Patriot Hearts

by John Furlong

  I was aware that I had to be careful not to come across as arrogant or defensive. I wasn’t going to try and absolve ourselves of blame in some of the problems that had occurred. There was criticism that was valid, the viewing area around the cauldron being one. We should have seen that coming. And then there was criticism that was not: the conditions on Cypress. Like we had any control over that. Okay, so only three legs of the cauldron came up during the opening ceremonies instead of four. This is a reason to smear a country internationally?

  When we strode into the news conference room Wednesday morning, the media were surprised to see me. I think reporters were now anticipating some kind of announcement. I began by talking about how well I thought things were going. Yes, we had experienced some of the same teething problems that most Games endure at the beginning—transportation being one—but we had addressed them. What I wanted to impress upon the journalists in the room was the chasm that seemed to exist between some of the reporting and what was going on in the streets, at many of the pavilions that the provinces had set up and, most importantly, at the venues. I didn’t make specific mention of the scathing reviews we were receiving from abroad. But to no one’s surprise, I didn’t have to wait long for a journalist to ask me about the British media’s take on how the Games were going.

  “I’ve read some things that I admit I didn’t like reading and I don’t believe are true or fair,” I answered. “But having said that, when we make mistakes or when things don’t go well, you have to fix them.” I cited the cauldron as an example. But then I rhymed off a list of things that I thought were going well and perhaps were being overlooked by some of the media. The venues were sold out. The television audience numbers were astronomical. The athletes were raving about the experience. The downtown core was jammed. There had been none of the traffic chaos that had been predicted. In fact, the reverse was true. The city was operating beautifully.

  “When I look at the first four or five days,” I said, “I don’t think there’s anybody here and anyone in the city that would have been prepared to say ‘I could have predicted this.’ Today and yesterday were pretty darn good days and we’re trying to build on that and show that we have the resilience and the thoughtfulness and the humility to manage the unexpected stuff that comes our way that is not welcome but that we have to deal with and will deal with. For me, one of the most pleasurable things that I’ve seen since we started is the quality of the sportsmanship in the crowd. People are embracing these young men and women who have come here from around the world.” Canadian fans were rising to the occasion.

  I said that I thought some of the criticism, especially from some of the British papers, had been manufactured nonsense that bore little resemblance to what was happening. Bad enough they were saying these things and that they were not true. Some of the writers were not even in the province but were blasting the way we were conducting business as if they were sitting in the bleachers. That was a bit much to stomach. As I talked, I could sense the mood shifting. Reporters wanted to cover my challenge of the British press. Even while I was talking, a request for an interview with me was coming in to Renee on her BlackBerry from the BBC.

  I felt good about that news conference. I thought I had put the first four or five days in perspective. A month or so later, after the Games were long over, I received a lovely e-mail from a woman named Mary Conibear. Mary had a senior management role in the Main Operations Centre, which was based at VANOC headquarters on the east side of the city. It was our nerve centre, the place from which we kept an eye, literally, on everything going on at the Games. In her e-mail, Mary admitted to being quite down during the first four days of the Olympics. The criticism we faced was withering and morale destroying. Mary said that when she was at her lowest, I had come to a meeting at the MOC and told them that enough was enough, the media were ready to get on our side, we just needed them to report what was going on out there and show our stuff.

  “That was the day you went to the press conference and in an unbelievably calm way straightened them out,” Mary wrote. “We were literally cheering in the MOC like it was a sporting event. You’ll never know how much that meant to me.”

  About 20 minutes after the Wednesday press conference I was sitting on a chair talking to James Pearce, a reporter with BBC Sport. We were on the northeast lower deck of the Broadcast Centre with the harbour and mountains in the background. He wanted me to reiterate some of the comments I had made at the news conference but also to use the opportunity to speak directly to our critics in the British papers. “We can’t do this,” Pearce told me before we began. “But we can give you a microphone so you can do it.”

