WHAT RIGHT TO PLAY MEANS TO ME
A few days ago, I was informed that Right to Play was officially ‘out’ of The Olympics. A long-standing agreement with the IOC would not be renewed, and the advantageous spot that RTP has enjoyed since the 2000 Olympics in the Athlete’s Village would not be offered. At least not in the near future, and perhaps never again.
I’ve read many articles and opinions on this matter in various newspapers now, and thought it might be a good time for me to try to write down, for the first time, in my own words, just what Right to Play means to me and the impact it had on me during the 2006 Olympics. Many people remember that race as a nail-biting affair- the 5000m was won literally in the last lap. I won gold on that day for Canada and I still have difficulties watching the replays. I still can’t believe I did what I did on that day.
I don’t think about this race too often. I am usually too consumed by the moment I am in to reflect on the past. Reading this news, however, leaves me with a feeling of deep disappointment and brings me back to the process that brought me to that race in 2006.
Arriving in the Athlete’s Village in Torino early, maybe a week before the opening of the 2006 Olympic Games, I remember thinking “this is it?” Day after day I would wander around the village, looking for some kind of energy, desperately seeking some small glimpse of inspiration. It was my forth Olympics and because the previous three had provided their own sources of extrinsic motivation which I turned to intrinsic fuel, I came with high expectations. Yet there I found myself, wondering where this was, hoping I would stumble upon something- anything- other than generic and soulless signs peddling various Olympic endorsed products.
I scoured the village and venue for pamphlets on the Olympic Movement and the Olympic truce- things that have connected me deeper and stronger to what I consider pure and true within the sea of big-business, soulless tide that seems to have enveloped the original meaning of the Games. I’ve looked to history time and again for inspiration, and there were no references to the stories that have created the Olympic mythology anywhere that I could see.
My first event, the 3000m, left me feeling ambivalent. As a team, we underperformed; as a unit, we felt uninspired. What went wrong for each of us we’ve never really spoke of, but what I know personally is that I simply was not inspired. I ended up 9th on that day, and was left feeling empty and confused. After all, there I was at the Olympics, and shouldn’t that be inspiration enough?
Next up was the team pursuit. We latched on to the men’s team and were fueled by the extrinsic motivation they offered. We did not fixate on results, and found motivation in the goal of looking out for each other, ultimately finishing each race knowing we came together as a team. This resulted in a silver medal for Canada.
But for me, something was missing. In the days that followed, I felt this creeping sense of disappointment and dread that simply would not go away. I watched my teammates win medal after medal and moved through this period with the team pursuit medal tucked away in my drawer. All of this simply was not enough, but couldn’t quite figure out why.
I learned much about myself in this time. I realized that winning medals simply did not do it for me. Without deep inspiration and a personal connection, a medal was simply a ‘thing’ to me that I could not appreciate.
I suffered through those days and admittedly, I was not at my best. A difficult second half of the racing season saw me missing a lot of training for reasons out of my control, and I was paying dearly for this reality. My fitness was not at the level I expected or needed, and technically I was a disaster. Not a good situation to be in for a highly technical endurance sport.
I spent most training sessions arguing with my coach who was only trying to help get me back on track. She did her best but not even her stern yet supportive nature could get me out of the funk I was trapped in.
It was the evening before my race that things began to shift, albeit slightly, in a different direction.
I sat in my room watching the figure skating Gala event. All of the medal winners were to perform routines very different than their competitive numbers. Admittedly, I watched this out of boredom, simply to pass the time.
And then I saw something beautiful. It was a Swiss skater, the silver medal winner from the men’s division. He skated to a popular radio song but the way he moved…it was as if he was floating above the ice. With grace and with ease he flew around, spinning and gliding and jumping and swaying. He skated with complete freedom and I remember thinking to myself that he skated with joy. I wondered if he had skated that way during the competition, with the pressure and the stress. I remember thinking “that is exactly how I want to skate tomorrow, in my race”. I wrote JOY on my hand as a reminder of this fluidity and freedom, and went to sleep with a smile.
