by John Furlong
Another part of our planning involved travel to Greece, where we would need to be present for the official lighting of the flame in Olympia and again a week later in Athens, where the flame would be handed over to us for transport back to Canada. So much of the Olympics are laden with protocol but none more so than the handover of the flame in Athens, a ceremony that has evolved over centuries. A large group of us would need to—and want to be—in Greece for both ceremonies, which posed transportation issues. How would we get there and back and stay true to the exceedingly tight deadlines we would be operating under to get the torch everywhere we promised in the time we had? Flying commercial to Athens was going to be extremely difficult and costly, so I offered to find us alternative transportation.
Early on in the Games planning, I had a meeting with representatives of the Canadian Armed Forces, including chief of the defence staff Gen. Walter Natynczyk. It was a great chat, and from the outset he made clear just how important it was for the military to have a presence in Vancouver in 2010. I think he understood what an opportunity it presented the military to be part of something so big that meant so much to the country. He could imagine his men and women in uniform taking part in the many flag-raising ceremonies, protocol and other events. They would have a front-row seat to the festivities. What an opening to promote the brand. He wanted in, and we were happy to have them.
Within days the forces assigned a senior officer to us, Capt. Matt Barlee. He sat outside my door, immersed himself in the VANOC culture, and had access to military personnel across the country. He would be our liaison to the army from here on in. I wanted the military involved because if we needed special jobs taken care of, I figured we could count on them because the word fail is not in their DNA. Over the next couple of years after that initial meeting, I would be a little disappointed when the armed forces said it couldn’t provide this or that service to the Games. They were extended pretty thin given their commitments around the country and abroad, so were unable to commit to anything big in the run-up to the Games. So I thought that maybe we could get a plane from them to take to Athens.
There were a number of reasons I liked the idea. First, it would help us get around some of the logistical challenges that flying a big team to Greece via a commercial airline was going to pose. I also thought that getting the military involved would elevate the importance of the relay in people’s minds. I liked the image of the military escorting this ancient flame from Greece to Canada. It would turn a trip into a mission. Just thinking of that plane lifting off to secure the flame gave me goose bumps. I knew the men and women in uniform would take this duty seriously and that the travel time would be organized to the minute if the military was flying the plane.
It didn’t exactly unfold that way. . .
The Greece segment of the relay was another one of those high-profile situations where big-name politicians expected to play a role. I thought it best if we spread them out and gave each a lead role at one of the events. They agreed. In the end, we decided that Premier Gordon Campbell would be on hand in Olympia for the lighting ceremony and that Vancouver Mayor Gregor Robertson would be in Athens for the handover a week later. The prime minister, in the meantime, would be on the tarmac in Victoria for the arrival. Initially, everyone seemed good with this arrangement, but one day I got a call from the mayor, who was freaking out about not being part of the ceremony in Olympia. He told me that Greek friends had informed him that part of the ceremony in Olympia involved the passing of something or other from a representative from Olympia to the mayor of the host city. All news to me. Gregor said it was now vital he be there. He insisted on it. I was taken aback, as this change would mean more surgery to the protocol plan. “Gregor,” I said, “I think I would know if that was supposed to happen.” He persisted and I gave in. (The information Gregor received never was validated in Olympia.)
By this point, our staff handling this portion of the trip had already informed Victoria that Premier Campbell was going to be on first in Olympia, our delegation leader. I had told him that myself. Now we had to phone back and say, ah, well, he’s now going to have to share the stage with the Vancouver mayor. It made us look like amateurs who didn’t know what we were doing, but it was par for the course when dealing with political delegates.
There would be more arguments about who should carry the flame off the plane in Victoria. Should it be federal Minister of Sport Gary Lunn, a real team player who deserved a role? Should it be Gregor? Maybe an Aboriginal chief ? Many people wanted me to do it. I honestly didn’t care; I just wanted peace. Ultimately, Gregor carried it off, but there had been far too much politicking behind the scenes for us to feel good about the outcome.
Political aides were always arguing about who would speak first and who would speak second at various events. It was exhausting dealing with this stuff and my least favourite aspect of the Games, in many ways. We had to have a full-time person—make that a team—looking after protocol, just to manage those in public office who craved the limelight.
On that front, I should say that throughout the entire Olympics, including the lead-up to the Games, Gordon Campbell never insisted on centre stage. While he would face cheap shots and criticism for his boisterous, some would say over-the-top, displays of Olympic fervour during the Games, Gordon never once asked to be accorded any special favours as the lead politician in the host province. He had put more on the line, politically at least, than any other elected official connected to the Games and yet asked nothing in return, except that we deliver a wonderful experience for the country. He went way up in my estimation.
IN THE MONTHS leading up to our trip to Greece, I endured one of the toughest periods of my professional career—probably my life. Jack Poole, the guy who had mentored me and had become my number one confidante throughout the organization of the Games, was dying of cancer.
Jack had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a couple of years earlier. I remember him telling me when he got the news. I would forever be struck by how poised he was in describing how he discovered he had the disease. He had been at a dinner with Darlene and gone to the bathroom not feeling particularly well. When he looked in the mirror he noticed he looked jaundiced. Several trips to the doctor, lots of tests and the eventual diagnosis followed.