  So I did. I told him that to read some of the comments that were being made about us in the Guardian and Daily Mail, among others, I had to wonder which Games these reporters were covering. James asked me a few more questions and then the camera was shut off. We chatted and he told me he understood my frustration. He marvelled at the atmosphere in the city. We shook hands and he promised to play my interview straight up and uncut. And he did.

  I don’t know if it was coincidence or what, but everything seemed to change that day. It was a turning point for us, no question. There would be little criticism after that morning. Instead, the focus would turn to how successful the Games were becoming. Reporters could feel the rumble of momentum building in the streets and in the living rooms of Canadians across the country.

  And the sun came out. The glorious, glorious sun that we thought we might never see again. It made everyone feel better.

  12

  Owning the Podium

  WITH MOST OF the early problems behind us— although our fingers and toes would be always crossed—the focus of Games coverage now rightfully shifted to the athletes.

  Alexandre Bilodeau had given the country the rarest of golden moments for which it had long been waiting. And he’d conquered Cypress Mountain to boot. In fact, in the first four days of competition, that mountain, our most vexing nemesis, had been exceedingly good to Canada’s athletes. Besides Alexandre’s gold, North Vancouver’s Maëlle Ricker also topped the podium in women’s snowboard cross, to the delight of a noisy cheering section of family and friends.

  Cypress was also the scene of a couple of silver medal performances early in the Games, one being Jenn Heil’s in moguls, the other Mike Robertson’s in men’s snowboard cross. All four were such stellar characters, such fine examples of athletes and young citizens. There was so much to cheer for in all of their stories of dedication and perseverance. The story behind Maëlle’s gold medal run was particularly meaningful to me as a Games organizer because of something not many people knew about at the time.

  Maëlle had wonderfully supportive parents. Her mother, Nancy, was a retired biology professor. Her father, Karl, was a retired geologist. Karl had signed up to be a Blue Jacket during the Olympics and was assigned to Whistler to be part of the crew that got the mountain ready for competition each day. Karl became an invaluable member of his mountain-grooming crew. The day Maëlle was racing for gold, he was scheduled to be working on the mountain. His colleagues insisted that Karl take his shift off to go and see his daughter race. But Karl said that to do that would be letting his fellow volunteers down, so he decided to fulfill his obligations on the mountain. He missed Maëlle’s wonderful run on Cypress but would hear all about it later. There was something in this story that embodied the spirit that existed among so many of our volunteers.

  On Friday, the country had another gold and a truly iconic Canadian moment, thanks to one human fireball—Jon Montgomery. Jon was one of our top skeleton racers, yet not many were picking him to win at these Games. But underneath that mop of red hair and that unruly red beard beat the heart of a true champion. He had the run of his life and sure enough he ended up winning gold. It was on his way into the Whistler village afterward that he really cemented his place in the country’s folklore.

  Spectators and well-wishers had formed an honour guard t
hat Jon walked through en route to the village square where he was scheduled to be interviewed by TSN. It was a beautiful clear night and everyone was screaming and yelling as Jon made his way through the crowd to TSN’s outdoor stage. At one point, a woman with impeccable instincts handed Jon a pitcher of beer, and without missing a beat he began quaffing from the jug. After his first big swig, there was white foam all over his beard. The crowd ate it up. Heck, the country ate it up. Instant stardom: Canadians wouldn’t be able to get enough of this charismatic prairie kid who wore a smile as wide as Saskatchewan throughout the Games. A day later, he would hop up on the podium at his victory celebration and endear himself to the country all over again with an off-key but full-throated rendition of “O Canada.” What a character. A season earlier I had witnessed Jon at a media event in Whistler and noticed that look of steel in his eyes and thought there goes a real contender. And here he was now, the real McCoy, a new Canadian hero to whom we could all relate, with a gold medal hanging from his neck.

