Fully Alive

by Timothy Shriver

  If my parents were immersed in the politics of the 1960s, they were also immersed in the Catholic life of that same period. And there, too, they must have felt exhilarated by the possibilities of change. In those same years—the early 1960s—the Catholic Church underwent perhaps its most significant change since the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century. The unlikely leader of the change was a soft-spoken and cheery Italian cardinal, Angelo Roncalli, who became Pope John XXIII in 1958 at the quiet old age of seventy-seven. Just months after his election, “good Pope John” shook the Christian world by convening a surprise ecumenical council, Vatican II. In his opening address to the council leaders, he left behind the Catholic worldview that had been dominated by an unbending condemnation of the modern world and an insular defense of Catholic supremacy and authority. In its place, he announced that “a new enthusiasm, a new joy and serenity of mind” should guide the encounter between the Church and the secular world. He called on the Church to prefer “the balm of mercy to the arm of severity.” He saw the future as guided by the vital importance of “personal dignity and true self-realization.” He could have been quoting my parents’ favorite theologian, the Jesuit paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, when he predicted that “the human family is on the threshold of a new era.” Fifty years after the council, the archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, reflected that with Vatican II it was “at last possible to be properly human.” The council brought a flood of possibilities to Catholics the world over.

  The Second Vatican Council is often remembered as an event that changed the language of the Catholic mass from Latin to the language of the local community and, further, as an event that changed the roles of priests and nuns. But it could just as easily be remembered for the way in which it inspired ordinary Catholics such as my parents to believe that the role of religion was not simply to offer a system of beliefs that had to be followed, but instead to inspire a new way of seeing the world: as the place of encounter with the divine in all its many forms. The Church signaled a new priority for the work of social justice. And it offered a new view of prayer as the discovery of the divine in all things—what the young German Jesuit Karl Rahner called the “mystical way in everyday life.”

  My mother kept Teilhard’s books all over the house, pulling them out at random times and reading a chapter or two for an infusion of emotional energy. Her copy of Building the Earth includes scores of underlined sections and dog-eared pages. At one point in the introduction to that volume, Teilhard’s centuries-old family motto is mentioned: “Fiery their vigor and celestial their origin.” My mother penciled in the margin: “quote!”

  My father read voraciously of Teilhard, too, and even included his books in the curriculum for new Peace Corps volunteers. He quoted Teilhard in political speeches, often referring to him simply as “the philosopher.” Together with other religious pioneers, Teilhard promised a new theological anthropology based on the idea that divine experience was available and immediate for all people. My father dove into these new thinkers and loved trying to transpose their ideas into the political arena, where he could create innovative ways to achieve their vision of a more just and peaceful world for all.

  The Vatican council was a vindication of both my parents’ ideas of what it meant to be Catholic, of the ideas they’d learned from Teilhard and from movements such as Dorothy Day’s Catholic Worker houses in New York, which embraced radical poverty and solidarity with the poorest of the poor. It reinforced the urgency of the work of social change in the secular world and supported the idea that, in the words of Rowan Williams, “it is faith itself that shapes the work of humanizing [the world].” One of the council’s most dramatic decrees articulated a universality that resonates even today. Its first sentence stunned the Catholic world: “The joys and the hopes, the griefs and the anxieties of the men of this age, especially those who are poor or in any way afflicted, are the joys and hopes, the griefs and anxieties of the followers of Christ. Indeed, nothing genuinely human fails to raise an echo in their hearts.”

  There is no doubt that faith animated my parents’ almost frenzied approach to their work. And none of their social change campaigns drew as much from their faith and their spiritual worldview as their efforts to change the world for—and with—people with intellectual disabilities. They believed in the ethos of Vatican II and Pope John’s interest in the unconditional dignity of all life, and they wanted to make that dignity the standard of society for all people, no exceptions.

