by Ron MacLean
Instead of Marie Antoinette, athletes became heroes. When Otto von Bismarck defeated France in the Franco-Prussian War, French aristocrat Pierre de Coubertin made it his mission to make France “more battle hardened and ready” through sports. Coubertin organized the first modern Olympics, in Athens in 1896.
Since that time, the Games have been hijacked by nationalism, money, drugs and politics. That’s why I’m so big on the honour part of it rather than the winning part of it. Sports are now motivated by dollars. Competitive balance is all about keeping the fans happy. But in that moment between the Canadians and the Russians, with that spirit of cooperation, where Anton and Jamie took care of each other, it surpassed all of the politics involved. They looked out for each other, and the rest took care of itself.
At the 2004 Olympics in Athens, Greece, everyone was sure that Canada’s world champion hurdler, Perdita Felicien, was going to win gold. Sadly, her leg caught on the first hurdle and she stumbled and lost the race. It was a shock to everybody. She tried to leave by the nearest exit after her race, and the security guard ordered her over to another one. He said, “No, you’re an athlete. You have to go where the runners go off.” He indicated the mix zone, which was a gauntlet of cameras and interviewers, essentially like the red carpet outside an awards show. I will never forget how she handled the guy. Her whole world had just caved in, and she was gracious to him. That was my favourite moment in Greece. I’m sure Socrates would have approved.
We were in Torino, Italy, in 2006. The Canadian men’s hockey team was wiped out in the quarter-finals, 2–0, by Russia. It was a huge disappointment, and the CBC wanted to interview Wayne Gretzky. He insisted that I do it. I guess he felt I had a sympathetic ear or a soft touch. The Olympics had begun with allegations that Wayne’s wife, Janet, was involved in a betting scandal. Ultimately, it turned out she had not broken the law. But it seemed to cast a real pall over the team because Gretzky couldn’t be himself. He had to be guarded. There was a curtain drawn around him, and I think that hurt the guys.
Later that night, we all ended up at a restaurant called Camillo’s. There was Wayne and Kevin Lowe, Wayne’s dad, Wally, and a whole group of Hockey Canada members. Wayne said that they desperately missed Scott Niedermayer. On the advice of his doctors, Niedermayer had withdrawn from the team in order to undergo arthroscopic surgery on his knee. One of the team’s Achilles heels was that they couldn’t seem to adjust to the wide ice. International ice is 200 feet by 100, as opposed to the 200-by-85 NHL surface, and Niedermayer was good on big ice. He was a key loss for the team. They played well, but just didn’t score. Brad Richards led the team in scoring with two goals and two assists.
The next Olympics, in 2008 in Beijing, would lead me on a different path, beyond sport.
30
MOM’S KINDRED
Mom was terrified of pancreatic cancer because her father had died of it. When she was diagnosed with stomach cancer in the fall of 2006, she didn’t want to hear any of the details. The oncologist had real trouble pinpointing where it had spread. For a year and a half, we danced around the fact that it had metastasized into her pancreas and was killing her.
Her first bout of cancer came three years after Rose Cherry died. Mom and Dad had flown down to our place for Christmas in 2000. The second evening they were there, we were sitting in our living room, visiting and making plans for the next day. Suddenly, Mom said, “Ronnie, I need to tell you something.”
My skin felt prickly. She was smiling, but her eyes looked worried. And then she told me she was going in for exploratory surgery in the new year because she’d had an ultrasound and it showed something unusual on her kidney. She said, “Dr. Wilkins says there is a nodule there, but he is only going to take maybe a quarter of my kidney.”
My take on life continues to be that we are all dying. It’s coming to us all, so we need to deal with it. My first thoughts were, “Okay, what can we do next? What do Mom and Dad need? Obviously, I have to get out to Calgary to be on hand for Mom’s operation.”
I was with her and Dad when she woke up in her room at the Rockyview Hospital in southwest Calgary. Dr. Wilkins came in—he was terrific—and said to Mom, “We removed the entire kidney, but the cancer was encapsulated, which means we don’t think any bad cells have escaped. So you won’t need any further treatment.” He made it seem like no big deal, like changing a car battery.
Mom was downright cheerful. She thanked the doctor and asked if she’d be able to go home that day or the next. I thought, “What a tough nut she is.”
