Patriot Hearts

by John Furlong

  I had earlier enlisted the assistance of Marcel Aubut, the president-elect of the Canadian Olympic Committee, the former owner of the Québec Nordiques and a legend in la belle province. I remember vividly when Marcel ran with the torch in Quebec. He had a huge following. I thought he could help me with some of my expressions, phrasing and elocution. Marcel immediately came up with several suggestions so that I might better express myself in French this time around. He even offered to help me in person, which is how we ended up together in the bowels of BC Place Stadium hours before the closing going over my French words. He made me repeat my phrases over and over and over again. He conducted his lessons with all the colour and flair of an animated choirmaster. “Not good enough,” he’d bark. “Do it again.” His hands were flying all over the place. His lips were moving a mile a minute. I would have burst out laughing if it hadn’t all been so serious. He gave me a pretty thorough grinding, and when I was done I was beat. He helped me cross the line from complete hopelessness to 10 per cent Brave-heart. I was ready to give it a shot.

  The other reason I wanted to make myself scarce was because of what David had planned for Act One. Jacques Rogge and other members of the IOC were going to be staring down at an unlit cauldron, one that still had only three arms. But more significant was that it wasn’t burning—a violation of Olympic protocol. Once you light the cauldron to begin the Olympics, it is supposed to remain lit until the Games are over and the world is beckoned to meet again in four years’ time in the next host city. When people arrived for the closing, we should have had that cauldron burning, leaving everyone with the impression it had been glowing for 17 days.

  Oops.

  I could only imagine what everyone was thinking as they saw that poor, cold, unlit tripod, an arm still missing. For all they knew the embarrassment of opening night was about to be repeated.

  I was also feeling a little anxious for my youngest daughter, Molly, who had grown from a small child into a beautiful young teenager during the life of this project. She was going to be dancing in the opening number, which was an ode to snowboarders. She had applied to be a dancer, auditioned quietly and been selected before I knew one word of her plan. All those years of dance classes had paid off. I was nervous and excited for her. I knew her stomach was probably a little queasy as well.

  Eventually, it was time to find Darlene Poole, whom I was escorting to the president’s box. When we got to our seats there was a frisson of expectancy in the air. Many people were looking at the cauldron and wondering what on earth gives. I leaned over to Darlene just before the voice of God came over the public address system to announce the show was starting momentarily. “Get ready for a doozy of a surprise,” I whispered.

  A few minutes later, with a burst of feathers, sparks and flames and the appearance of our mime dressed as a mechanic, the ceremonies began. It didn’t take long for Catriona to make her dramatic appearance and for the crowd to realize what was taking place: a beautiful bit of self-deprecating humour to set the tone just right. The crowd went crazy, loving every bit of our self-inflicted comedy. Below me, Prince Willem-Alexander of the Netherlands looked over to Dave Cobb with a wide grin. “Genius,” he said.

  And it was. Pure David Atkins genius. He was worth every penny of his contract for that moment alone.

  I didn’t see Jacques Rogge’s reaction to what had just happened on the stage floor but I’d like to think he was happy. Another inspired Olympic moment for him. I’m hoping he cracked a smile, regarded the moment for what it was and overlooked the breach in protocol. I didn’t see it as a protocol gaffe so much as a protocol lift. People were going to be talking about this moment for a long time. It humanized us, not just the organizing committee but the country as a whole. I think it even helped make the IOC, an organization that guards its rules and traditions with the persistence and dedication of a Napoleonic army, seem less stodgy and hidebound. The moment seemed to mark the Games in a special way, showing Canadians for what they are: laid-back people who aren’t afraid to poke a little fun at themselves, not slaves to tradition.

