely be a day when I’m ready to watch it, but not yet.

In the months since the Games ended I’ve run into thousands of people—on planes, restaurants, walking the streets—who have all insisted on telling me an Olympic story, their Olympic story, one that usually makes both of us smile. To say that listening to them makes me feel incredibly happy sounds trite, I know. But honestly, there is no other way to describe the warm feeling I get whenever I talk to people who tell me how the Games touched their lives, made them feel prouder to be Canadian than at any other time.

One young Blue Jacket I met told me he had refused a $10,000 offer for his uniform—too proud to give it up, he said. Another who told me of her time volunteering at the Pacific Coliseum welled up with tears talking about it. There was the gentleman who slept in his car every night but never missed a shift in Whistler and the woman who came by bus all the way from Ontario to serve at the Games. These are the trophies I crave: stories of extraordinary Canadians who delivered profound heroics and considered themselves privileged to have volunteered.

I’ve had over 10,000 letters, cards, e-mails or calls from people around the world who felt the need to say thank you. They still trickle in and are all the proof I will ever need to know that the pebble of hope we tossed into a pond 14 years ago continues to ripple.