  Years later my father wrote a prayer that captured the spirit of his worldview:

  Almighty God, we thank you, we thank you … for giving us a chance to work on behalf of the 170,000,000 human beings on earth with Intellectual Disabilities. For helping us to understand why you have created them! Because they teach us to love one another; because they teach us to respect all of your creatures of every race, every religion, every nation, of all ages; because they teach us that we are all—every one of us—dependent on you and on one another. Help us, Lord, to respect and love all of your creatures and all of your creation. Help us, Lord, because we are your servants! Amen.

  Back in Chicago, Anne Burke knew about none of this—the research, the meetings, the faith, the zeal, the possibility of breakthrough change. What she did know was that she wanted to continue her work and expand it in whatever way possible. She’d felt the frustration of obstacles, but she’d also tasted the power of change in Dan Shannon’s few words and in her boss William McFetridge’s emotional connection. And she found a great opportunity to take her work to the next level in an announcement that came to McFetridge in 1967: the Kennedy Foundation announced to all its grantees and collaborators that it was seeking to expand its investment in physical activity and sports for children and adults with intellectual disabilities. Specifically, it requested proposals from any of its several collaborators to hold a national athletic competition for people with intellectual disabilities.

  Burke kicked into action. On behalf of the Chicago Park District and the Recreation and Outdoor Education program at Southern Illinois University, she submitted a proposal for a one-day sporting event called the “National Olympics for the Retarded.” The National Olympics would be hosted by the Chicago Park District, and Burke herself would lead the effort. The application was submitted with the strong endorsement of Mayor Daley.

  I know Chicago was not the only city considered for the launch of the athletic competitions. There were other cities in which start-up programs such as Burke’s were growing and universities where programs such as Freeburg’s were attracting attention. Did Mayor Daley’s prominence and influence figure into the decision to select Chicago? Did Anne Burke’s dynamic personality make the difference? Did Chicago’s position as a major American city help make the case that it could be influential in inspiring others to follow its example in future years? I don’t know. “I was guided by the spiritual aspect,” Burke remembered. Perhaps that’s what won the day. In any event, Burke and McFetridge won the competition and received a grant to get started. They immediately began the planning process. They would have a lot to do.

  My mother made a few changes to the proposal, among which was changing the name to “Special Olympics,” in order to avoid the stigma of the label “retarded.” She further spelled out the training and recruitment elements of the games, which the Kennedy Foundation would oversee. Even with the grant, funding was tight for an event of this size, and volunteers would be needed by the dozens. Burke went to Tom Maher, head of an association of United Airlines flight attendants called the Clipped Wings, and asked him to provide volunteers. He said yes. She went to Joe Pecoraro, head of the pools division of the parks department, and asked for help with swimming. He not only said yes but also reached out to his personal friend the legendary Johnny Weissmuller, and asked him to come and help attract media attention. Weissmuller said yes. She asked Mayor Daley to locate the event at Soldier Field and to provide the necessary security and staff; he a
greed. From the Kennedy Foundation, Frank Hayden offered his services designing the training materials to send out to athletes who would be invited, while Herb Kramer, a public relations specialist at the foundation, offered to call his contacts at the Travelers insurance company to ask for donated umbrellas in the event of rain. Freeburg planned the onsite training stations; the La Salle Hotel was chosen to host the visiting athletes; Burke pitched Chicago media. The difficulty of pulling off the games was lessened by the good will of so many who responded. One of the volunteers thanked Burke for inviting her to help and, she recalls, said, “These are beautiful kids. They’ve had nothing up till now. We’re going to give them the best!”

  Then, just two months before the games were to take place, all of a sudden trouble struck. Burke received a letter from Avery Brundage, a prominent Chicagoan, the owner of the La Salle Hotel, and (more important) the president of the International Olympic Committee. Brundage had gotten word that people with intellectual disabilities were going to be staying in his hotel, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. What caught his attention were the invitations and the public relations materials announcing an event in Chicago that violated the trademark he controlled: the word “Olympics.” His message was simple: you cannot use the word. Cease and desist. Brundage made it clear that he would use any legal means necessary to ensure that “Olympics” would appear nowhere at the event to be held in Soldier Field.

