Figure skatingOverwhelmed by Rochette's courage

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Joannie Rochette looked sad and vulnerable during a practice session after learning her mother had died, remembers Pj Kwong, but inside the skater lived a steely determination. (Robert Skinner/Canadian Press)

This story is part of CBCSports.ca's retrospective on the one-year anniversary of the Vancouver Olympics. To access all the articles, click here.

The Olympics hold a special place in the hearts of people who work or compete in sports. From time to time, stories from the Games arise that are so compelling as to connect people beyond the field of play.

This, for me, is one of those stories.

It really does feel like yesterday that the phone rang as I was getting ready in my Vancouver condo. The voice on the other end, a colleague from CBC Radio, said "We've just heard that Joannie Rochette's mother died. Can you confirm this?"

It seemed improbable as I dialed the VANOC media contact for figure skating, Barb MacDonald, who ended up confirming the awful news that Therese Rochette had indeed passed away in the early hours of that morning.

I was in Vancouver working as the public address announcer for the figure skating competitions, so I would have a rinkside seat for some of the most dramatic moments of the 2010 Winter Games. My first stop on my way to work that day was the CBC office to report that I had been told by figure skating insiders that Rochette would compete less than 48 hours from then.

Once at the arena, from our production office I could hear the music playing for the women's practice and excused myself to run to the side of the rink when I heard Rochette's name called. She looked so small, never looking up or making eye contact as she skated. She looked so sad and vulnerable, and from across the rink I could see her coach, Manon Perron, at the ready, standing stoically beside the boards. There was something so raw and surreal about the whole scene that it brought me to tears.

Hard to watch

That same ache for this young woman was present as I prepared my notes for the women's short program on competition day. As a mother and a daughter, I tried to put myself in her skates, and I could not imagine how Rochette was going to be able to perform. I was overwhelmed by my own emotions at her courage to try. 

The moment of truth came when the warm-up group containing Rochette took the ice.  There was a strange hush over the crowd. As Rochette went through her paces, the audience would explode into short bursts of applause and then fall eerily silent. It was almost as if, collectively, they wanted to show their support but didn't want to intrude. All eyes were fixed on her.

I remember announcing her name and country over the P.A. when it was her turn to skate. Then I looked down, trying to distract myself in every way I could think of, because every time I looked up and saw Rochette's determination more tears would well up in my eyes.

Let's face it, the only time you are ever aware of a P.A. announcer at an event is when they are remarkable in a bad way. The goal at a figure skating competition is to be that voice in the background that everyone listens to but doesn't really hear. The only way that I was going to be able to accomplish that was by not watching Rochette skate and by digging my nails hard into each palm.

My voice stayed steady and calm as I got through Rochette's marks and the announcement of the next skater. Fortunately, I had about three minutes to collect myself before I had to speak again.

Rochette went on to win a bronze medal, one of the biggest stories, of the Olympics, but I can't say I was surprised. Before she stepped on the ice, I remember saying on my CBC hits that I felt Rochette would land on the podium because she's a skater who performs best when she has a mountain to climb.

I'm not sure there's ever been a bigger mountain, and I'm so proud to have witnessed her triumph first-hand.

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