Deja Vu
About ten years ago, I was invited to give some talks in Russia, and I decided to make a little vacation out of it. I took Anna and Kate with me, and asked if my sister Shannon and her daughter Lizzie wanted to come as well. Shannon pitched in on the planning and was able to score tickets to the final night of the famous Tchaikovsky Competition for all of us while we were in St. Petersburg. (And somehow, they were fantastic tickets, maybe about eight rows back from the stage on the main floor.)
The Tchaikovsky Competition occurs every four years in Moscow and St. Petersburg, and is considered the premiere international competition for young adult classical musicians on piano, violin, cello, and voice. We were excited to hear some of the world's best musicians all in the same evening on the same stage.
When we arrived at the concert hall, we were a little confused that we could not find any programs or schedules of performances. Even something printed in Russian could offer some clues as to what we had in store---we had no idea how many musicians would be performing, what order, how long the evening would last, whether there would be intermissions.
Also, there was a lot of milling around in the lobby, probably for 45 minutes or so after the time listed on our tickets. Finally, people started to file into the hall, and we took our places near the stage. The master of ceremonies came out to announce the first musician, a cellist, although we understood nothing that was said. The performance was magnificent and followed by thunderous applause from the audience. Then another announcement, another musician, more applause, and so forth. We noticed that the audience seemed to gaining enthusiasm and more and more flowers were being tossed to the performers as the evening wore on. It dawned on us finally that the lack of programs was intentional---we were at the final evening, and the order in which the musicians were being called out to perform was kept secret and served as the prize announcements, starting with the bronze medals, moving towards silver, and culminating with gold.
Around 11pm, after a few hours of truly amazing music (with no intermission), a pianist gave an engaging and virtuosic performance and was treated to a standing ovation and the most enthusiastic applause of the night. The stage was showered with flowers from appreciative listeners. After a couple of minutes, the curtains closed and the house lights brightened. Everyone got up from their seats and headed to the lobby. There was a lot of excited banter (in Russian), but we were a little puzzled that no one made a beeline for the exits. We counted ourselves fortunate that we made it out to the cab stand before a long line (or any line) had formed and grabbed a cab back to the hotel.
Something seemed a little off. Why were we the only ones leaving? During the cab ride, Shannon and I discussed what we both noticed, and we speculated that maybe, just maybe, we had left the concert early. We mostly dismissed that idea---the crowd was so enthusiastic for the final performer; it was already past 11pm; the concert had been going on for hours---but we were curious enough to check when we got back to the hotel.
We could get an internet connection in the lobby, and Shannon found a site with a livestream of the competition. Sure enough, it was still going on! And what we thought was an enthusiastic crowd before paled in comparison to the the crowd reactions after the intermission, when the gold medal winners were performing. We stayed down in the lobby for another hour or so, watching the end of the competition. An American pianist from the Boston area was one of the last performers and took home a silver medal! The worst part: a number of times, the camera panned the audience to show its reactions and seemed to us to rest for a split second longer on a string of five very good seats near the stage that were empty. We, of course, imagined the Russian announcer asking rhetorically, "Why would anyone leave a competition like this early?"
Which brings me to the track and field competition that Glenn and I attended last night. Another Olympic venue, another sport, more amazing performances, another thoroughly enjoyable evening, and a bit of a deja vu moment at the end.
Like we had done for the other venues, we took public transportation to get to Stade de France last night. The session featured a variety of events, which track and field sessions tend to do. I had seen track and field Olympic trials in Indianapolis many years ago, so I had some memory of the basic vibe---lots of stuff going on simultaneously, different parts of the crowd focusing on different events, and cheers from some other part of the stadium altering you that something interesting was happening over there. There would be a number of preliminary heats of men's 200m, some semifinals of women's 800m, women's 5k finals, women's discus finals, men's pole vault finals, and some other things which I have surely forgotten.
Our seats were technically obstructed view because we could not see any scoreboards, but we could still see all of the action (albeit from a distance). Here is our view, complete with preteen boy in front wearing a Viking hat.
We saw an American woman win the discus, two Ethiopian women take gold and silver in the 5000m, American women take gold and bronze in the 200m, and lots of other exciting events and great performances.
Throughout the course of the evening, drama was building at the far end of the stadium, where the men's pole vault was taking place. The uncertainty was centered on two things: who would win silver and bronze, and how high a bar would Mondo Duplantis clear. No one doubted that Duplantis would easily take the gold. Gradually, the bar was raised by 5 or 10cm increments, vaults were taken, and one by one, competitors were eliminated. Duplantis chose to pass at many of the lower heights, but when he did vault, he gracefully flew over the bar by inches, if not feet. We cheered on the American, who struggled at 5m90, eventually passing, but managed to clear 5m95. That seemed like it would be enough for him to secure a medal, and it was, the silver. A Greek vaulter took bronze. But Duplantis, who had not missed a vault that evening, was not finished. He had set an Olympic record on the way to earning the gold, but he had his sights set on a world record. He asked that the bar be raised to 6m25. Tension built as he sped down the runway, the crowd clapping in unison and screaming "allez." Alas, he brushed the bar on the way down, dislodging it and sending in tumbling to the ground.
Given my preface, you may know where this is going.
After Duplantis' missed attempt, the medal ceremony from the previous day's competition was announced. Ah, too bad. I concluded that the fact they were moving on to a medal ceremony indicated that Duplantis would not be taking any additional attempts and we would not be seeing a world record. I looked onto the field to see any indication that he was setting up for a second attempt and saw none. So I said we should leave at that point, trying to beat the crowds onto the RER B. I didn't feel too compelled to watch a medal ceremony for events that I hadn't seen. Glenn seemed a little reluctant but went along. Once we had exited the stadium and were walking to the RER, we heard a distinctive pattern of cheers---a crescendo of applause culminating in an unmistakable groan of disappointment---that we immediately recognized as the reaction to Duplantis' second (missed) attempt. Oh man, we had left too early. I hadn't appreciated the fact that pole vault competition allows a minimum of six minutes per round, and he had taken the entire six minutes to rest before his next attempt. At that point, we could not reenter the stadium. I looked for a bar where we might watch the final attempt, but I didn't see one with a television screen as we were walking to the RER.
The rest is history: Duplantis shattered the world record on his third attempt in front of a full stadium in rapt attention, certainly one of the most storied and dramatic vaults in the history of the sport. Oh well.
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