  Our mime seemed to relax the whole stadium. Already in a great mood, the crowd was ready to have a good time now. Soon the floor was filled with hundreds of snowboard-carrying dancers dressed in white, swarming around the lit cauldron to the strains of a song called “Vancouver” led by the Winnipeg rock band Inward Eye. The dancers were mostly high school students, and out there among them was Molly, who had practised endlessly for her three minutes of fame. I strained to find her among the whirling-dervish frenzy taking place on the floor. No chance. It didn’t stop me from being one proud father though.

  The athlete parade, true to form, was a show of unity. No borders now as athletes abandoned tradition to link up with their global friends—black, white, brown, men, women, gay, straight. Uniforms and flags were traded around. It was as if the world was now just one country, a shining example of what could be. It was let-your-hair-down time, party time, as if the athletes were telling the rest of us that sport is truly life’s greatest metaphor. I could only imagine the aspirations of children all over the earth whose Olympic dreams began right here.

  I left my seat to make my way over to the stage, along with Jacques, to give my closing address. Although speeches from the CEO of the organizing committee are traditionally much shorter during the closing ceremonies than during the opening, I wanted mine to reflect the full story of what had happened in Vancouver and Whistler. It was not a time for useless words or trivia. I wanted Canadians to have someone enunciate for them what it was the country was feeling. So many profound things had happened over the course of the Games—so much and so many to acknowledge. A night to express genuine feelings and to be humble and gracious.

  There is little question that this was the most anxious and tense that I have ever been before a speech—and it wasn’t because billions would be watching. A blunder tonight would be with me my whole life. I was far less edgy before my speech at the opening, when the spotlight was even more intense. But I hadn’t been so worried about my French in the opening. Now I was petrified.

  As I stood backstage waiting to get signalled for my appearance, I could hear the delight of the crowd with everything that was taking place inside the stadium.

  “You’re on,” someone said.

  It’s almost impossible to describe what it feels like to walk out onto the stage of a darkened arena knowing there are 60,000 sets of eyes trained on you. Excited and scared witless at the same time comes closest. Before I knew it, my trembling hands were putting my speech on the lectern in front of me. Jacques Rogge was just a few feet to my right waiting his turn. I had taken Prime Minister Harper’s advice to heart: my opening acknowledgements to Dr. Rogge and members of the IOC, the prime minister, Governor General, provincial premiers, athletes, were all in French. I heard the PM’s words in my head: “Speak French early and people will appreciate you for it, give you marks for trying.”

  I was off and running.

  I talked about the remarkable demonstration of the power of sport that we had just finished witnessing, the force of which had the ability to unite, inspire and liberate us from feelings of hopelessness and despair. But now it was time to say goodbye and thank you. “And to perhaps compare for a moment the Canada that was with the Canada that now is,” I said.

  It was a line that I had settled on just a couple of days earlier, but one I thought was perhaps the most important of them all, one that acknowledged that something extraordinary had taken place, something profound, and that we were all a little taller than when we began. I was also suggesting to a watching world that it had come to know Canadians as we really are. And along the way a bunch of myths and preconceived notions had been tossed aside.

  “That quiet, humble national pride we were sometimes reluctant to acknowledge seemed to take to the streets as the most beautiful kind of patriotism broke out all across the country. . . [Canadians] did not just cheer—rather you lived every glorious mom
ent as if you yourselves were competing for gold.”

  Alexandre Bilodeau’s first gold medal had given the country permission to feel and behave like champions. Our last gold medal in men’s hockey would be remembered for generations.

  I had to acknowledge the men and women without whose spirit and determination and hard work the Games could not have happened and certainly would not have been the success they were: the Blue Jackets, the undisputed heroes of the Olympics, some of whom had taken on a stubborn mountain and had defeated it. “May your contribution here be worn as a badge of honour for the rest of your lives,” I said. “For you have, through your service, defined for all to see what it is to be a proud, generous Canadian.”

  I couldn’t get through my final address without a reference to the tragedy that could easily have defined these Games but didn’t. “To the people of Georgia we are so sad and so sorry for your loss. Your unimaginable grief is shared by every Canadian and all those who have gathered here. May the legacy of your favourite son Nodar Kumaritashvili never be forgotten and serve to inspire youth everywhere to be champions in life.”

