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Now that I have time and space to sit back and reflect on the week that was, I keep coming back to the Opening Ceremony of the Invictus Games.
The storm and the broadcast delay is common knowledge but what is not common knowledge is what was going on behind the scenes.
Hundreds of us evacuated from the outdoor stage, demountable dressing rooms, and tents. Then, faces pressed against the glass of the Opera House, watching as electrical bolts from the sky lit up the horizon. And, as the minutes ticked by, an increasing anxiety that maybe the event, one that had been a year in the planning, might not go ahead.
Yes, it was a nerve-wracking time for everyone involved. How do we get dressed and ready? How do we get on air? Is the site safe?
But all I kept thinking about were the 500 competitors making their way to the Opera House for a night that would celebrate the start of their big week.
I remember closing my eyes and wishing beyond anything else that, for them, we would make it back on site and get the show going.
There were rumours flying around, including that the event had been cancelled, and I heard of some competitors breaking down in tears when they thought that was true.
I would have too.
Imagine losing your identity to injury, your self-confidence, your sense of worth, your connection to your spouse and children, or your job. And then, beyond all expectations, rising above all that and signing up for a competition, training and saying to yourself, I believe in you. I believe in your future. I believe there is life for you after.
It takes the most incredible amount of courage — courage I have never had to call on in my life. And to have that beacon, that start line of the Invictus Games thwarted by weather. Well, it just didn't seem fair.
The storm passed, the site was checked, and we were finally allowed back in.
It was a mad rush to get on stage and our adrenalin was pumping.
It was a big enough event even before the weather hit, with high-profile attendees and the world watching.
But with the delay and uncertainty added to that, I felt like we needed to do even more. To be honest, I wasn't sure how it was going to go. There were possible technical failings — a few happened while we were on air — and there was settling the nerves and finding focus again after such a disruptive few hours.
But I had help.
Before the Opening Ceremony went live, we were on stage, running through the dos and don'ts of a live broadcast to our audiences on-site: turn off your mobiles, no flashes, no smoking etc. And as I looked across to the competitors, my eye happened to settle on a man in the Australian team. He was in a wheelchair in the front row and had an assistance dog with him, a trusty companion trained to sense anxiety and settle nerves.
There was just something about him that reminded me that he was what this was all about.
As luck would have it, he happened to be in my peripheral vision all night. And every time there was a stumble or a technical difficulty, I would find myself casting my gaze towards him and his dog, and feel a deep sense of duty to do the best I could.
A few days later, I called the head of the Australian team to find out who that man was. I wanted to thank him for calming me in the midst of the literal storm.
He was Matthew Blunt, deployed to Timor Leste and Malaysia. Medically discharged in 2016 because of PTSD.
Matthew, thank you. May everything that comes your way in the future, be the brightest of bright.
Topics: sport, disabilities, defence-forces, human-interest, navy, air-force, army, sydney-2000
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