  Burke opened the letter and realized that it meant the certain cancellation of the games. Everything had already been printed. All the plans were finalized and all the press releases sent out. There was no way to change the name. The only option was to start over—at best, postpone the event, and at worst, cancel it and hope for new momentum in another year. She burst into tears, collected her thoughts, and then burst into tears again. Then she decided to go straight to the mayor to let him know of the impending humiliation. “I went to see Daley right away. I couldn’t stop crying over the whole thing. I walked right into his office—that’s how important Special Olympics had become to him. I could just walk right in to see the mayor. And I told him, ‘Mr. Brundage wrote this letter and there’s nothing we can do. We should’ve thought of this before. I don’t know what Mrs. Shriver will think, but we have to cancel.’”

  Daley looked at the letter and bellowed out to his secretary, “Get me Avery Brundage on the phone.”

  Burke sat silently in the office while Daley waited. Neither said a word. Seconds passed that seemed like minutes. The phone buzzed: “Avery Brundage on the line, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Avery. How are you? Fine, fine. Yes. Of course. Now, Avery, you’re not serious about this letter you’ve sent us, are you? You can’t be serious, Avery. Oh, is that so?

  “Well, if that’s what you’re saying, I have some news for you, too. I want you to know I’ve walked through your La Salle Hotel, Avery, and there are fire code violations everywhere. Fire code violations all over the La Salle Hotel. I’m afraid you know what that means.”

  There was a long pause as Daley listened to Brundage. Then the slightest smile crept onto Daley’s face.

  “You understand? Thank you, Avery. That’s very helpful. Goodbye.”

  Burke watched, incredulous. Daley hung up the phone and looked at her.

  “You go along. You’ll have no more problems from Brundage. I’ll tell Eunice. The Olympics people think ‘Special Olympics’ is a fine name.”

  So on they went. A brochure for the event boasted, “The thrill of a lifetime awaits retarded children who come to Chicago this summer.” They would be entertained by such world-famous guests as the astronaut James Lovell and the Olympic champions Jesse Owens, Barbara Ann Scott, and Bob Mathias. They would be welcomed by the mayor himself and stay in an “Olympic village” at the La Salle Hotel. They would have their meals at specially prepared “training tables.” When not competing, they would be invited to tour the city, attend sports clinics, and celebrate at a mixer.

  The contestants were given an expansive message: sports can make a difference in your life and the life of your country. “The need for a special athletic competition for the retarded is well established,” one brochure declared. “The value of exercise and games for the retarded cannot be overemphasized,” said another. “A series of failures in various endeavors causes the retarded child to look at himself as a failure. His first real success may come in athletics. Here is an area where he can succeed and start building a positive self-image, gaining confidence and self-mastery as well as physical development.” The planners clearly envisioned a connection between physical activity and quality of life. In a letter of welcome, my mother addressed “all those interested in creating a better life for the mentally retarded” with her hope that “this national Olympics will stimulate hundreds of communities throughout the United States.” Mayor Daley’s letter brought wishes “of happiness and pride” to the athletes and their families. The president of the Chicago Park District, William McFetridge, offered a vision worthy of high ideals: “Our ultimate goal is to provide happiness for all children.”

  But why Soldier Field? Why not a local park or a large high school that would have had ample facilities for an event of this size? The organizers had to know that the stadium would be all but empty, and that its cavernous structure would make even a respectable crowd of five hundred or a thousand look insignificant. They had to know that the “athletes” would be more than thrilled to compete in a high school stadium with even a small number of people cheering. They had to notice the mismatch between Soldier Field’s majestic Roman colonnade that rose high above the field as a monument to athletic greatness, and the hodgepodge of athletic endeavor that would take place on the field below.

