They
told him to quit, that he wasn't good enough, but figure skater
Paul Wylie refused to listen.
When
he stepped off the plane in Washington,
D.C., following the 1992 Winter Games, and everyone
in the terminal started clapping, Paul Wylie almost stopped
in his tracks. Who's behind me? He wondered. Despite the silver
medal in his pocket, he couldn't believe that the applause
was for him. From that moment on, Paul recognized that his
life would never be the same.
The
silver medal he earned in Albertville,
France, ushered the 27-year-old figure skater into a new existence.
He was no longer a nobody who choked at big events, like the
1988 Calgary Olympics, where he finished an unimpressive
10th. No longer the recipient
of advice from judges who, after Paul's performance in the
'91 World Championships, suggested that he quit: "Make
room for the younger skaters."
No
longer the target of loaded questions from reporters covering
the '91 Olympic Trials ("What are you doing here?").
No longer the skater incapable of finishing ahead of
U.S. National Champion Todd
Eldredge or three-time defending World Champion
Kurt
Browning of Canada.
Now Paul Wylie was an Olympic hero. An athlete who kept going when doubters suggested he quit. A recent Harvard
University graduate who had frequently fantasized
about life without grueling
hours on the ice, but who persevered
anyway. A young man who had discovered and demonstrated that goals can be reached no matter how many obstacles and
botched
attempts lie in the way.
"A
reporter who interviewed me at the Closing Ceremonies told
me, 'You came here an unknown and now you go home a hero,'"
Paul says. "I thought that was interesting, because I
was in France and unaware of how my journey was unfolding
on U.S. television. It wasn't until I stepped off the plane
that I realized people considered me a hero. They were changed
by my story. They were changed by the fact that I was able
to persevere and win the silver medal even though almost everyone
had counted me out."
At
times, Paul had almost counted himself out. "Two months
before the '92 Olympics, USA
Today did a survey of different athletes and asked,
'How often do you contemplate retirement?' The choices were:
'yearly,' 'monthly' or 'weekly.'
"I
wrote, 'daily,' because it was hard to keep going. But I just
decided, I'm going to persevere and hang in there, because
I have a shot."
Things
definitely changed in 1992 in Albertville. "To have my
story be one that brought tears to people's eyes, because
of the way it turned around — that changed my life as well,"
Paul says. "I looked at my skating career and saw it
rewritten and beautiful, as opposed to a big disappointment
and many years struggling toward some goal but not reaching
it."
With
medal in hand, Paul was suddenly ushered
into a world of lucrative
endorsements
and figure-skating world tours, of exclusive events and autograph
seekers. Everything you might expect of a celebrity
hero, but none of what Paul himself believes merits the honor
of that title.
"What
makes a true hero is selfless service," he says. "Or
someone whose life and actions inspire you to be better and
to be a bigger person. I don't think that what I did was selfless
service. But God used the story of my life to inspire others."
Heroism,
Paul has observed, requires daily maintenance. Just as a skater
achieves perfection by practicing small parts of his larger
routine day after day, a hero must look for ways to serve
on a regular basis — not just in a crisis or more visible
situation.
an Olympic medal loses its luster
after years of storage, a hero will lose his credibility
if he stops looking to the needs of others. When Paul joins
the thousands of others watching the Olympics in Salt
Lake City, he knows that behind the scenes of each
victory, of each record-setting finish, stand countless stories
of everyday heroes. Heroes who refuse to give up.
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