The next morning, after breakfast and an easy ride on my stationary bike to loosen up, I found myself in that familiar place of passing time: not thinking too much, not thinking too little; not resting too much, resting just enough; not talking too much, having light conversations. There was a long day ahead of waiting because I did not race until 6pm that evening.
To pass this time, I turned on the TV. I had live CBC feed in my room and had spent the better part of the Olympics actually watching the Olympics from the Canadian perspective in this manner. I thought maybe I would catch some skiing, or some hockey. ANYTHING to take my mind off the fact that I, too, was racing the Olympics so soon. It was too early to think too much.
I noticed immediately that the Olympic coverage had yet to begin. It was only 10am Italian time. What came onto that little screen was far more powerful and inspiring than any Olympics I have seen. Visions of Africa filled the monitor and I was immediately drawn into the story that was to unfold.
Children from the war torn country of Uganda appeared. They were dirt poor and so shy, sneaking glances at the cameras and then quickly looking away. In front of them stood a group of foreigners in bright yellow t-shirts with RIGHT TO PLAY boldly printed on the front of the shirts.
The narrator talked of the poverty and the difficulties Uganda has gone through for so long. I learned of child soldiers and how difficult it was for these children to reintigrate into the communities they were so ruthlessly stolen from. I learned of the horrors they endured and performed, not out of choice. And then, I saw for the first time, Right to Play in action.
It was not new to me, this idea of sport for development. In fact, I had been involved with Right to Play for a few years at that point. I just didn’t quite ‘get it’ until that morning.
I saw clearly how these shy little kids who literally had nothing were transformed when engaged in sport; engaged in play. Their eyes told the stories of horrors beyond belief, yet these same eyes shone with what I can only qualify as joy when they played. Right to Play had been in Uganda for some time at that point, and the programs were proving more than effective. In fact, many people said that these were the programs having a true, lasting impact on these children.
I remembered a passage in a book I read throughout my time in Italy. It was a book about the mythological historian Joseph Campbell, and he talked about finding joy in the struggle of being human and how this was when one is truly alive.
I saw these kids and this transformation was exactly that: finding joy in the struggle. I reflected on the path I was still traveling, the one that led to the race that was now so close. I thought of my own struggle and somehow it all seemed so insignificant. I thought ‘If these children can find joy in their struggle, the certainly, so can I!’ No matter what I would face in the 5000m of speed skating that I had the chance to race that evening, I knew clearly I could and would overcome.
JOY.
That was my mantra.
I knew I had to give something back to these children after what they taught me that morning. I thought of fellow speed skater, Joey Cheek, and American who stimulated and awakening in his country, the USA, after winning gold in the 500m. He chose to donate his $25,000 prize money to Right to Play, to show people what a person with a voice can do. This stimulated donations and awareness in a country where Right to Play was not even a blip on the NGO radar. I thought if America could answer this call, so could Canada. So would Canada.
The only problem was, I had no prize money coming to me if I had won. I thought about my savings and picked the amount that I could give- to repay this gift of inspiration. I knew clearly what I had to do in order for this to work. One thing and one thing only: win the Olympics. At that precise moment, I knew I was going to do just that.
It’s funny looking back. I actually managed to convince my body, at the cellar level, that I was going to win. I felt it. I knew it. There was no choice because this energy that had grown inside felt stronger than anything I’d ever imagined. There was only one place to channel this intense drive, and that was into my race.
I moved through the rest of that day as if moving through a dream. I envisioned the race unfolding- me being behind at the beginning, and then coming on strong in the last two laps. All I had to do was bring myself to the line and not waver from the mission I was on: a mission far greater than simply winning.
I remember being introduced to the packed venue; standing on the starting line with my name, country, and past successes being listed to the crowd. I looked down at my gloved hand, moving some of the material over so that I could have the reminder I needed. JOY was still there in ballpoint pen, a temporary tattoo marking the moment.
