Companions in Courage

by Pat LaFontaine

  36

  Sarah Reinertsen

  Sarah Reinertsen remembers the night her dad came into her room to take her picture.

  At seven, she did not understand much. But she knew she’d be undergoing surgery in the morning. She knew when she awoke from the anesthetic she’d be missing a leg. She knew she was scared. She knew this photograph would be the only lasting image of herself as physically whole.

  Don and Solveig Reinertsen’s daughter was born with her left leg considerably shorter than her right. When Sarah became a toddler, doctors fitted her with a brace. It served her well until she was approaching school age and the difference in the size of her two legs became more pronounced. After consultation with their doctor, her parents decided that it was in Sarah’s best interest to amputate her left leg above the knee. Little Sarah cried uncontrollably.

  The surgery was done in two stages. First her knee joint was fused. The actual amputation followed three weeks later. Sarah’s leg was put in a cast to protect it and her from any damage that might occur in an active seven-year-old girl’s life. Her grandparents came to help, which was wonderful for Don, Solveig, Sarah, and her brother, Peter, who was four.

  Sarah’s toughest challenge was staying indoors when she would rather have been playing in the snow. But she couldn’t play with anybody. She just had to wait out that winter until she could begin rehab that next summer. And when rehab came, it began slowly. Sarah had to learn to walk, run, and skip all over again. A very active child needed to find a different way to be active again.

  Because her family was athletic, there was always competition going on among the Reinertsens. Sarah had learned to swim when she was three. Her parents encouraged her, but, more importantly, treated her like everyone else. When she fell, they didn’t make a big deal out of it. They waited until she got up and then they all moved on. “They never saw me as limited,” Sarah says.

  She remembers camping with her family at a cottage where life was spartan—no indoor plumbing, running water, or electricity. Excursions to the outhouse were an adventure, particularly when it was rainy and slippery. She’d walk, fall, get up, fall again, get up and fall again, eventually getting there feeling relieved and victorious. Those trips to the privy set the stage for what was to come as Sarah matured as a young female athlete.

  In fourth grade the teasing began, particularly from some of the boys. This was a tough time for her because she didn’t want to tattle but neither did she want to be picked on. Her parents helped her find a balance in making decisions on her own. Sometimes she told her teacher and sometimes she chose to handle it herself. She didn’t like getting anyone in trouble; neither did she like being teased about having a different kind of leg.

  Fortunately, cruel taunts made up only one side of the equation. Sarah’s close, wonderful, and supportive friends, who made life very satisfying for her, comprised the other. She kept working, gradually learning to run again by the time she was eleven, and began participating in the New York State Games for the Physically Challenged.

  This event provided more than competition. It gave her a sense of community, camaraderie with kids who had the same challenges. It was at these games that I first met Sarah. Her love of life, her friendships, and her competitive spirit impressed me. That hasn’t changed.

  Sarah participated in the New York games until she was out of high school, and the events put her in touch with two other people who became an integral part of her life and athletic achievement—Paddy Rossbeck and Dave Balsley. Paddy ran a support group for kids with missing limbs. Sarah loved the group gatherings because she felt bonded with the other kids. There was a lot of encouragement to dream dreams, set goals, and inspire one another to achieve them.

  Paddy, who is an amputee, ran marathons. In her sixties and still going strong, to this day she is an important role model and inspiration to Sarah. Dave is Sarah’s coach. He is a physical therapist who taught her how to run—leg over leg, not just hop and skip. He inspired her to begin training for the Paralympics, and, at age thirteen, Sarah went to her first national event. The result: She broke the 100-meter world record for women above-the-knee amputees.

