I shivered through a booster shot of Olympic euphoria last weekend.
Sure, I watched the jubilant dogpile of hockey players, skates and helmets on the Milan ice arena surface when the U.S. stunned Canada in overtime for the gold medal. I saw the ecstasy of San Francisco native Eileen Gu’s gold medal in freestyle skiing reduced to tears upon learning of her grandmother’s death. I read about fans and athletes helping to lift and wave rivals’ oversized flags.
But my quintessential Olympic moment unfolded not in my living room, while watching the Milan Cortina Games, but atop Bristol Mountain at the New York State Special Olympics. My daughter and her pals were just a small part of the 900-plus athletes who gathered at various Rochester venues for gymnastics, figure skating, ski racing, snowboarding and snowshoe competitions.
Both Olympic venues reaffirmed a lesson I learned years ago, whether the competition is in the Finger Lakes or on a mountainside across the world. The major difference between the athletes is the physical prowess of the competitors. The Special Olympics gather people with differing abilities who remain just as emotionally invested, fiercely competitive and committed to a dream of a gold medal as the world’s fastest, tactical, talented athletes. The Special Olympians define the joy of sport in a way that the casual TV watcher rarely grasps.
That was reaffirmed when I stood Saturday for 5 hours in 20-degree weather and slight breezes to watch the snowshoeing races. Same grittiness, same commitment, same euphoria, only different cognitive abilities and mindfulness.
I watched the young man run a 22-meter snowshoeing race on a 25-meter course. He inexplicably stopped two strides from the finish line while my daughter’s housemate plodded past to win a gold medal.
Amy didn’t wonder about the competitor handing her the race, but only that she won a prized gold medal. “I can’t believe it – I won gold,’’ she screamed to my daughter Katie as they danced and hugged.
Another woman faceplanted in the snow on the way to the finish line. As she lingered on the snow, the suspense built. Would she get up? Could she get up? She swayed and wobbled and lifted her weight, teetering over her snowshoes. The crowd responded with the loudest ovation of the day, then she crept across the finish line. This moment was the epitome of the Special Olympics Athlete Oath: “Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.’’
I’ve had my lighter moments at Special Olympics. When I refereed basketball one year, a player, upset that his team was being drubbed by 30 points, turned to me and screamed: “Call the (f-bomb) travel!’’ I recall the pushy Brooklyn mom 6 years ago who threatened to protest the outcome of a 50-meter snowshoeing race when Katie tripped and fell over the finish line, edging her daughter for the gold medal. The mom made up rules and appeals procedures on the spot for her daughter’s sake. Nothing could change the final result.
As the cold pierced my down jacket and boots, I knew this would happen – Katie was competing in the final race of the day. There would be no early out. We waited through the various levels of the 4×100 relay. When the last competitors toed the starting line, there were only two teams remaining. Katie’s and Amy’s posse won the race handily, leading to a repeat of the gold-medal dance.
While they awaited the medals presentation, their coach hugged one athlete, then turned to another and implored him to “bring it in!’’ Soon two became three, then five, then all his snowshoe athletes were huddled, bouncing in a cheer.
I was inoculated by the pure, unadulterated joy of sport. It warmed my heart, and my frozen feet.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/ I shivered through a booster shot of Olympic euphoria last weekend.
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