That was the last of it until we dealt with a new diagnosis six years later.
By February 2008, the cancer was beyond treatment, and she was advised to stop chemotherapy. Her symptoms started to really bother her by May, so she was given drugs to alleviate her pain. She didn’t want to go back to the hospital. She wanted to be home.
In the spring of 2008, Irish writer Nuala O’Faolain gave a remarkable interview to Marian Finucane on Ireland’s national broadcaster, RTE Radio One. Six weeks earlier, Nuala had been diagnosed with inoperable lung, brain and liver cancer. She said, “I think there’s a wonderful rule of life that means that we do not consider our own mortality … The two things that keep me from the worst of self-pity are that everyone’s done it … The second thing that really matters to me is that in my time … billions of people have died horribly, in Auschwitz, in Darfur, dying of starvation or dying from multiple rapes in the Congo, dying in some horrible way like that. I think, ‘Look how comfortably I am dying. I have friends and family, I am in this wonderful country, I have money, there is nothing much wrong with me except I’m dying.’”
The impressive thing, I think, is that these words were not drafted or constructed for posterity. She was a great writer. Five of her books were on the New York Times bestseller list, and yet this spontaneous exchange was her masterpiece—brutally frank, beautifully balanced. Mom was Nuala’s kindred. It was how Mom felt about death, and it was Mom’s gift to cut to the chase that way.
I was scheduled to go to Beijing to be the prime-time host of the 2008 Olympics. Brian Williams had jumped ship in 2006 and joined TSN. I was next in line at the CBC to host the Games. Prime-time hosting involves a lot of juggling.
Naturally, I was worried. Mom was sick, but still living at home. She was hanging in, doing as well as could be expected. I sat down with Mom and Dad. They insisted I go to Beijing. Mom said, “Don’t change your plans to suit us, Ronnie, you have your own life to live.”
Mom and Dad had moved to Oakville in 2004. We found a really nice, spacious condo for them with a large balcony and a view of Lake Ontario. I dropped by the night before I left, to say goodbye. We laughed like we always did when Dad told his favourite Don Cherry story for the fiftieth time. It revolved around a surprise visit Don and I had made to them in 1988.
Mom and Dad had been getting ready to move to Calgary from Red Deer. Mom was at the dining room table, wrapping glasses in newspaper and stuffing them into boxes, and Dad was down in the basement.
Every time Dad told this story, Mom would start to laugh and, enjoying her reaction, Dad always hammed it up a little. “The doorbell rings. Lila goes to the door and I hear this screech! Don Cherry was standing at the door, and Ron standing behind him. And I came galloping upstairs to see what was going on. Why was Lila screaming? And here, of course, is Don Cherry. They had decided that because they were driving they would detour into Red Deer and have a brief visit with us. And here I am, in an old pair of jeans with the knees out, and a T-shirt with the sleeves all ripped.”
Mom interrupted. “I don’t know what I was wearing, but it wasn’t something I wanted to be seen in.”
Dad continued, “Don sat there, nice as you please, sang ‘The Old Orange Flute,’ that famous Irishman’s song.” (Don got a kick out of singing that one in a Catholic home.) “He had a beer, of course,” Mom said.
Dad said, “He stayed a half an hour or so.” “Forty-five minutes.”
“And then he took off,” Dad said. “He was a very likeable guy, although you wouldn’t think it to watch him sometimes on Coach’s Corner. Ronnie, you and Don don’t do the things now that you used to do years ago, like the cotton batting in your ears, and Don with crazy hats.”
I said, “The cotton batting was an April Fool’s prank and happened just one time, Dad.”
Dad said, “Don wears those different jackets, though, and people love that. You and Don are birds of a feather, I think. Ronnie, you get respect because you shoot from the shoulder.”
“Ronnie likes to keep the fire smouldering,” said Mom.
“Look who's talking!” I responded, and we all laughed. I had a flight to catch, so I got up and moved over to Mom. She struggled out of her recliner. They had matching velvet, rose-coloured recliners. Mom’s was the one on the right. Getting up on her own was a big thing for her. She was so proud. She fought her way to a good, firm, erect stance, and I put my arm around her. She felt so little and bony. She squeezed my hand and looked into my eyes. “Be a good boy, Ronnie.”