I remember looking up into the crowd and seeing a young girl beaming down at me. She had a sign that said ‘Forza Clara’ on it, the design a version of the Canadian flag. I recognized the beautiful young girl as Rebecca, the daughter of the family my Husband Peter stayed with during the Games. What stood out to me were her eyes, shining down as if to remind me of the Ugandan children I saw via CBC that morning. I remember smiling to myself.
The gun went off, and the rhythm began. I struggled to keep a good flow in the entire first four kilometers of the race. It was a battle against myself as I talked myself through the tightening of muscles, urging them to relax; the onset of pain to acceptance of effort. I thought of those children and their suffering and knew I had no choice but to fight.
At the point in the race where I felt I could fight no more, when knives pierced every muscle fiber of my body and fight desperately wanted to shift to flight, I knew the time had come. It was precisely this moment that the roar of the crowd rang clear in my ears. As if someone turned off the mute button on the TV, this rush of energy channeled into my effort and the crowd came alive. I drank this in and felt, through all of the pain, a clarity that allowed for each stride to become lower, stronger and essentially, longer. I propelled myself forward as if fighting the battle of my life, gaining energy when seeing my opponent could not answer my surge.
That last lap was one of desperation and it wasn’t until I threw my blade across the line, realizing I hadn’t been passed by my pair, the German skater Claudia Pechstein who had won the three previous Olympics in the same event, and looked up at the scoreboard and saw that I had indeed broken the until then impossible seven-minute barrier, that I knew I had done it. That I had really, really done it. I had won the Olympics.
Joy turned to pain turned to reality and I collapsed soon after. I remember lying face down with grit mashing into my cheek that felt attached to the concrete below me. I couldn’t move. I’d gone into reserves I did not know existed; frighteningly gone beyond what seemed rational or humanly possible on the day, for me.
After some coaxing from my Coach, Xiuli, I managed stand and though I felt like throwing up, managed to skate a lap with the Canadian flag flying high over my head, like an enormous wing allowing me to feel like I was flying on a current of joy. I felt the rapture of being alive that day; a sense of pure joy I had not known possible.
Standing on the podium, singing ‘O Canada’ with my teammate Cindy Klassen who had come third, I was no doubt the happiest person on the planet. I had my voice and now it was time to use it.
In the press conference that followed, I upheld my promise to those kids and the hundreds of thousands of children that Right to Play affects on a weekly basis. I made the announcement of my $10,000.00 donation and wondered what would happen. I wished for something special and knew, just like I knew that I would indeed win that race, that Canadians would answer the call and connect to this idea of sport for peace and development, just as I had.
And I was not disappointed. Almost half a million dollars later, this gold medal had come to have a life of its own. As much as I enjoyed winning that medal, for I am an athlete after all, I’d be lying if I said it was the success that was special.
To take another quote from Joseph Campbell,
Life is without meaning.
You bring the meaning to it.
The meaning of life is
whatever you ascribe it to be.
Being alive is the meaning.
Right to Play was my stimulus for the meaning that I was able to create; the meaning that this medal holds for me, for so many others.
Had they not been in the Olympic Village, two moments in history would not have the far reaching impact they had on literally hundreds of thousands of people in North America and around the world. Joey would not have stopped by the booth and the idea of his donation would not have been planted; I, in turn, would not have known to act as I did upon my own success. I actually believe that without this inspiration, I would not have had the success to act upon. Had they not been in the village, had I not the opportunity to stop by the booth to say ‘Hi’, to connect, perhaps the impact of the documentary that so inspired me would not have been so great. Perhaps their presence in the village is what watered the seeds that were planted in both of us during those Games.
Our actions are what will be remembered long after the glimmer of these medals fades.
This is precisely why I am saddened, deeply saddened, by the recent decisions. I feel like one of the last true things that offer a connection to the human condition for athletes is gone. The easy connection to this, with RTP’s presence in the Athlete’s Village, is gone for Olympians, present and future.
Will this change my committment and the continued committment of athletes to Right to Play? Absolutely not. In fact I am more motivated than ever to engage other athletes with this amazing and powerful movement that is changing the lives of the children who need it the most.
