I get it now.

And because I do, I believe Toronto should bid again for an Olympic Games.

I didn't believe that before. I was vehemently opposed to the cost and logistical nightmare that would ensue had Juan Antonio Samaranch announced Toronto's name instead of Beijing back in 2001.

But like the Grinch, I discovered the Olympics don't come from a store. That, perhaps, the Olympics mean a little bit more.

It's disturbing to think of the financial burden Athenians and Greeks will bear because of the cost overruns of putting on these Games, but I wonder how many would trade the experience of having been involved in something such as this. And aren't experiences the true measuring stick of a life lived?

What's struck me most is the collective experience that is shared here. Usually, those involve disaster and tragedy, as years later people sit around and recall with clarity such moments as Sept. 11 or the assassination of John Kennedy.

This collective experience is not like that. This is something positive and the world could use a few more of those.

If the Olympics were ever to come to Toronto, I would urge my daughters, Erin and Emily, to get involved in any way they could, to become a part of the undertaking and truly appreciate the moment.

I would want them to see what I have seen, the moments not captured on television, like the simple hand gesture a gymnastics gold medallist makes to his friends in the stands, the clutching hug of a bronze medallist cyclist with her long-time coach amidst a throng of volunteers and security personnel, or the anguish of a water polo player who cannot comprehend the sudden ending of a dream.

This whole experience is about dreams, as corny as that might sound. While some of the Olympic athletes dream of the riches a medal might bring and so cheat and artificially enhance their performances, so many more simply work and train for the prospect of standing on a plywood, painted podium, a medal of some colour hanging around their neck, and their country's flag ascending a pole.

And when that pinnacle is reached, when that dream achieved, it softens even the hardest of hearts.

ACHIEVING DREAMS

It is that achievement that I would want my daughters to see.

I would want them to witness the tangible evidence of hard work and aspirations, that it is not all gobbledygook and mantra musings. I would want them to learn first-hand that not all that is valued has a price tag attached or comes with a spotlight.

It is away from the spotlight that the most enlightening moments happen.

After 18 years in a newsroom, you can develop a sharp and cynical edge. After three weeks in Athens, that edge has been dulled somewhat.

During the men's eight rowing competition in which Canada was expected to win gold, I sat in the stands near the mother of Joe Stankevicius, a member of the crew, with the hardly original idea of talking to one of the happy parents.

Amidst a throng of screaming Canadians, she sat with her head bowed, her hand over her eyes, unable to look as what her son had worked for years to do unfolded.

As the race neared the 1000-metre mark, it was clear the Canadians were not going to win. The announcer told us the split times and it was then Mrs. Stankevicius looked up and got to her feet, concern on her face. When the race was over, she looked as defeated as her son.

I wondered if I should ask her something, but then wondered just what it was I would ask. Are you disappointed? What's the answer to that? As a parent you take pride in their achievements, no matter the result, but bleed inside at the hurt your child must feel at having not been successful.

I left without doing anything. A better reporter might have asked. I felt like a better person for having not.

It might have been the moment when my heart grew.