Losing our Marathon

 

By Gerry Callahan
BostonHerald.com

On the radio yesterday morning, I gave my advice to anyone attending the Boston Marathon: Go to the finish line late in the day, I said. Show up long after the world-class runners have crossed the line, picked up their prize money, headed to the airport and flown off to the next big race on the schedule. Then you’ll see the real champions, the true heart and soul of the Boston Marathon.

By the time the real winners cross, the finish-line tape has been ripped down and the street covered with litter. Oh, but what a scene. You wait until 3 or 4 in the afternoon, and you’ll see the grandmother staggering across the finish line as her shrieking grandkids surround her. You’ll see wounded veterans, you’ll see friends or couples finishing arm in arm, you’ll see people literally crawl across the line and collapse on that one glorious painted patch of Boylston Street.

You go to the finish line late on Patriots Day afternoon, and you’ll see the human spirit in all its glory — sweaty, bloody, delirious and genuinely triumphant. You want to see the best of the Boston Marathon? Take my advice and show up late.

In a way, we saw it again this year, but this time it was not limited to the runners. It was in the first responders running toward the carnage, literally stepping into the smoke to help anyone who needed help. It was in the volunteers who normally are here to maintain order but were suddenly thrust into this frightening chaos.

Watch the video again, and there they are, pulling debris off the victims outside of the Atlantic Fish Company, choosing to hang around and help when rumors of more explosions to come were swirling in the smoke. These people were here, giving up their Patriots Day, for a free jacket and maybe some lunch, and now the job just got much bigger. Now they were risking their lives.

As for the runners, there were some, presumably doctors and nurses and EMTs, who went right from the finish line to the sidewalk where the wounded were being treated. Others reportedly hustled to the Red Cross to donate blood, not even taking a moment to appreciate their achievement.

It was 3 p.m. on Marathon Monday, and here they were again, the real champions, the heart and soul of this great event. We saw the best of the people of the Boston Marathon because, sadly, we saw the worst of mankind.

The Boston Marathon? Really? There was no big sporting event that seemed less dangerous than this old race. There is always that ominous pall leading up to the Super Bowl — boy, could the bad guys hurt us with a well-planned attack on game day — and the same goes for the World Series or a big college bowl game or even the Indy 500. And of course, the threat of terrorism always hangs like a dense fog over the Olympic Games.

I was there in Atlanta in 1996, two blocks from Centennial Olympic Park, when the bomb went off. I picked up a hot metal spike that was part of the explosive device and called in reports from the scene to Sports Illustrated, which was putting out a daily edition during the Games. It was frightening, but it was the Olympics. We were surprised, but not shocked. Since Munich, the Olympics always have been on the radar screen of bad people who want to maximize the impact of their evil.

But the Marathon? Our Marathon? It has a decidedly international flavor these days, but somehow it still felt insulated and innocent, like a big block party to celebrate the start of spring. I have been to the starting line, the finish line and a few points in between. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fight. The closest thing we’ve witnessed to treachery was Rosie Ruiz’ shortcut. It has its share of drunken college kids, but from Hopkinton to Copley, it always was a fun and friendly take for families with young kids.

And now what? Sad to say, the party is over. The Super Bowl has never been hit by terrorists, but the Marathon has. Our Marathon. More than a hundred injured. At least three dead. An 8-year-old murdered, according to reports. God help us.

Now we will stick out our chests and vow to remain strong and vigilant. We will promise to show up next year in full force, but we know the truth. Patriots Day will never been the same. Our Marathon will never be the same. Some sick, evil bastards blew a hole in it. They literally knocked some poor runner off his feet a few steps from the finish line and prevented thousands more from reaching a goal they’ve been working toward for months if not years.

Late yesterday afternoon, a place where we normally celebrate the best of the human spirit was splattered with blood and body parts. Oh, there was still plenty of heart and courage on display, but there was no one crossing the line now. The race was halted, the day destroyed.

We’ll vow not to let the terrorists win, but the truth is, this time they didn’t let us win. They didn’t let anyone win. Damn them, all of them. Straight to hell.