  Saturday brought the first big hockey game of the Olympics for our men—Canada versus the United States. Many thought, and many prayed, that this was a prelude to the gold medal game. Certainly, NBC was hoping the two teams would compete. I had quietly hoped for Russia in the final, a clash of the traditional hockey superpowers—1972 all over again. While Canada was a clear gold medal candidate, along with the Russians, I thought the Americans would give us a good game. They have that “rise-to-the-occasion” mentality and never go away easily. The team’s GM was Brian Burke, whose son Brendan had died tragically in a car accident shortly before the Games. He was bringing a broken heart to these Games. Brian was a tough, cagey guy and had spent much of the run-up to the Olympics playing down his team’s chances of doing much, which should have been a signal to everyone that he thought the Americans had a great squad.

  He was right.

  I visited with Brian in a suite above the ice at Canada Hockey Place, where we grew to love him when he was GM of the Canucks. I wanted to welcome him home to Vancouver and express my regrets over his heartbreaking loss. As I opened the door I saw him sitting there studying his players, who were practising on the ice below. His face was red and puffy, evidence of some extremely hard nights in recent weeks. Here he was, I thought, a gladiator giving his team a lesson in life and showing the courage of 10 men. We shared a few warm words of friendship and I wished him well. Walking down the hall, I thought that with Burkie in their corner the Americans were going to take everyone to the mat. And they did, starting with us.

  With Martin Brodeur in net for Canada, the Americans played a great game, showing off their speed and exceptional goaltending. Ryan Miller was playing like the elite goaltender that he was. Canada ended up losing 5–3 and there were lots of sad, panicked faces in the arena and around the country after the game ended. I didn’t share the pessimism. I thought the loss might have been just what we needed to shake off feelings of superiority or overconfidence our team might have had coming into the tournament.

  Now the hockey tournament was starting to exhibit shades of Salt Lake in 2002, when the Canadian team that many thought was going to breeze through the preliminary round ran into trouble. But that adversity ended up being a good thing, something Wayne Gretzky would later credit for the team’s gold medal. I thought the loss to the Americans represented the same opportunity for Canada. A chance to put things in perspective a bit and to demonstrate that nothing was going to be handed to this team. If it was going to win gold, it was going to have to earn every bit of it. The promise of real sporting drama was in the air and what could be the best Olympic hockey final ever was shaping up.

  With that sobering loss to the U.S. and a few other hiccups, a definite nervousness, even anxiety, was beginning to surround the Canadian Olympic team as a whole. The Own the Podium program was coming under a new round of media scrutiny because a week into the Games our athletes weren’t dominating the medal standings. Reporters began regurgitating quotes from the incoming Canadian Olympic Committee president, Marcel Aubut, who had said before the start of the Olympics that we would be good hosts but added, “These Games will be ours. We will own the podium.” I loved the confidence he exuded but prayed the words wouldn’t come back to bite Marcel, who would have pulled on a uniform himself to help the team win.

  You could see and feel the pressure our athletes were under. It was evident in the voice of Mellisa Hollingsworth, who was seen as a medal cinch in women’s skeleton. But when she failed to make the medal grade she crumbled emotionally, offering a tearful apology to the country for her performance. It was tough to watch. There were no apologies needed. She tried her heart out and on this particular day she just didn’t have it—happens all the time in sport. I honestly thought it was a great sign because her tears were a manifestation of how badly our athletes wanted to win. They were in unison with Canadians everywhere who could see how hard the athletes were trying to give the country the success it was craving. This was the best of Canadian desire and humility all blended together.

  By the end of the first week, Chris Rudge, the COC’s outgoing chief executive officer, was telling reporters it was doubtful that we would finish in first place in the medal count, even though there was more than a week to go in the competition. The Americans, true to form, had jumped out to an impressive lead that Chris and others felt would be too hard to make up. I got wind of the fact that the COC was planning to hold a news conference to go public with its view that Canada was not going to “own the podium” as we had promised. When I heard this, I felt sick.