  When Dave hooked Sarah into this world of international competition, he helped her set a course that she has been pursuing ever after. Since the Paralympic race, which took place just six years after Sarah had learned to run again, she has set world and national records in the 100 meters and 200 meters. She set a world record at the 1998 New York City Marathon, completing the course in 5:52:38. She has finished four marathons, run the Adidas 12-mile Trail Run, run 17 miles in the Hood to Coast Relay, and continued her education. Currently she is finishing her master’s degree in broadcast journalism at the University of Southern California with the support of “The Swim with Mike” scholarship. She looks forward to training for triathlons and beginning her career as a journalist. She hopes to cover a six-day marathon that will be run across the Sahara Desert.

  Sarah ran a marathon on January 1, 2000, in Hamilton, New Zealand. While most of the world geared up for Y2K, she prepared to begin the New Year doing what she loves— running.

  The beginning of the race was uneventful, but at the three-mile mark her prosthetic leg broke. “I sounded like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do. Do I stop running? Do I keep going? I have twenty-three miles to go and I have a broken knee! Wait a minute. I can’t quit. I have to keep going, so I’ll just have to approach this race differently.”

  She pondered her options for a moment. She was sure that she didn’t want a DNF after her name in the record book. She made a quick decision: “I’ll use the Galloway Method—run three minutes, walk one minute. The walking will be a challenge without a heel on my prosthetic leg but I’ll do it.”

  She ran alongside a Texan named Rosemary. They encouraged each other because twenty-three tough miles loomed in front of them. It started to rain; Sarah was relieved because at least it would take the edge off the heat and slow down her dehydration. With ten miles to go, she realized she had a chance to break her own record.

  At the twenty-mile mark she pulled away from Rosemary. The clanging of her prosthetic knee got louder as she picked up her pace for the next three miles. She was now drinking fluids and putting on Ben-Gay Gel from her waist pack. The rain stopped and the sun came out, making the last two miles a challenge, not unlike those trips to the privy when she was a little girl. She was hot, dehydrated, and alone. She couldn’t cry—she was too dehydrated. She heard her own moans as she entered the stadium but they were deafened by the crescendo of the standing crowd’s cheers. The cheering drowned out her own guttural cries and the clanging of her knee.

  She circled the track, feeding off the energy of those who were there, finishing the race in 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 32 seconds. Sarah Reinertsen had broken her knee and her own world record, by four minutes.

  “When I entered the stadium, I was spent. But as soon as I saw the crowd standing and cheering for me, I was no longer alone. It was a Chariots of Fire moment.”

  That evening, New Year’s Day 2000, Sarah celebrated her victory, filled with gratitude for her family, friends, coaches, and fellow competitors. Later, while sitting alone, she gave thanks.

  Sarah loves to run along the beach in Southern California early in the morning when the sun is rising or in the evening when it is setting. It is a lovely complement to the star moving gracefully across the sand.

  37

  Ronan Tynan

  Martin Byrnes of the Limerick Leader newspaper in Ireland was working on a project when he heard a familiar voice on a TV talk show. Not being able to place it, he looked at the screen. He didn’t recognize the face but the voice kept nagging at him.

  Later that night, it dawned on him. The voice and face were those of Ronan Tynan, the highly successful track-and-field athlete he had met in 1983. Tynan, whom Byrnes hadn’t heard from in fifteen years, had become a famous singer—one of the Irish Tenors. How had Ronan, Ir
eland’s sole representative at the British International Amputee Games in 1982, become a celebrated singer?

  Born with a strong voice and weak, deformed ankles, Tynan eventually made great use of both his strengths and his weaknesses. As a young boy, he did his singing on the family farm in rural Johnstown, County Kilkenny. He sang to the cows and believed that those tunes inspired his bovine friends to give more milk. With the encouragement of his father, Edmund, Ronan made the best of his handicap, but it wasn’t easy. His ankles bowed out so badly that they restricted his mobility. He credits his father, whom he called “Da,” for instilling strength and a determined spirit in him.

  “He was determined that I make something of myself,” Ronan says. “He helped me to understand the importance of living in the present. He taught me never to look back because you can’t change the past, and never to obsess on the future because it may not come.”

