by Eric Walters
“It’s really my co-favourite…that one and the first one you wrote.”
“I read this article when it came out,” my father said. “It is one great story. And of all the words that have been written about Terry and the run, I think she has the very best. This line that says—”
“He gave us a dream as big as our country,” I said, cutting him off.
“Exactly. I wish I had written that one. And believe me, that’s the best compliment one reporter can give another reporter. That girl—I mean, that woman—can really write.” He closed the scrapbook and handed it back to me. “You didn’t just pick out a great article, you knew the line that made the article so good. You really do have what it takes to become a reporter…a damn fine reporter.”
“Thanks,” was all I could mumble. I felt a warm, melty feeling in my head.
“Would you like to meet Christie Blatchford? She’s here somewhere.”
“She is?”
My father stood up and craned his neck around. “I don’t see her, but I know she’s coming to cover the story. When I see her I’ll introduce you. She’ll get a real kick out of finding out that my own son thinks she’s a better writer than me.”
“I didn’t say that!” I exclaimed. “I liked her story.” I knew what I wanted to say next. I took a deep breath. “But my father is still the better reporter…the best reporter.”
He smiled. A big smile. “That’s nice of you to say, even if you don’t really be—”
Suddenly his words were lost in a swell of noise. People started to clap and cheer and everybody rose to their feet, blocking my view. I jumped up and saw Terry walking up the aisle and toward the podium.
18
The noise got louder and louder and louder as Terry approached the centre, until it felt like the whole building was actually shaking. He was followed by a whole procession of people. His face was tanned and his hair was longer than before—sort of wild looking and tangled—and though he had a big smile he looked kind of tired. He was dressed to run, wearing his Marathon of Hope T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. In his hand he held a small yellow flower—a daffodil.
“Do you know who those people are?” my father asked.
“I recognize his brother Darrell from the pictures in the papers and on TV,” I said. Darrell had joined Doug and Terry on the Marathon about five weeks before. I’d been thinking how it would be nice for everybody to have him along. I knew how much Terry had been missing his family. And—who knew?—maybe Darrell had been emptying the toilet’s holding tank occasionally.
“I’ll tell you something that even Terry doesn’t know,” my father said.
“What?”
“I just heard about it in the newsroom before I picked you up.”
“What? What did you hear?”
“You have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
“Of course I will!”
My father smiled. “His whole family was flown out from British Columbia to surprise him. He’ll be meeting them later on today.”
“Terry is going to be thrilled!” I exclaimed.
“I’m sure he will be,” my father agreed. “I’m actually trying to arrange an interview with his parents while they’re in town. I want to see what sort of people they are, although I think I already know.”
“You do?” I asked.
“Sure. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. I bet you they’re honest, hardworking, determined and more than a little bit stubborn.”
“Like Terry.”
“Like Terry,” he said. “Do you see Doug anywhere?”
“No, but he’s got to be here somewhere…probably making a phone call and planning what comes next. I don’t think he ever stops.”
A woman walked over to the podium. There was a sign on it that I hadn’t noticed before. In big letters it said “Scarborough Welcomes Terry Fox and The Marathon of Hope.” The woman tapped on the microphone and the sound echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. The crowd noise faded away.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen and boys and girls, for welcoming, with me, this courageous, determined young man who has come to Scarborough today to bring his message to us.”
The crowd started to cheer and Terry took a step toward the podium. The woman gave him a hug, then stepped away and joined in the applause that was raining down on him. Terry’s smile got wider, but he looked embarrassed. He looked down at the little flower. He twirled it in his hand as he waited for the applause to fade.
“I’m overwhelmed,” Terry began. “This is unreal.” He paused and looked up at the curving, swirling balconies that surrounded and rose above him. The expression on his face reflected the words he’d just spoken, as though he couldn’t believe that all these people had come to hear him speak. I thought back to what Doug had told me about how when he’d first started there were sometimes only a few people present. And I couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like—how big the crowd would be—when he finally reached the Pacific Ocean.
“I think you’ve all heard my story,” Terry began, and the crowd erupted into laughter, cheers and applause.
“This all began with a pain in my leg. I didn’t think it was anything, just something that I’d hurt playing sports. Instead they told me I had cancer, a type of cancer called an osteogenic sarcoma—bone cancer. To save my life they had to take off my leg. That night, waiting for the surgery, I had the idea about running to raise money for cancer research. I’ve always been competitive, and I wanted to show myself, and other people, too, that I could do it. To show them that I wasn’t disabled or handicapped. My run is about ability and not disability. I wanted them to know that I was a survivor of cancer and not a victim. Nobody is ever going to call me a quitter.”
“You tell ’em, Terry!” somebody shouted from the audience, and people began cheering wildly. Terry’s smile grew and he looked down at the little yellow flower again. The crowd quieted down, wanting to hear him speak.