Pancreatic cancer is one of the deadliest forms of the disease. A person’s chances of surviving it are less than 5 per cent. But for Jack, 5 per cent was like 50 per cent: enough to work with. If it took sheer guts and determination to be among the lucky survivors, then Jack was there. But it wouldn’t be easy. Treatment would involve complex surgeries and a stay in a Seattle hospital that used a particularly harsh treatment protocol to enhance the chances of survival. It involved radiation every day for 40 days and chemo three times a week on top of that. Jack would have climbed Kilimanjaro three times a day to get better, such was his raw inner spirit.
The day Jack described to me what the treatment would entail, he could have been describing changing the oil in his car. The guy was tough as nails. I will always remember seeing him in Seattle after a particularly punishing day of treatment, on his knees, throwing up. Even after that, Jack could manage a smile and make some wiseacre remark about how much fun he was having. As sick as he was, he wanted to hear all about what was going on back at the office. Funny how those visits to make him feel better ended up making me feel better.
Eventually, Jack would be released from hospital and resume his duties with the board. But there was always the chance the disease would return, and sure enough it did in the summer of 2009. Jack was stoic as usual when he told me, but this time I sensed something different in his voice. There would be no second round of treatment such as he had undergone in Seattle. Enough already.
For those close to him, it was a question of how much longer he had. Darlene was by his side 24 hours a day, praying for a miracle. He lamented time and again to her how much he regretted not being able to pitch in more when I needed him most. I took the
changing news hard, knowing I would soon be losing my best friend. Quietly I prayed he would hang on until the Games, imagining the two of us together in the front row.
As the weeks passed, Jack spent more and more time at home, in bed or on the couch. The phone was his lifeline. He wasn’t going to be returning to work as chair of VANOC, though I used to say underestimating him was a mistake. Count him out and he’d walk through the door. I would visit him to update him on where things stood with various aspects of the project. He was always ready with advice, but it was terrible to see such a vibrant, strong man so weak. There were a few moments in every day, especially when I was on an airplane or sitting in an airport terminal, when I thought about Jack and our friendship and the crazy journey we had embarked on together eight years earlier. I would call him often and without reason just to laugh and chat.
We certainly had our disagreements over the years. More than once I hissed at Jack for saying things to the press that I knew would not translate well in the hyper-sensitive world of the IOC. He would enjoy the ribbing and do it again. Almost every time we disagreed on an issue, he would tell me he thought I was wrong but he’d let me make the call, saying: “Look, it’s your show. You do what you think is right.” Coming from a corporate titan like Jack, that meant a lot. Win, lose or draw, he always had my back. When the going got rough he’d make me think twice before pulling the lever on a major decision. I was determined never to make him look foolish for sticking by me the entire way. Often when I thought of Jack I was reminded of a line my father sometimes trotted out: “If I was twice the man I am, I’d still only be half the man he is.”
Jack had a wicked sense of humour and little tolerance for people feeling sorry for themselves. I remember once when he was convalescing from a round of cancer treatments and I visited him at home to talk about a tough issue. He had a card for me sitting in an envelope beside a glass of fresh orange juice. Inside it said something like “It is always darkest just before it goes black.” In other words, bad as you think it is, it will surely get worse. That was Jack.
A few days before we were leaving for Greece for the lighting of the torch in Olympia, I went to the hospital. He didn’t look good when I entered his room but he still managed a smile. He had lost so much weight and had a few more tubes attached than the last time I visited. I filled him in on what was going to be happening at the ceremony and some of the logistics involved. I told him that I would be back in a few days and planned to show him pictures and video from the ceremony. I told him that day that no matter what happened, we would deliver a great Games, make him proud and keep every promise we made. I gave him a hug, knowing I might not see him again.
On my way to Olympia I stopped in New York to attend the UN’s adoption of the Olympic Truce, which calls on all nations in conflict to embrace peace and to cease fighting for the period of the Games. In ancient times, this was done to allow athletes to get to the Games safely. Today, while some see this initiative with cynicism, it is a reminder of the power and example of sport to foster harmony and peace.
Canada, along with the IOC and VANOC, had prepared the draft resolution, and I was the proudest Canadian alive when our ambassador to the UN deferred the floor to me to read the resolution into the record, from the same podium that numerous world leaders had spoken from—and then to see it approved unanimously. That night I spoke with Ban Ki-moon, the secretary general of the UN, who insisted that our work was more important than ever. Good enough for me.
A COUPLE OF DAYS later, a group of us landed in Athens and made our way to ancient Olympia and the Temple of Hera for the official flame lighting, a four-hour ride late at night. It was an incredible setting, seemingly unchanged in centuries, a hallowed ground with a beautiful grassy seating area from which to watch the proceedings.
