"Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt."
-motto of the Special Olympics

Over the past twenty-some years, I've looked at curling from numerous vantage points, and wearing different curling hats.  As a one-time (and longtime) curling club bartender,  I've seen the sport's much-vaunted social and less-observed bureaucratic sides.  As a reporter and curling columnist with The Ottawa Citizen, I've examined all levels of the game, covering a Brier or World Championship one day, and a friendly jam-can match on a pond the next.  And as a fairly recent and recreational once-a-week curler myself, I've come to understand something of what most Canadian curlers go through.

I've interviewed players, icemakers, officials, sponsors, sports psychologists, innovators, insurance brokers, equipment manufacturers and fans.

Little—if any—of this prepared me for what I saw one cold January Saturday afternoon three years ago, as I walked into the Ottawa Curling Club.

The occasion was the 2000 Canadian Special Olympics Winter Games, at which curling was an exhibition sport.  Manitoba's Todd Wenzoski, out of the Stonewall CC, was playing B.C.'s Calvin Whipple for the gold medal.

The game wasn't all that close.  Manitoba took four in the first end, and stole their way to a 7-0 lead after four, eventually running B.C. out of rocks with a 9-2 victory.

The game also wasn't, by even the most charitable of gauges, much of a display of textbook curling.  Short knee-slides with a heavy push on delivery were common, while hitting the broom was just a faraway dream for many.

What was so very remarkable was the indomitable spirit with which these players competed.  When players made their shots, they were congratulated not only by their teammates, but by their opposition.  When they missed, everyone consoled them.  When Whipple finally offered Wenzoski his hand in concession, the Manitoba skip hugged him.  They all came to win, to be sure, but more importantly, they just came to play.

Special Olympics curling programs are growing exponentially.  In Ontario, where curling is now recognized as an official Special Olympic provincial sport, for example, only a handful of clubs offered programs a few years ago.  Now, close to 100 do. "Curling is so suited to Special Olympics people," says Sue Kollar, who runs the Ottawa CC's program, one of two in that city.  "It's rote, and, like at an office curling party where people have never curled before; players can get the rock to the other end.  Anyone can get a rock to the other end and sweep.  Even on the first day, when we show them how to throw a rock for the first time and put them in a game, they're out there and playing as part of this game.  It's not very complicated to set up people to curl." Special Olympic curling programs do great things for people with mental handicaps.  They build confidence and a sense of teamwork.  They help them to socialize.  For many, an out-of-town bonspiel is their first adventure away from home and parents. "Playing for the love of participating," is how Linda Landert, organizer at Renfrew's 2001 Special Olympics Bonspiel put it.  "To have the icy realities of the world melted away by the warmth, love and joy within each of these athletes, each who is here not to win but to play.  Life is about living, not about winning."

We would all do well to support Special Olympics curling in whatever way we can, and not only for the sake of the athletes.

"One of the rewards that you get," says Kollar, "is a reminder of what curling is really all about."