“Knowing that there are people like all of you who care about what I’m doing, that I’m not just running across Canada, that there are people who are giving money to help fight the disease that took my leg and to help other people who are lying down in hospital beds all over the world—that means so much to me. It’s a great reward for me, the responses of the people and the way you’ve accepted what I’m doing. Thank you for coming here…for so many of you coming out to support the Marathon of Hope and to help raise money for cancer research.”
Again the audience erupted in applause.
“One thing hurts me, though. People keep saying ‘Terry Fox.’ I’m not doing the run to become rich or famous. One of the problems with our world is that people are getting greedy and selfish. I’m not getting a cent of the money raised. It’s all going where it belongs…to cure cancer.” He paused and took a deep breath. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “To me, being famous myself is not the idea of the run, and it wasn’t the idea from the very beginning. To me, the only important part about the publicity is that cancer can be beaten, and the Marathon of Hope. And I’m just one member of the Marathon of Hope. I’m no different from anybody else. I’m no better, I’m no lower, I’m equal with all of you, and if I ever change that attitude myself then there’s no point in continuing. So when you’re…um…when you’re…cheering and clapping for me, you’re not just cheering and clapping for me.”
His voice broke and I knew he was on the verge of tears.
“There’s so many other people involved in the run that…that nobody hears about. There’s my brother Darrell, and Doug and…”
The crowd started to clap and cheer and Terry waited for the reaction to fade.
“Bill Vigars raises money for cancer…he…ah…you see, I’m trying my very best…I run as hard as I can all day and I do my best, and sometimes we have to change the schedule
, and whenever we have to do that he has to tell people ahead of time, and he gets all the hassles, and I don’t think it’s fair. Anybody who complains about any change in schedule, come up to me and tell me I’m not trying hard enough.”
There was a groan of disbelief from the audience—how could anybody ever think that?—and then everybody started clapping and cheering again.
“Everybody who is here—everybody who gives even a dollar—is part of the Marathon of Hope and is helping us…. Sometimes I get tired.” He paused. “And when I’m tired I think of the people who had cancer and just remember that I’m setting an example for other people and keep going to do my best.” He paused again. “And even if I don’t finish…”
What did he mean, even if he didn’t finish? Of course he was going to finish…he was unstoppable…of course he was going to finish!
“…we need people to continue. It’s got to keep going without me. It has to keep going…no matter what. Somewhere the hurting must stop…and maybe that place is here. Thank you.”
The whole crowd began clapping and cheering and screaming, but instead of the applause dying down it just got louder and louder and louder until it felt as if the building wasn’t just shaking, it felt like it might collapse!
Terry walked down the aisle and people reached out to touch him or shake his hand. Everybody was on their feet cheering, waving flags, yelling, laughing and crying. Lots of people were crying.
“If we’re going to talk to him we’d better get going,” my father said. We left our seats and began weaving through Terry’s supporters. The density of the crowd was incredible, and it was difficult to inch our way along.
“Winston!”
I turned around, trying to pick the voice out of the crowd. Who was calling me?
“Winston!”
It was Doug! We moved through the crowd in his direction as he made his way toward us. Doug shook hands with both me and my father.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
“It’s great to see you. How are things going?” I asked.
“Really good…hectic and tiring…but really good…really unbelievable.” He gestured around the cavernous chamber. “I can’t believe all of this.”
“It is quite the crowd,” my father agreed, “although I’ve heard that the rally at the Toronto City Hall tomorrow is going to be a lot bigger than this.”
“Bigger than this?” Doug asked, as though he couldn’t quite understand how that could be possible.
“I think they’re predicting somewhere around ten thousand people at Nathan Phillips Square. And of course that doesn’t include all those people who are going to line the run route between here and there. I overheard two policemen talking about how people are already standing and waiting on the roads to see the rest of the run today.”
“Amazing,” Doug said, shaking his head.
“I thought you’d be pretty used to the crowds by now,” my father said.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to crowds, and they just keep getting bigger and bigger,” Doug said. “It’s really good, though. I mean, more people means more donations and more money raised for cancer research. Besides, everybody is so friendly.”
“Why wouldn’t they be friendly?” I asked. “You and Terry are heroes.”
“I’m no hero.”
“Weren’t you listening to Terry’s speech?” I asked.
“I heard it. That doesn’t mean I agree with everything he says all the time.” Doug looked at his watch. “Time to go.”
“I know it’s pretty crazy today, but do you think that Winston could say hello to Terry before you leave?” my father asked.
Doug looked confused. “Say hello? Aren’t you going to be running with us today?”
“Can I?” I exclaimed.
“Terry told me to keep an eye out for you.”
“How did you even know I was here?”