  A serious motorcycle accident when he was twenty led Ronan and his family to a critical medical decision—the amputation of both legs below the knee. At the time of his accident, Tynan was studying physical education at the National College of Physical Education in Limerick, Ireland. When he returned to school, he grew more determined than ever to succeed. As the first disabled person admitted to the college, he felt an obligation to excel.

  Upon his arrival, he got out of his wheelchair, balanced himself on his prosthetic legs, and walked up the steps to his dormitory. And his surgical wounds hadn’t even healed yet! In seven months he was out of his wheelchair for good and literally leaping past all manner of boundaries. His artificial legs, however, could not handle the demands of his physical education and athletic interests. He knew he had to get better legs if he was to be competitive, but their cost went far beyond his economic reach.

  His classmates took up his cause and soon raised the money he needed. He traveled to Belfast to be fitted, and the next “leg” of his journey was under way.

  Ronan had always wanted to compete in track and field. Now he was ready. A year after his surgery he competed in the International Olympics for the Disabled and won medals in the 100-meter dash, discus, shot put, and javelin. In the next two years Ronan set fourteen world records, won eighteen gold medals, and captured the title of Most Outstanding Athlete in the World at the 1984 Paralympics in New York.

  Because of his physical-education background and his athletic achievements, Tynan decided to take the next great leap and become a doctor. He applied and was admitted to Trinity College in Dublin. He earned his medical degree in sports medicine and to this day practices in Kilkenny, specializing in the treatment of sports injuries. His medical expertise and the inspiration of his own accomplishments make him a popular choice for treatment among athletes.

  Ronan Tynan always sang, whether he was running in track meets, milking the cows, riding horses, swimming, or teaching. Music was a part of him, its rhythms a part of everything he did. When he got to college he moved his talents from the barn on the family farm to several of the local pubs, singing Irish folk songs. His cows had given more milk listening to Tynan’s tunes; now his listeners were giving praise and offering him money. With their encouragement emboldening him, he entered a TV talent show and won the national championship. The contest was titled “Go for It,” appropriate for someone with Tynan’s energy, courage, and zest for life.

  He found a great similarity between singing and athletic competition. “You must look at the voice as an athletic instrument,” he says. “It’s a muscle.” And in his vocation and avocation he discovered a harmony. “In both medicine and singing you are giving. When I sing to people, put out my soul, it can touch people. It can be good for them. And they see you for who you are, not your handicap or your façade.”

  Ronan Tynan loved whatever he did—milking cows, riding horses, athletics, medicine, music—and neither his bowed ankles nor the loss of his legs kept him from pursuing his dreams. The challenge of his handicap became the motivation that drove him to do what was important to him. He didn’t lament his plight; it went with him as he did what he loved. He didn’t let the loss of his legs affect the creative expression of his energy.

  Tynan loved to sing, but he had never had any formal training. “To be honest, I hadn’t a clue. I just liked listening to tenors. I didn’t know what lyric tenor was, or a spinto, or anything. All I knew was that I liked the sounds I heard.”

  He decided to take voice lessons. And in 1992 he won the John McCormack Cup for tenor voice. As he aged and his ability to compete athletically began to wane, his music career blossomed. His Irish tenor voice opened doors. He was invited to perform around the world. He gave himself and his music and became an inspiration to people everywhere—handicapped and able-bodied.

  In 1996, while he was tending to chores on his farm, one of his horses reared and kicked him in the face, severely damaging his nasal area. His athletic interests and his musical career were colliding. He had to have surgery to correct the damage to his face, but, with his usual drive, he tried to come back too soon. His next concert was a shattering disappointment—he lost his voice and his scheduled concerts were canceled.

  The support of his family, friends, fellow athletes, and musicians kept him going. After a while he began to get his voice back and gradually began singing in public again. Two years later, in 1998, Ronan suffered another devastating loss—his beloved father died. In the hours before the burial, his voice failed him yet again. What to do? “The morning of the funeral, I couldn’t sing a note,” he says. “But at the funeral, I sang like a lark because I loved him so dearly.”

