I've been thinking about Jim McKay a lot during the last week.
Specifically, I've been thinking about the late broadcaster's tour de force moment in a career full of great work. That is, his terrific on-air performance during the 1972 Summer Olympics.
To recap briefly, those were the Games that were held in Munich, West Germany, that were marred by a terrorist act where 11 members of the Israeli Olympic team were kidnapped and eventually killed by their captors, a Palestinian group by the name of Black September.
Being only 2 years old at the time, I was too young to have any comprehension of the incident. But thanks to several great documentaries over the years, McKay's stellar work on camera, uninterrupted for 16 hours, is something I've viewed several times.
Near the end of the standoff between Black September and the authorities, an ill-fated rescue attempt ended with all of the hostages losing their lives. Having just seconds before he had to relay the information, McKay showed his brilliance with what came next:
"We just got the final word ... you know, when I was a kid, my father used to say, "Our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized.' Our worst fears have been realized tonight. They've now said that there were 11 hostages. Two were killed in their rooms yesterday morning, nine were killed at the airport tonight. They're all gone."
It's a powerful moment, and once you hear those words come out of his mouth, I doubt anyone will ever be able to forget McKay's speech. I know I haven't.
What does this have to do with anything? Well, it had particular resonance for me this past Tuesday. It was a day where the worst fears of my family were realized.
Carrie Olson, a first cousin of mine living in my hometown of Davenport, Iowa, went missing five days after Christmas under suspicious circumstances. After several fruitless months filled with prayers, and searches, and appeals on Internet sites for information, and coverage in newspapers and on television, it seemed we were to remain stymied in the search for Carrie.
Then came Tuesday. That evening, news reports confirmed a body found in Minnesota was that of my cousin, and just like that, our worst fears were realized. Throughout the months of uncertainty, we tried to remain hopeful of a positive conclusion to the situation. We didn't get it.
When I received word, I was doing what I'm so often doing - writing a story about a sporting event. Having just returned from a baseball game, I was trying to craft a story for the next morning's paper. Needless to say, it was a story that took a whole lot longer to write than is the norm, as several phone calls and texts were exchanged before it was finished.
Maybe that's why the words of Jim McKay stuck in my head. Much of my life has been spent around sports, playing and covering them, so perhaps equating a real-life tragedy to a sports tragedy makes some kind of sense. All I know is that while trying to write about a game, life made it seem a whole lot less important.
What I do know is this: it's time to grieve.
I grieve for Carrie, whose life ended too soon and too cruelly. The only solace we can take is that any suffering she endured is now over.
I grieve for Carrie's mom and dad, my aunt Karen and uncle Dave. I cannot imagine the pain they are going through. No parent should have to outlive a child, and all I can do is pray they find the strength they will need to do just that.
I grieve for Carrie's sister, Jacklyn. I find it unfathomable to think what it would be like if I lost my brother or sister. She will have to find that out firsthand and my heart breaks for her.
I grieve for the rest of our family. Every single family on this planet knows pain, and knows loss. That doesn't make it any easier to deal with, and I wish all of my relatives solace.
I know that someday, sports may again seem to have the "life and death" consequences they often do. But for now, I just hope they will provide some distraction from a real death.
Rest in peace, Carrie. You will be missed.