“Just figured. You promised us you’d see us in Toronto, and we knew you’d keep your word. So, you’re welcome to join us…if you think you can keep up. As long as that’s all right with your dad…?”
“It’s more than just all right,” my father answered.
“Can I join you in the van if I get tired…maybe listen to a little Johnny Cash?” I asked with a grin.
Doug laughed. “I’m not driving the van today.”
“You’re not?”
“A volunteer is driving. I’m going to be running as well. So is Terry’s brother Darrell, so you’ll get to meet him.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll take your scrapbook,” my father offered.
I handed it to him. “Where should I meet you?” I asked.
“We’re going to be stopping at the Four Seasons Hotel on Avenue Road. Your dad could wait for us there,” Doug suggested.
“Isn’t that a long way from here?”
“About twelve miles,” Doug answered.
“Twelve miles!” I exclaimed. “I don’t know if I can run that far!”
“You can,” Doug said quietly.
That was an awfully long way to run. I’d never run twelve miles in my entire life.
“I’ll be right there with you the whole way. If you get tired I’ll drop back with you,” Doug said.
“I could pick you up partway,” my father offered.
“He could,” Doug agreed, “but I know you can go the distance.”
I looked at my father. “I’ll see you at the hotel.”
“Excellent.” Doug turned to me. “It’s pretty hot running on the asphalt. You have the right shoes…too bad you don’t have shorts.”
“I do! I’m wearing them underneath. I’ll just slip off my pants.”
I undid my belt and the button, pulled down the fly and began to pull my pants off. I struggled as they got caught and tangled around my running shoes. People were trying to get around us and I was taking up a lot of space. Maybe this wasn’t the smartest way to do it. I lifted up one leg and pulled harder, teetering and almost falling over. My father reached over to steady me. I just couldn’t get the pants off! I felt like such an idiot!
“Maybe if you pulled them back up you could take off your shoes,” my father suggested. I could tell that he and Doug were working hard not to laugh—I appreciated that.
“No, they’re coming…if I just pull a little harder—” There was a loud ripping sound and my foot popped free. I didn’t even want to look at what I’d done to my pants, but really, I didn’t care. I struggled with the second leg and I felt my shoe slip off and then it and my foot came free. I tossed the inside-out, torn and crumpled pants to my father, then bent down and quickly put the shoe back on.
“There, I’m ready to go!” I said, jumping to my feet.
“Not quite,” Doug said.
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated. “After seeing you change into your shorts maybe this isn’t such a good idea…but here…this is for you.”
Doug handed me a T-shirt. I took it from his hands and looked at it. On the front it said “Terry Fox, Marathon of Hope.” It was just like the T-shirts Terry and Doug always wore.
“This is for me?”
“Of course. Weren’t you listening to Terry’s speech? You’re part of the Marathon of Hope too. Terry wanted you to have it.”
“Should I put it on?” I asked, still feeling honoured and overwhelmed.
He nodded. “But I have one suggestion.”
“You do?”
“After seeing you get down to your shorts, I think that maybe you should just slip it on over top of the shirt you’re already wearing.”
* * *
—
DOUG LED ME through the crush of people and out the big double doors. Now that we’d left the building the crowd was more spread out but, still, there was
n’t any place that wasn’t filled with somebody.
“Feeling nervous?” Doug asked.
“A little bit,” I admitted.
“About the distance you’re going to run or about the size of the crowd?”
“Both.”
“The run is simple. Don’t think of it as twelve miles,” Doug said. “Just take it one step at a time…one corner at a time…one mile at a time. That’s the way Terry does it.”
“And the crowd?” I asked.
“That you never get used to. I can’t get over how Terry handles it so well. You know me, usually I just kind of blend into the background. But Terry, he’s always the very centre of it…every eye is always on him, watching his every step, or misstep, listening to his every word. It’s been hard. Maybe harder than the running itself.”
“Is that why Terry looks so tired?” I asked.
“He runs all day and gives speeches every evening. Everybody wants to talk to him, spend time with him. He’s wearing down.”
“Maybe he should stop and take a rest.”
Doug smiled. “I think we’ve had this conversation…and believe me, Terry and I have talked about it, but it can’t happen…not now…not until it’s over.”
We stopped at the edge of a huge crowd. I caught sight of Terry in the very middle. He was surrounded by police officers.
“You know,” Doug said, “in so many ways he’s the same person I knew in grade eight—the same Terry. Then in other ways he’s so different. It’s like he’s grown up before my eyes over the past three months…he’s become…so much more.”
Doug slipped through the crowd and I followed behind. Terry saw me and his face broke into a big smile, but he kept on talking to people and signing autographs for the police officers. We stopped just off to his side.
He handed back a piece of paper to one of the officers. “Winston!” he called out. He rushed forward and threw his arms around me, giving me a big hug. “It’s great to see you!”
“It’s great to see you, too!”