  I thought holding a news conference would end up being a no-win race to the bottom and signal to our athletes that we were throwing in the towel on our ambitions to be number one. What kind of message did that send to the athletes who still had to compete? That we had no confidence in them? Besides, I didn’t share the view that our team had performed that poorly, and when I looked at the schedule of events I saw a number of competitions left that we stood a great chance of medalling in. The people in the streets were positively euphoric about our successes so far, and to them a bugle-sounding retreat would seem ridiculous. Beyond that, however, I thought holding a news conference on the subject was completely unnecessary. Why prejudge what was going to happen? Why not just wait until the Games were over when we had something tangible to judge in the way of an overall performance?

  I remember walking into the COC’s offices at Canada Place around this time and I swear it was like walking into an Irish wake. Marcel was being the voice of optimism, whereas Chris Rudge and others seemed to be preparing for a gloomy proclamation of some sort. This was outside my mandate but I thought this news conference was a bad idea, and after biting hard on my lip for a while I decided to leave matters to them.

  I thought that instead of casting the performance of our athletes in a negative light, we should be doing just the opposite, highlighting our biggest wins, especially on Cypress Mountain. We had won our first gold medal ever on Canadian soil—and they were going to hold a news conference that would generate stories about how poorly our athletes were doing. The last time an Olympics had been held in Canada we won five medals, total. Against that result we had crossed a great divide—big time.

  As it turned out, the issue didn’t explode into a huge story at the news conference, but a day later Chris was telling reporters we would likely fall short of our target. So in avoiding the first bullet we invited another. The Own the Podium program was about removing any obstacles standing between our athletes and their ability to perform at the top of their potential. To think every athlete we had was going to win was preposterous. On any given day in sports, anything can happen.

  Kelly VanderBeek was one of our fiercest competitors in Alpine skiing and a real medal contender for Canada. She was a fearless human missile coming down that mountain. She had prepared exhaustively for these Games, and then the worst nightmare: she shattered her knee pouring herself into a race in Europe. Kelly would have climbed E
verest on crutches to make the Olympic podium. But sports is full of this kind of misfortune. All she could do was watch and cheer and think about the next time.

  Heartbreak is part of every athlete’s story—and part of the story of every great competition like the Olympics.

  THE IDEA OF the Own the Podium program had its genesis early in the Games’ preparation. There was a view coming out of the Salt Lake City Olympics that the performance of the U.S. team there had helped the country embrace the Games in a way it might not have otherwise. At a time when Americans felt vulnerable because of 9/11, the performance of their athletes in Salt Lake gave them something to rally around. It was wonderful to see.

  It was clear to us that no matter how we did as an organizing committee in Vancouver, to some degree our success would be determined by how our athletes performed. Even a flawless execution of the Games was not going to be enough to convince Canadians the whole exercise had been worth it. Canadians couldn’t care less about how we got the buses to Whistler or if our technology was mind-blowing or if it was too cold in the media tent. To Canadians, the Olympics was about sports and athletes, full stop. In order to achieve our vision and have the country focus on the Games in the way we wanted, our Olympic team needed to be strong and confident. The strongest ever. Canadians needed to turn on their television sets and know the athletes’ names as if they were family. They needed to hear “O Canada” played again and again and again. This was not something we had been able to achieve at past Olympic Winter Games.

  It was after Salt Lake that I received a call from the COC’s Chris Rudge asking me if we’d be interested in partnering with them in a study to look at what it would take for Canada to become the top-performing country at the 2010 Games as measured by the total number of medals. There had been discussions within the COC, largely led by the organization’s wonderful director of sport, Mark Lowry, focusing on our performance in 2010. (Sadly, Mark passed away before he got to see the fruits of his genius.) Mark thought there was a way for us to achieve our greatest-ever success in Vancouver, even end up on top, if we applied ourselves fully. But it was going to take money and a plan and a realistic approach. A suggestion was made to have Cathy Priestner Allinger, a former Olympic medallist and seasoned, no-nonsense sport leader who had yet to join VANOC, put together a team and produce a report on what it would take to win the most medals at our Olympics.