A FEW WEEKS LATER, after more than a year of talking and planning, thinking and worrying, seven thousand fans packed into the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park for the opening ceremony. The Invictus Games
were born.
It had been decided that the International Warrior Games was a tongue twister, a mouthful. A clever Royal Marine had then come up with this far better alternative.
As soon as he suggested it we all said: Of course! After the William Ernest Henley poem!
Every Brit knew that poem. Many had the first line by heart.
Out of the night that covers me…
And what schoolboy or schoolgirl didn’t encounter at least once those sonorous final lines?
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Minutes before my speech at the opening ceremony, I stood in the wings, holding notecards in my hands, which were visibly shaking. Before me, the podium looked like a gallows. I read my cards over and over, while nine Red Arrows did a flypast, streaming smoke colored red, white and blue. Then Idris Elba read “Invictus,” maybe as well as anyone ever has, and then Michelle Obama, via satellite, said some eloquent words about the meaning of the games. Finally, she introduced me.
Long walk. Through a red-carpeted labyrinth. My cheeks looked red-carpeted as well. My smile was frozen, the fight-or-flight response in full effect. I scolded myself under my breath for being this way. These games were celebrating men and women who’d lost limbs, pushed their bodies to the limit and beyond, and here I was freaking out about a little speech.
But it wasn’t my fault. Anxiety, by this point, was controlling my body, my life. And this speech, which I believed meant so much to so many, couldn’t help but exacerbate my condition.
Plus, the producer told me as I walked onstage that we were running behind on time. Ah, great, something else to think about. Thanks.
As I reached the lectern, which I’d personally and carefully positioned, I berated myself, because it afforded a perfect view of all the competitors. All those trusting, wholesome, expectant faces—counting on me. I forced myself to look away, to look at nothing. Hurrying, hyper-conscious of the clock, I bleated out: For some of those taking part this will be a stepping-stone to elite sport. But for others it will mark the end of a chapter in their recovery and the beginning of a new one.
I went and found my seat, down front, beside Pa, who put a hand on my shoulder. Well done, darling boy. He was being kind. He knew I’d rushed the speech. For once I was glad not to hear the raw truth from him.
Just on the numbers, Invictus was a hit. Two million people watched on TV, thousands filled the arenas for each event. Among the highlights, for me, was the wheelchair rugby final, Britain versus America, thousands of fans cheering Britain on to victory in the Copper Box.
Wherever I went that week, people came up to me, shook my hand, told me their stories. Children, parents, grandparents, always with tears in their eyes, told me that these games had restored something they’d feared forever lost: the true spirit of a son, a daughter, a brother, a sister, a mum, a dad. One woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me I’d resurrected her husband’s smile.
Oh, that smile, she said. I hadn’t seen it since he got injured.
I knew Invictus would do some good in the world, I always knew, but I was caught off guard by this wave of appreciation and gratitude. And joy.
Then came the emails. Thousands, each more moving than the last.
I’ve had a broken back for five years, but after watching these brave men and women I’ve got off the sofa today and I’m ready to begin again.
I’ve been suffering depression since returning from Afghanistan but this demonstration of human courage and resilience has made me see…
At the closing ceremony, moments after I introduced Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters, a man and woman approached, their young daughter between them. The daughter was wearing a pink hoodie and orange ear defenders. She looked up at me: Thank you for making my daddy…Daddy again.
He’d won a gold medal.
Just one problem, she said. She couldn’t see the Foo Fighters. Ah well, we can’t have that!
I lifted her onto my shoulders and together the four of us watched, danced, sang, and celebrated being alive.
It was my thirtieth birthday.
