After a night of too many beers in the early spring of 2001, I was watching television with friends when a Chevrolet commercial came on announcing the torch relay for the upcoming Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. It called for citizens around the nation to nominate “Hometown Heroes” to run in a game of transcontinental flame handoff. With a determined air, if not an inebriated swagger, I rose and addressed my friends. “Gentleman,” I proclaimed. “I shall run the Olympic Torch, and you shall be the ones to nominate me.” Then I passed out.

It was supposed to be a joke, but several weeks later, I received an email from Chevrolet informing me that I had been nominated. They also included what my peers had said. The essays didn’t lie about my philanthropy:

“Marcus, with his volunteer work at homeless shelters and his guidance of underage girls, exemplifies what it means to be a true leader in America today.”

“Marcus has never been arrested nor has he ever been an embarrassment to his country. How many other nominees can truly claim that? When I think of America, I think of Marcus.”

On December 15, 2001, almost a year after my drunken declaration, I stood with my family in a parking lot in Nashville, Tennessee, buffeted by the brisk wind and surrounded by several dozen of my fellow torch runners, including a World War II combat nurse who had the unsettling habit of smiling every time she mentioned “Auschwitz,” two wounded soldiers fresh from action in Afghanistan, a woman who had adopted a large number of orphans, and several cancer survivors. I found it difficult to figure out how I fit into such a crowd.

The Torch Committee thought it important to bring us all together so we could get to know one another and share the patriotic experience as a group, an orgy for the ego. We were all decked out in the same jumpsuit. The pants were plain white while the jacket, worn over a white t-shirt embossed with the Olympic Rings logo, was white with a silver and blue snowflake. The jacket and shirt also sported the inspirational motto of the 2002 Winter Olympics, “Light the Fire Within.” Not that all that an entire outfit made: it also included white gloves and a matching knit cap, the latter of which, my sister helpfully pointed out, looked like a condom on my head.

I milled about the parking lot, introducing myself to the other torch runners. Every time the subject of What Great Feats Got Us Here came up, it was impossible to trump them. “I beat cancer” or “I saved a man’s life” topped “I learned how to make a bong out of a Mountain Dew can, a plastic fork, and a straw.” With each passing conversation, my stomach began to stir. I didn’t belong.

After an hour of this meeting and greeting, one of the “handlers,” the impossibly cheery young people who told us what to do, huddled us into groups of twenty and corralled each group onto one of the identical busses stationed around the parking lot, all with the torch logos and motto emblazoned on their sides. My family waved goodbye and headed off to find the point on the route where I would receive the Olympic flame. As I took my seat on the bus, I found myself sitting next to the combat nurse, who smiled at me and giggled, “My, isn’t this going to be a fun bus ride?”

Everyone chatted quietly, continuing introductions. I avoided conversation and busied myself with my gloves, contemplating how much stupider I would look wearing them. A small, mousy Brazilian woman took it upon herself to debate the accessory with me.

“It’s quite cold up here, yes? You do not want your hands to be getting very cold as you run, yes?”

I shrugged in resigned agreement with her.

“Well, then why don’t you wear the gloves? They will keep your hands from getting very much colder.”

“Well,” I replied, “I guess I’m worried that the gloves won’t grip the torch very well and that I’ll drop it.”

She recoiled in horror, a gloved hand covering her mouth. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Do not say that!”

The rest of the evening she shot me looks of disdain. Actually, the gloves had grips to prevent such a disaster. But the fact that I had made someone else as nervous about running the torch as I was eased my stomach a little. I was sure there was a spare flame in the event some clumsy person dropped the torch in a rain puddle and thereby snuffed it along with the hopes and dreams of thousands of athletes around the world.

Our two handlers got up at the front of the bus and introduced themselves. Sam and Melissa were as white as snow and American as apple pie, and neither had a problem making sly references to the recent events of September 11th. Almost every sentence began with phrases like “After such tragedy…” or “In tough times like these…” They also did a great job of referencing the motto of lighting the fire within.
           
The patriotic spirit held fast as Sam introduced the two wounded soldiers. Instant celebrities on the bus, the two were so good-natured about their plight, so ho-hum about doing man-to-man combat with the Taliban, that it was hard not to like them. Neither bought into what Sam and Melissa were selling us. One bristled when Sam held up a torch and declared, “This is what we are fighting for.”

Melissa kept the ball rolling by asking everyone to introduce him or herself. The story on the bus was no different from out in the parking lot. It seemed as if everyone had coached a sports team of disabled children or courageously battled diseases, or injustice, or Hitler.

When it came time for me to introduce myself, I mustered the best I had. “My name is Marcus, and I’m a college graduate.” Everyone looked at me with eager eyes, anticipating something more. I added, “And I worked at a homeless shelter sometimes.” A few people nodded, but the majority looked unimpressed. I thought maybe if I pointed to the soldiers and said, “But you guys KICK ASS!” I would get a better reception, one of cheers and applause that would quickly ascend into a bus-wide chant of “USA! USA!” But by the time I considered this option, it was the Brazilian woman’s turn.

After the introductions, Melissa explained the order of events. We each had a number that corresponded to a point where the bus dropped each of us off, one at a time, just ahead of the flame. We would receive the flame, huff and puff our way through a quarter-mile run, pass on the flame to the next person and be picked up by another bus. It was straightforward, but Sam and Melissa continued to drop phrases like “in the true American Spirit” and “to make America proud” to help rally their troops.

Next came the coup de grace: the promotional videos, two 10-minute films with the intention of introducing us to the background of the Olympic flame and revving us up for representing our nation in these trying times. Like our jogging suits, the videos featured small, almost unnoticeable logos of corporations like Chevrolet, McDonald's, and Coca-Cola.

According to the videos, the Olympic flame sprang out of spontaneous combustion, a gift from the Sun God whose worshippers, allegedly ancient Greeks, looked like a Baptist church choir. The flame then passed to Mayor McCheese, who carried it through time to an SUV-driving couple who were enjoying bottles of Coke. Snippets of the National Anthem played against scenes of bald eagles flying majestically over mountain ranges before Bugs Bunny handed a lit torch to a young black girl who was confined to a wheelchair. Even our inspiring President made a special appearance, brow furrowed in determination.

Afterwards, Sam fielded questions from us about the relay. With uncanny patience, he skillfully answered dumb queries in a way that insured no one was offended. When one woman asked if we would be running alongside any of the many country music stars from the Nashville area, Sam answered, “No, they’re all running tomorrow so that you all get the full experience of lighting your fire within without any unnecessary distractions.”