  The 2010 Winter Olympics would have many wonderful legacies, I said, yet I wished for just one: “That every Canadian child— be they from Chicoutimi, Moncton, Grande Prairie, Squamish or Niagara Falls—will have the chance to grow up to experience the pleasure of sport. No one left out. And that we of the global Olympic family will not rest until the right of every child to play across this planet is secured.”

  And with a “Vive le Canada” I was done.

  As I walked from the stage, buoyed by a loud, warm ovation, I felt almost weightless. I could breathe again. The tension had melted from my body. I was happy to have survived. Before I even reached my seat my BlackBerry was buzzing. Two of the first messages I received were from James Moore, the federal culture minister I had battled with, and Marcel Aubut, both congratulating me on my French. I couldn’t resist a smile. I knew, of course, it wasn’t perfect, and probably offended the ears of the purists, but I had tried my best. Like the prime minister had told me, I was never going to please all the critics but I was going to get marks for having the courage to try hard.

  To this day, I haven’t been able to watch a video of my speeches, from either the opening or the closing. Maybe one day.

  I was now going to be able to truly enjoy the rest of the show, which was designed as an outsized tribute to Canada, a spectacle that brought a smile to everyone’s face, often at our own expense. We were going to play to some of the clichés rather than try to pretend they didn’t exist or weren’t partly based in fact. So when William Shatner came on and said, “I’m proud of the fact that we Canadians can have four beers and still pronounce the ‘Strait of Juan de Fuca’ without being censored,” a knowing chuckle ripped right across the country. The highlight of the evening was Michael Bublé’s rendition of “The Maple Leaf Forever.”

  The next day, I read a description of that segment that I thought nailed it perfectly. It was penned by Pete McMartin, of the Vancouver Sun, whose kind review was further noteworthy because the writer had been a critic of the Games from the start. “Bublé was perfect,” Pete wrote, “and the Broadway production swirling around him was so wonderfully campy and so entertaining that I had the thought watching it that this was a new moment in Canada’s image of itself. The squad of dancing Mounties, and then the giant wooden Mounties being wheeled out, and the dancing maple leaf babes, and the jigging coureurs de bois in their canoes, and the giant beavers and moose and best of all, the giant hockey table game, which was pure genius and a Canadian inside joke that caused a pang in the heart of every Canadian kid of a certain age (notice the gold medals on the hockey players?), it was brilliant, all of it. The joke on us, by us. All that was lacking was a giant pitcher of maple syrup to pour over everything.”

  A joke on us, by us. It was the perfect description. If there was any irony it was in how similar many parts of the production were to the one that was so severely criticized in Turin. It had been mocked for playing to every trite cliché there was about Canada. This one did the same, in many respects, and yet was hailed far and wide for being fun and entertaining and pitch perfect.

  In the waning minutes, Canadian-born troubadour Neil Young brought the house down serenading the athletes with a rendition of his iconic hit “Long May You Run.” It was a goodbye that seemed completely Canadian. The Games had served to remind the world of Canada’s deep pool of homegrown but international talent.

  As Neil took his leave, I could sense a strange feeling in the stadium. The flame now extinguished, people just did not want to let it go. I was delighted at the extent to which the crowd had embraced the entire production and thought they had played a starring role themselves. As I looked around, I was surprised by the number of people who continued to sit in their seats soaking up every last bit while others poured for the exits to continue the celebration. I turned to Darlene as we were heading out and told her that if Jack had been nearby, as I always felt he was, he would now know it was okay to slip away from us. His work was done. Somewhere out there he was smiling—this I know.