We weren’t an openly affectionate family, but my voice was soft when I said, “I love you, Mom. I’ll see you soon.”
And that was it. Cari and I left for Beijing the next day, July 31, 2008.
Nine days later, Mom was in the hospital. Just before the live telecast of the Beijing opening ceremonies, she’d been rushing around, getting ready to watch me do my first prime-time hosting gig, and she fell and broke her hip. Our friends Pat and Linda Festing-Smith called to let us know she’d had surgery and all was well.
For the next few days, the reports were all positive. She was out of bed and walking around. The doctors were concerned about long-term mobility issues, but the cancer was under control and she was on the mend.
A few days later, we started getting reports of a turn. Mom was not eating and had started to get a little foggy. We tried in vain to talk to her on the phone, but it was extremely difficult because of the time difference and my schedule. Every time we called, she was asleep.
Finally, the doctor pulled Dad aside and said, “Mr. MacLean, your wife will not be going home with you.” Dad was shocked. He said, “You mean it’s fatal?” And the doctor replied, “Yes, her system has crashed. She hasn’t got a hope. Don’t do anything to agitate her. Leave her alone, keep her lips moistened, but no food, she doesn’t need it now.” But Dad was in denial.
We called the doctors and asked for a timeline. They said it could be weeks, but it could be days. Cari decided to go home to see for herself what was going on. She left on August 18 and landed on the afternoon of August 20. The closing ceremonies were to take place on the twenty-fourth.
Cari went straight from the airport to the hospital. Dad, Cari’s folks and Pat and Linda were all there. She stayed until 9:30 p.m. and took Dad away to give him a break. Cari was home for an hour when the phone rang. The hospital told Cari “something has happened,” and they needed to return to the hospital right away. So they knew.
Cari knew I was set to go on the air, but she was worried I’d hear about Mom over the wire. So she sent an email to my BlackBerry. “I am so sorry—your mom is gone. Your dad and I are at the hospital. Call me when you can. Xx, Bug.”
The CBC was in the middle of a beach volleyball game, so I had about half an hour. “What do I do next?” I wondered. “Okay, I’ve got to get back to Dad and Cari. But first, I’ve got to let our director, Sherali Najak, know, and then I’ve got to sign off the show.” There was a lot to be done.
I made some notes and then took the anchor chair. “Back to diving in just a moment. I don’t want to jar you with this news, but my mom, who is eighty-two years old, succumbed to pancreatic cancer. Mom’s condition has been tough for about a year now, but she broke her hip on the eve of the Olympic opening ceremonies, and if you know anything about cancer, once that trauma was added to the weight of her circumstance—it was a very difficult last fourteen days.
“I just want to quickly thank all the staff at the Oakville-Trafalgar Medical Centre. Some of the doctors weren’t even the attending physicians. Tom Stanton, you, a great athlete, came by every day. Patrick Festing-Smith, a great sailor, a great helmsman, he was by every day. My dad is eighty-six, tougher than most of the athletes I got to enjoy. What a run it was.
“You guys were incredible in the rowing you did, the weight-lifting you did back home. So, thanks to you. My wife, Cari, got home in time. The news just broke about two hours ago. Grapes would always say, ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.’ I’m probably in that bubble of denial that you get in when you’re involved in television. But the truth of the matter is, I gave her all I had all my life, so there is no harm in not having been there for the final moments. But I’ve got to get home now, it goes without saying, to help out.
“Ian Hanomansing is here, and the Lord works in mysterious ways. Scott Russell, this really is his baby, so the ship is on its way. She’s got a comfortable lead and nobody better to steer her. Scott will come in and do the prime-time show through to the end.
“When we come back, more of the diving. Enjoy the Games. The 29th Olympiad, when CBC Television continues, in a moment.”
I didn’t break down, but my voice caught a little when I mentioned Grapes. When Rose had died, and I was on camera telling our viewers that Don had a situation at home, I knew that Don felt I shouldn’t bother saying anything because no one would care. At the time, I used the words, “Don would want you to know, ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’”
I knew, of course, that he was wrong. People did care about him, and when I repeated those words in relation to me and Mom’s death, it kind of rocked me.