  Whether Ronan was losing his legs or his voice, his determined love of life and the support he felt from his family and friends inspired him to amazing achievements. A documentary about his life was titled Dr. Courageous, a fitting tribute to a man who didn’t let his handicap or his setbacks keep him from a life much like a piece of modern music—highs, lows, some dissonance. But all in all, a sweet serenade.

  SECTION 7

  Defying the

  Odds

  38

  Vladimir Konstantinov

  and the

  Detroit Red Wings

  Signing autographs was part of my life as a professional athlete. Seeing the excitement in kids’ faces and sharing in their dreams gave me great satisfaction when I spoke with them and signed a stick or a puck or a picture for them. My next Companion in Courage left me with an entirely new appreciation for what a simple autograph can mean.

  Two years after the Detroit Red Wings repeated as National Hockey League Stanley Cup champions, a child asked one of his heroes for his autograph. The writing was a little crude and actually hard to read. But with all the focus and energy that made him one of the best hockey players when he was on top of his game, he scratched out V-l-a-di-m-i-r K-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-i-n-o-v. He gave it to the fan with a smile. His wife, Irina, told the young boy, “You know what, maybe it’s not the best signature, but make sure you tell all your friends you got the very first one.” Just to be able to write his name was evidence of an amazing amount of courage.

  Let’s back up and set the stage for this.

  Three years earlier, the Red Wings had celebrated a Stanley Cup victory. Captain Steve Yzerman skated the victory lap with the Cup over his head, passing it to Slava Fetisov and on to Igor Larionov and soon into the hands of Konstantinov. It had been forty-two years since the city of Detroit, steeped in the tradition of hockey, last laid claim to the Stanley Cup. Emotions ran high, and for a full week everyone felt like partying. The week of formal celebration was to end with a golf tournament.

  Golf day came and brought perfect weather with it. The lone absentee was Igor Larionov. “The morning was sunny and warm, the best day yet, and my girls wanted to go swimming. How could I refuse?” Larionov said. “So I missed the golf outing.”

  Igor missed the tournament and more. Leaving the course, a limo, carrying three friends and teammates, headed home. The driver may have dozed off while traveling at
high speed. The resulting crash left Konstantinov and team masseur Sergei Mnatsakanov in comas, Konstantinov for nearly six weeks. Their buddy, Fetisov, suffered serious chest injuries. It happened quickly, brutally, tragically. Of course it would never make sense, but we would all ask the same questions: How could this be? How do you explain it? Are there any answers?

  For some, like Yzerman, the Stanley Cup victory suddenly didn’t look so important next to life and death. “At the time, we were all thinking this is the most significant thing that could happen to us. Six days later, we realized it wasn’t. It was definitely a strong reminder that playing hockey is not the most significant thing that can happen in your life.”

  For Slava Fetisov, history seemed to be repeating itself. Back when he was a star in Moscow, his younger brother, Anatoly, had been killed in an auto accident. For Slava Kozlov, the pain also raged intensely. When he was eighteen, he and a teammate had gone through the windshield of a car that crashed into a bus. His teammate died.

  The Sunday afternoon following the accident, Father’s Day, the Red Wings were in a hospital room, rallying around their friend. They filled the room with talk, Russian music, and familiar voices. They made sure to play “We Are the Champions” by Queen, the rock-and-roll anthem Vladdie had played over and over during the playoffs. That song filled Joe Louis Arena the night they won the Cup. The music, prayer, and friendship provided a springboard for a long year of hope made bearable by support from all over the world.

  A Texas senator sent an authentic U.S. flag that had once flown over the capital in Austin. From the U.S.S. Clark came the captain’s hat and picture of the crew. Irina was overwhelmed. “I cannot believe how much people send us— toys, teddy bears. But you know what brings the most tears in my eyes? The little kids who sent drawings from their heart, who write and say they pray every day for Vladdie. Those are the most amazing,” she said.