Rome is showing its best face tonight. At the Stadio dei Marmi, as nine o'clock approaches, the day's heat is giving way to the almost enchanted atmosphere of a summer evening. The beauty of the moment is heightened by this remarkable stadium itself: when you lift your eyes, you see white marble and monumental statues set against the green slope of Monte Mario, which melts into a sky that tonight remains clear and luminous, deepening from blue to black. The great city that surrounds us feels distant; even its noise fades to nothing here. Red carpeting covers the stadium steps, pleasant underfoot, releasing the day's warmth that the marble has stored and now returns—a comfort as the night grows cool.
Along with the meticulous setup and abundant resources, there is a relaxed and peaceful mood. I'm grateful to be here this evening for the opening ceremony of Special Olympics—a week of competition for athletes with intellectual disabilities, held each year in a different Italian city under the organization of the Special Olympics association. This week culminates the year-round training work that athletes undertake through their local clubs. About 1,500 athletes have come this year, along with countless family members, from nearly every region in Italy. Now seated in the stands, we wait for the delegations to begin their parade.
A stage sits at the center of the field with a large screen facing the spectator stands; rows of chairs have been arranged between the stage and the bleachers. After parading past the spectators along the full length of the grandstand, the athletes will take these seats to witness the opening ceremony.
The program begins with welcomes and thanks from the organizers. Civil authorities and athletic champions, past and present, take the microphone to show their support for the athletes, their families, coaches, volunteers, and organizers. Gianni Rivera speaks, bringing the same grace to his words that he brought to the field. Between speeches, loudspeakers fill the air with music that makes the evening feel even more celebratory.
When the parade begins, dozens of volunteers precede the athletes, each waving a flag in unison. They take their places as a frame around the athletes' seating areas. Then come the regional delegations. The athletes emerge from an underground passage, accompanied by music, each delegation announced over the loudspeaker along with the names of the sports clubs they represent. Each delegation is joined by an athletic champion who serves as a "testimonial" for that region's athletes. Flanked by their coaches and volunteers, the athletes approach the stands and pass before spectators who applaud without stopping. The announcer invites applause, but the invitation is unnecessary. Can I capture the joy—and at times the emotion—felt in the stands as we watch these young faces pass by, luminous and earnest, happy alongside their supporters? Each moves at their own pace: some wave to the crowd, some clap back, some cannot contain their joy and skip along. It matters not whether someone walks alone, holds a hand, or is helped by their companion—who beams just as brightly. What matters is that each athlete knows they are at the center of this celebration, the star of the events unfolding in the week ahead. When Rome's finest sports facilities—the Stadio dei Marmi, the Olympic pool, the beautiful Tor di Quinto racetrack, the Palazzetto dello Sport—and all their staff open their doors, when organizers and volunteers devote themselves to making the games run smoothly, that knowledge shines through. The joy in these athletes' eyes is tangible and contagious, radiating from the field to the stands and touching every heart in the crowd.
The athletes from each delegation take their places in the seating area facing the stage. When the parade ends with the passing of three flags—Italian, Olympic, and Special Olympics—attention shifts to the stage. Local sports organizations present performances: dance numbers for the athletes and spectators, while screens show images of competitors straining in effort and then beaming during awards ceremonies. Between performances, more officials and dignitaries speak. Massimiliano Rosolino, gold medalist in swimming at the last Olympics, is asked to say a few words. He wins everyone over by speaking with open sincerity: in three days he leaves to train for the world championships, he tells us, and he will carry with him the enormous energy he has felt watching these Special Olympics athletes parade before him.
But this is only the prelude to the true climax.
The Olympic flame must be lit. The oath must be taken. Only then will the Games be officially opened. The announcer tells us the torch bearers, who set out from the Colosseum, are now in sight of the Stadio dei Marmi. This is one of the most moving moments. Escorted by four State Police motorcycles—their blue lights flashing beside the runners' torches, adding magic to an already magical evening—four athletic champions come into view. They circle the outside of the stadium, then enter and hand the torch to the chosen athlete. This athlete makes the remaining journey to the cauldron, stands before it, and lights the Olympic flame, greeted by prolonged applause. Another athlete then speaks the games' oath in a clear, strong voice: "May I win, but if I cannot win, may I attempt with all my strength." The Games can now be officially opened. The appointed official pronounces the formal declaration, and the sky erupts in brilliant fireworks.
Explosions light the black sky with colored bursts that seem to fall around us, expressing the joy in every heart. I have never experienced fireworks quite like this—as such a pure expression of celebration. And I wonder why. What is the secret of this joy? What explains this festival that gathers everyone here in such a simple, relaxed, shared atmosphere?
I think of the athletic champions who walked alongside the Special Olympics athletes during the parade, the champions who lit the Olympic flame for them. They seem to represent two worlds kept apart, destined never to meet. But tonight, these champions—and through them, all of humanity—have bent down to the athletes of Special Olympics. And when they stood again, together, they found themselves raised to a height they had never known.
All of us here felt that joy, and the fireworks that lit the Roman summer sky spoke it for us.
It's Much Finer to Be a Volunteer Than a President
I wanted to see the athletes compete, so I watched both the equestrian events and some track and field competitions. These took place in beautiful settings—Tor di Quinto and the Stadio della Farnesina. I saw world-class athletic performances (would that I could compete with them!), but what struck me even more was the atmosphere surrounding the games. The organization was highly professional and nearly flawless, thought through to the smallest detail, yet the overall mood was relaxed, joyful, and vibrant.
The athletes gave their all, parents watched with pride, and volunteers accompanied, cheered, and celebrated with the competitors.
I want to say a few words about the volunteers—mostly young people, high school and university students, many of them scouts. Many are meeting people with disabilities for the first time, yet the friendships that form are deep and genuine. This is certainly an important step on the difficult path toward integrating people with disabilities into our society. It makes sense that Federico Vicentini, President of the Italian association, has told me more than once: "It's much finer to be a volunteer than a President!"
Special Olympics recently signed an agreement with the Ministry of Public Education that allows it to recruit young volunteers from schools and train them. The student will earn some academic credit, but more importantly, they will gain a "life education" through their days at the events and competitions. For anyone interested in becoming a volunteer—especially in view of the 2006 European Games—the contact information is listed below.
(Huberta Pott)