The CBC sent a car for me, and it took me directly to the airport. Air Canada and Delta met me in Chicago and Toronto and escorted me through, because the connecting flights were tightly timed. I thought I might sleep on the plane rides, but it didn’t work that way. My mind rebelled. I swallowed a few lumps when I thought about Dad. He and Mom were in their fiftieth year of marriage. She didn’t quite make it to their anniversary.
Dad decided to have a private viewing. He knew I would be arriving home in Canada on Friday. He told the funeral director, “I want to wait until Saturday to give Ron a chance to have a nice sleep first.”
While I was in transit, Cari and Dad went back to the house to get something for Mom to wear. We had given her a nice dress for Mother’s Day, so that was the dress they chose. They both stared into the open closet, and Cari said, “What about shoes?”
Dad said, “Why would she need shoes?” And despite the solemnity of the task, they both started chuckling. It was just like Mom to provide one last laugh.
I saw Mom lying in her casket at the Oakview Funeral Home. I went over to give her a kiss, and that was good. I guess. I think I could’ve lived without it. I say that, not knowing what it’s like not to see someone you’ve lost laid out in a casket. But it wasn’t her in there, if you know what I mean.
We didn’t have a funeral. We had a private burial, with Dad and Cari and me. Life is a short window, and we’re all going to pass through it.
I hadn’t been to church in years. I only went back when Mom died. It gave Dad and me something to do together. In childhood, before I became an altar boy, I fidgeted through the entire Mass, which seemed like fifteen hours. I was bored out of my tree. Then, when I took my training and helped serve Mass, I loved it. I was part of the action. As I mentioned earlier, I loved to sing when I was young. I had a great voice that disappeared with puberty. One time, while I was serving Mass in Halifax, the visiting bishop was looking for me to bring the wine for the blessing, but I didn’t notice because I was carried away with the hymns and stood there singing and singing.
I did enjoy watching the priest organize the Mass—putting on his vestments or costume, trying to connect with the sermon, grabbing the audience. Last year, as Dad and I were leaving, Father Coughlan was at the back door saying goodbye, and I shook h
is hand and said, “Great show. Another great show.”
31
JUSTICE, NOT VENGEANCE
One of the most heartbreaking stories I ever covered in hockey was the death of Dan Snyder. His story touches me deeply, partly because I realize that it was youthful recklessness that got him killed, and it could have happened to me or a hundred other guys I know. It only takes one wrong turn.
On September 29, 2003, Dany Heatley was driving home from a team function in his Ferrari 360 Modena. Snyder, his Atlanta Thrashers teammate, was in the passenger seat. Heatley was going between 55 and 82 miles per hour in a 35-mile-per-hour zone. He lost control and skidded into a brick pillar and an iron fence. Dan fell into a coma and died six days later. Heatley, who had a badly injured knee, has always said that he can’t remember anything from that night. He pleaded guilty to second-degree vehicular homicide, driving too fast for conditions, failure to maintain a lane and speeding. He was sentenced to three years’ probation and ordered to give 150 speeches on the dangers of speeding and to pay $25,000 to Fulton County for the cost of investigating the crash.
Grapes and I attended Dan’s funeral in Elmira, Ontario. It was so crowded, we stood on the lawn listening to the service over the loudspeaker. Dan Snyder’s folks, Graham and LuAnn, carried themselves with dignity. Later, they stepped up in court and advocated for Heatley. Fulton County District Attorney Paul Howard wanted to put Heatley in jail to make him pay for what he had done. Graham felt the DA’s motives could be somewhat political.
Howard had worked on another prominent sports case. In 2000, Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis was charged in connection with a stabbing outside a nightclub in Atlanta, right after the Super Bowl. Two people were killed. Lewis was arrested and then released on a million-dollar bond. The charges against Lewis were eventually dropped, and the outcome cost Howard political points, so he was meticulous in his approach to the Heatley case. But the Snyders didn’t believe that sending Heatley to jail would be helpful for him or for them. Graham’s only request of Heatley was that if he ever remembered what happened, and why he was driving so fast, he would call Graham and tell him. Heatley has yet to make that call. But he put his life back together. He was traded to Ottawa in 2005, then a few years later asked for a trade to San Jose. In the summer of 2011, he was traded to Minnesota. I admire him greatly for gutting it out. I am sure it’s been really hard to live that moment down. And I look at the Snyders’ generosity toward Heatley as a shining example for humanity.