  We set up for a press conference down at the Main Press Centre soon after the ceremonies were over and the mood heading into it couldn’t have been more different from the one held after the opening ceremonies. I was so delighted for David, who was surely going to be hailed for the creative mastermind that he is. No questions about French or faulty cauldrons. Now he was going to be asked how he ever came up with the idea to begin the closing ceremonies in the brilliant way that he had. Some of the actors and singers were on the dais with David and me. I answered a few questions about how it felt to have the Olympics over. They aren’t over, I answered, now we had to gear up for the Paralympics.

  Overall, the news conference questions were kind and positive. The tone suggested that we had bounced back in a very Canadian way from some early setbacks and not only had won the big game but had set a whole new standard. Our successors would be measured differently now. I wasn’t prepared to accept those kind of accolades that day and still don’t. I was just happy that people weren’t still saying the Games were the worst ever.

  After the press conference, I wandered down to Jack Poole Plaza. Although the cauldron was extinguished, thousands of people were still milling around it. I stood there smiling, taking it all in, thrilled by the grand distinction that the cauldron had achieved. It had come to symbolize the heart of the Games. Tens of thousands had come to see it each day hoping to feel the warmth of its flame, to contemplate its storied history, the power of what it had come to symbolize over time. Mothers and fathers, children in hand, staring into the glow so full of wonder and hope. The Olympics have their flaws and have sometimes been dogged by scandal, this we know. But at the core is something good, with the potential to be life changing, earth changing, something with the power to unite a nation as it had ours. You can’t say that about a lot of things today.

  If the second cauldron had come to represent the soul and spirit of these Games, how appropriate, then, that it was situated in a plaza named after the person who I felt embodied the soul and spirit of these Olympics: Jack Poole. I sure missed my sage friend, perhaps never more so than on that final night when I most wanted to give him an embrace for everything he had done for me, everything he had come to mean to me. Ours was a relationship of a lifetime. Thirty-five years earlier I had lost my dad, John “Jack” Furlong, and now John “Jack” Poole was gone from me too. Both of them had made me feel I was worth their effort. I hope I was.

  I eventually made my way back to the Bayshore, where the mood was relaxed and jubilant. Members of the IOC streamed up to me to tell me how proud my team should be with the way it had produced the best Games ever staged, the big guns from Sydney and Lillehammer among them. Quite the endorsement. While it all felt good, I was ready to crash and savour a few quiet hours in my room, call my kids and wind down a bit. There were parties everywhere and invitations to atten
d. I passed on them all. Besides, I had another early start the next morning and wanted to be out at the airport first thing to make sure everything went smoothly.

  What was I thinking when my head hit the pillow that night? I’ve been asked that question a hundred times. What was I thinking? Relief, for sure. While my team wouldn’t be able to fully exhale until the Paralympics were over, I knew that we had bounced back to achieve something special. Our goal was audacious, without question. We set out as dreamers hoping to be nation builders, to somehow do something great for our country, and when I lay down that night to think about whether we had achieved our goal I knew that pretty soon we would find out through the words and actions of others.

  That night may have been one of the happiest, most serene experiences of my life. I was beginning to realize what we had accomplished; I could see it and feel it. And when you feel that good, it just fills you up. You think about things that make you happy, and so before I went to sleep that night I thought about my children and hoped that I had made them proud. I thought about how proud they all made me. I thought about my own family, particularly my mom and dad. What I would have given for them to be alive for this 17-day period in their son’s life.

  A part of me had always felt I had fallen a bit short with my father. To my dad, sport was an amateur endeavour. Sunday stuff. Not real work—not in Ireland in 1974 at least. When I told him I wanted to try to make a living through sport, he’d always shake his head and say he hoped I’d one day come to my senses. Dad would have been stunned had he been in the stadium that night.

  My father was my hero and instilled in me all of the values that I liked to think I imbued in my organization. My mother taught me about honour and decency and doing the right thing and never disregarding the value of someone else’s contribution. Those were also important tenets of my philosophy. So as I lay in bed that night, I thought of both of them and my sister, Rosemary, whom we lost during the bid period to lupus. She would have given anything to be here, to be with her brother.