The ceremony was simple and yet rich—a re-enactment of a centuries-old tradition full of moving protocol and symbolism. It was the job of actress Maria Nafpliotou, playing the part of a high priestess and dressed in a long, flowing gown, to ignite the flame from sun rays captured in a parabolic bowl. It was somewhat overcast, and there were concerns there wouldn’t be enough sun to light the flame. But some timely prayers to Apollo, the Greek god of the sun, and sure enough the clouds parted, the sun arrived and the flame was lit. We were standing in a roofless temple watching a miracle—the gods had somehow blessed us and sent us on our way to do a great good. I was pinching myself with excitement.
Soon Vassilis Dimitriadis, officially the first torchbearer of the 2010 Games, lit his torch from the original flame and set off to begin what would be an eight-day relay through the mountains of Greece. Seeing him run out of the ancient stadium into a field and over the surrounding hills before going out of sight gave me shivers.
The exchange brought my torch relay director, Jim Richards, to tears. I had to work hard not to shed a few myself, the moment was so powerful. I pulled out my BlackBerry and found a quiet corner of the grove to phone Jack and tell him what had just happened. It was 2 AM back in Vancouver, so I had to leave a message but it was a long one. I gave Jack an almost minute-by-minute account of the ceremony. I really wanted to bring him there and put a smile on his face if I could. I told him again I would see him in a couple of days.
Gordon Campbell and I rode in a van together back to Athens. A rumour surfaced en route that Jack had passed away. I received a query from someone in the media. I choked but told the caller it could not be true or I would have heard about it immediately. A bit shook up, I called Deborah Prior, Jack’s long-time and much adoring executive assistant, who was walking into the hospital at the time. She put Jack on. I could barely make him out. It was good to hear his voice nonetheless. He said little but that he looked forward to seeing me upon my return. We were all elated just knowing he was still with us.
The premier and I flew home the next morning through Amsterdam, where we had a stopover of six hours. We decided to grab a hotel room to do some work while we waited for our flight. Gordon went down to the business centre at the hotel, and I was getting ready to exercise when my phone rang. It was Deborah Prior. Jack was gone.
I sat on the bed for a few minutes trying to digest what I’d just heard. Even though I had known this day was coming, I was still heartbroken and trembling. I couldn’t help thinking that Jack had hung on long enough to know that the torch had been lit and was on its way to Vancouver. It was okay for him to go now so he did. For Jack, the 2010 Games had started. His mission accomplished. His service fully rendered.
I had to make arrangements to get a VANOC press statement sent out, as the news wouldn’t remain a secret for long. I got Renee Smith-Valade, our vice-president of communications, on the phone along with a couple of others, and an hour later we issued our statement. The premier wrote his own. It would be a heavy, tearful day.
Gordon and I spent the plane ride to Vancouver sometimes talking about Jack, sometimes locked in silence. His experiences with the man were different from mine, but they went back decades. When we landed 10 hours later, there was a mob of media at the airport. The premier and I sat down to address them. I told the reporters, as did the premier, that the province had lost a giant and so had our Olympic team. I think those members of the media who dealt with me a lot could tell how rattled and shaken I was.
Jack’s funeral was held on Tuesday, October 27, 2009, and it was as close to a state funeral that a layperson gets in this country. Hundreds squeezed into Vancouver’s Christ Church Cathedral to say their goodbyes. He was described as a gentle, loyal friend who never turned his back on his small-town Saskatchewan roots. At Jack’s request, Dale Evans’s “Happy Trails” was sung at the funeral. That was just like Jack, poking fun at the situation.
Jack was remembered fondly as “the father of the Games” by Premier Campbell. Friend and businessman Peter Brown highlighted Jack’s fun-loving and mischievous side. Everyone agreed Jack had a way of lifting one’s burdens. I talked about how “he had taught us things not known to k
ings” and how Jack had convinced me to join him on this Olympic odyssey, saying that if I didn’t do it he wouldn’t either. “Like a three-year-old schoolboy I believed him,” I told the congregation. “That was the first of a thousand times I was to be Jack Pooled.”
WHEN JACK WAS a young man making his way in the business world, he would buy himself a new shirt whenever he had accomplished something worth celebrating. His first boss had failed to reward his performance, something that always bothered Jack. He figured if he didn’t give himself a pat on the back once in a while, no one would.
Long after he had made millions and lost millions and made millions again in the development game, Jack would have one of the most breathtaking collections of fine shirts. After we started working together, Jack started to do the same thing with me—buy me a beautiful, expensive shirt after we accomplished something particularly noteworthy. He would call me on a good day and remark: “Almost a new shirt day, John.”
A couple of months after he passed away, I was visiting Darlene at the couple’s home in Vancouver. I wanted to see how she was doing. She left the room for a minute and returned with a box with a ribbon on it.
“Read the card first,” Darlene said.
It was from Jack.
“Darlene,” it read, “whatever happens, make sure you get John a new shirt for Christmas.”
It was written just days before Jack passed away. I sat in my car on Point Grey Road after that visit and sobbed.
BUT THERE WASN’T much time to sit and ponder life without my good friend. Two days after Jack’s funeral, I was back at the airport boarding that armed forces plane for the flight to Athens to bring the Olympic flame back to Canada. The sense of occasion was almost magnetic. However, what should have been a time of unmitigated joy and excitement felt a little less so. I wouldn’t get over Jack’s death easily.
