I HAVE had the privilege to watch two gold medal-winning performances by Team GB, the men’s coxless four and Chris Hoy in the velodrome. While the details may have been blurred by a veil of my tears, the emotions were unmistakable. For each medal-winner, those breaking waves of emotion will be unique, tempered by their personalities, circumstances and levels of expectation and pressure.
In the photos of me crossing the finishing line when I won the modern pentathlon in Sydney, I have the startled look of a rabbit caught in the headlights. This was not so much triggered by the shock of winning but by the fear of the unknown. But overriding everything was a sense of relief: at the release from the torture of the tension that had grown steadily through the day, because I had not let my coaches and supporters down and — crucially — that I had performed to my potential.
Having prepared meticulously for that moment, suddenly I was not ready for what lay ahead. I had dreamt of this moment, but I had never allowed myself to dwell on anything beyond. To do that would have been to lose focus on the process of achieving success. Once there, I was a control freak in a world spiralling out of my control.
For some like myself, the knowledge of success is instant, but for others there is a tantalising wait. When the rowing four crossed the finish line on Schinias lake I was convinced that they had won. For a moment the scoreboard came up with “1st Great Britain”, but this was replaced by “photo finish”. The waiting was almost unbearable. Friends and supporters clutched each other for support, faces wet with tears, praying for the right result, the only result. When the decision came, it was relief that swept through the stands, then elation.
For Leslie Law, the wait was more prolonged and it took the lawyers to decide, although by the time he was awarded gold, he had already taken taken his eventing silver medal home to Britain.
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As the media scrum descends, you can see most athletes desperately trying to catch sight of those who have helped them to where they are — their coaches, family and friends. It took me ages to find my head coach: he was crying his heart out in the back of the stadium.
Perhaps the degree of emotion also reflects the level of pressure and expectation. I will always remember Cathy Freeman’s face as she crouched, head in her hands, on the track in Sydney — utter relief rather than sheer joy and elation at having won.
I am sure that, for some who surpass all expectation, to win a silver or bronze is the greatest of achievements. David Davies taking on Grant Hackett in the pool and smashing his personal best to win bronze is a case in point.
The joy of a heptathlon medal for Kelly Sotherton was more than apparent. Watching was Mary Peters, moved to tears as she relived her own golden pentathlon memories from 1972. They are never far from your mind on occasions such as these. But for those coming into the Games with a favourite’s chance, gold has to be the only goal.
For those who miss by the narrowest of margins, the disappointment in the post-event interviews is painfully palpable. The music heralding each medals ceremony becomes familiar, but when it heralds your own it sends a shiver of excitement through you. It is the beginning of the realisation of the significance of what you have achieved: the moment at which it becomes real, to see and hold the actual medal and know that you are not dreaming. With the National Anthem comes the pride — and often the tears. The chance to reflect that it is not just you but the nation celebrating.
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During my medals ceremony in Sydney, Jim Fox, a gold medal-winner in the team modern pentathlon in 1976, was on the end of the telephone in England, listening to the National Anthem as the Union Jack was raised. I was able to share in the emotion of Bradley Wiggins’s gold medal ceremony by listening on the phone to the National Anthem. I was moved to tears.
And at that moment comes the fact that your life is no longer your own. It is only you who really knows what it has taken to get there, the frustrations and setbacks that have had to be overcome that make success even sweeter. The rowers perhaps know this better than anyone. My eyes were not exactly dry that day in Sydney, but I had already shed tears of joy and relief with my coaches and family.
Perhaps the proximity of the medals ceremony to the end of the rowing finals heightened the level of emotion. There was hardly time to take in what had happened and the cracking in Matt Pinsent’s normally implacable mask spoke volumes. Although another explanation was given by Sir Steve Redgrave when he suggested mischievously that it was a ploy to win votes for this year’s BBC Sports Personality of the Year.