  They did, in fact, realize all this, but they also realized that their dream was much bigger than the event they were organizing. “We wanted to send a message that we had a big idea and we wanted to be in a place that was a draw,” said Burke. What, one might wonder, made Anne Burke and Eunice Shriver and Dick Daley and William McFetridge think that their “Special Olympics” for people with intellectual disabilities would be a “draw”? It could only have been a draw in their dreams. But their dreams were just the stuff from which the Chicago Special Olympics were to be made.

  The athletes arrived in Chicago the day before the games and stayed overnight at Avery Brundage’s La Salle Hotel. In what would become a Special Olympics tradition, each athlete was evaluated for skill and ability before he or she arrived, so that they could be placed in competition with others of like ability. Everyone would have a chance to compete, and each athlete would compete only against others of similar skill. There would be no “finals” and no “eliminations.” Every race would be a “finals” unto itself. In this regard, the Special Olympics were going to be completely unlike the “real” Olympics. Every winner of every race would be awarded a medal. The message was clear: Everyone will have a chance to win. Disability will play no role in limiting an athlete’s chance to claim Olympic greatness.

  Among the athletes who arrived in Chicago was Marty Sheets, a fifteen-year-old high school student from Greensboro, North Carolina, who had Down syndrome. Marty had been born to Dave and Iris Sheets on March 31, 1953, at a time when there were almost no services or support for him or his family. He had two older sisters, Nancy and Jamie. “It wasn’t easy,” Iris Sheets remembers, still fighting back tears more than fifty years later. “We had difficulty getting him in school, since they didn’t have a place for him. There were no events for him. We moved him to five or six different schools because they didn’t have teachers or rooms or programs. When he got to junior high, they called him ‘educable’ and we actually thought that was good. It was the best we’d gotten from anyone till that time.” Not surprisingly, Marty had also faced the inevitable humiliation from his peers. “One day, two little girls were making fun of him,” his father recalled, “and then another time, a big boy pulled a knife on him. We complained to the school and we fought as har
d as we could.” Not much changed. Marty responded in a way his parents couldn’t: “Mom,” he said, “words won’t hurt me. Will they, Mom?” Iris couldn’t answer. “Sometimes,” she reflected, “I think it was easier for him than it was for me.”

  Marty had, however, participated in one program specially designed for him: a summer camp for special needs children run by the Greensboro Recreation Department under a grant from the Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Foundation. “Marty did well in that camp,” his dad bragged. “Marty loved swimming and he was pretty good at it.” He went to Boone, North Carolina, where he slept away from home for the first time and enjoyed an array of activities and social experiences not unlike those enjoyed by any kid attending a summer camp. His parents were delighted: “Lem Cox headed it up and he was the athletic director of the Greensboro Public Schools. But we trusted him for another reason: we knew him from our church. Marty was well cared for there.”

  Marty had never been to a place where he didn’t know the people. He’d never been on an airplane. He’d never competed in any sport, at any level. “He’d never,” Dave Sheets noted calmly, “been cheered or anything like that.” So when the games in Chicago were scheduled, and the Greensboro Parks and Rec Department chose Marty as one of their five athletes to send, his parents were reluctant. “We were concerned about it, oh, yes. I mean, how could we not be? Marty was so young. But we were thrilled, too—happy, you could say.”

  A young teacher, Frank Starling, was chosen to train Greensboro’s athletes and accompany them to Chicago. “I was outright scared,” he remembers. “I’d never traveled with these kinds of people, and I didn’t know what they might do or anything. I was just a PE teacher, and here I was going all the way to Chicago with five kids. I thought I might be crazy to do this, but then I just said, well, what the heck. I’ll give it a try.” Dave Sheets got over his anxiety, too. On July 18, Starling and Marty Sheets and Marty’s fellow competitors boarded a plane bound for Chicago, Illinois, to participate in the first Special Olympics.