THE OLYMPICS / WINTER GAMES AT ALBERTVILLE : Letters in Place of Medals

“Dear Dan,” wrote Mark Arrowood of Doylestown, Pa. “My father died just before I competed in the 1981 Special Olympics. I want to share one of my gold medals with you because I don’t like to see you not get one.”

Dan Jansen put Mark’s medal inside a glass trophy case in his parents’ dining room in West Allis, Wis.

“Dear Dan,” wrote Ronald Reagan of Washington, D.C. “The character you displayed amidst personal tragedy was in the finest American and Olympic tradition and has won you the lasting esteem of our people.”

Close to 10,000 others wrote from around the world.

The Rev. John Yockey addressed him directly at the memorial service for Dan’s sister, Jane.

“We all fall,” he said. “Dan, we thank you for showing us how to get up again.”

His sister’s life was over. Dead at 27 on Valentine’s Day, 1988. A nurse. Wife of a Wisconsin firefighter. Mother of three girls.

Dan’s life went on. He and his brother-in-law organized the Jane Jansen Beres five-kilometer run-walk, $8 per entry, proceeds to leukemia research.

Dan married Robin Wicker, who worked in personnel for a hotel. Kellogg’s put Dan’s picture on 10,000 boxes of corn flakes.

Dan’s dad, a West Allis police detective, retired. Harry and Gerry Jansen had seven children and 22 grandchildren to keep them busy.

Rich Beres, a Roman Catholic, had his faith tested. He asked: “Why should I go to church and thank God for taking Jane away?”

Then he changed his mind and started over. Rich remarried. He gave each of his three daughters a copy of a diary Jane kept as her life slipped away.

The youngest, Jessica, couldn’t remember who Mom was. The oldest, Susie, remembered too well. She asked her dad to take down Jane’s picture from the bedroom wall, because the memory made her cry.

Dan Jansen gave his nieces the “Olympic Participant” medal he was presented at Calgary. It was the only Olympic medal he had.

Except, of course, for the Special Olympic medal that young Mark Arrowood had sent to him.

And in 1990, Mark died, too.

Dan Jansen set out to win a real one--for Jane, for Mark, for the family, for the 10,000 letter writers, for the West Allis telephone operators who gave his parents free long-distance calls to Calgary during Jane’s illness, for the Florida sports psychologist who helped him refocus his ambition, for his new wife, Robin, who helped him prepare for a 1992 Winter Olympics that he both needed and dreaded.

“I’m known as the guy who fell down after his sister died,” Dan said. “Maybe if I win a medal, I’ll be known for both.”

Four years.

Four years, he waited. Four years, he trained. Four years, he relived Calgary--skating the same day his sister died, falling, going home for the funeral, coming back to skate again, falling again.

Four years, he competed. In a hundred races, he skated. He fell once. He won and won and won. He set the world record in the 500 meters, three weeks before the Albertville Olympics. He was equal or superior to any 500 speedskater in the world.

Four years and one day from his sister’s death, Dan Jansen skated in the Olympics again.

Harry Jansen, his father: “He’s very focused. It’s not going to bother him.”

Gerry Jansen, his mother: “Like the rest of the nation, I want to know the rest of the story, whether it’s good or bad. You’ve got to have an ending.”

Bonnie Blair, his speedskating teammate: “He’s had a lot of heartache, and I wish it wouldn’t come up again. But it will.”

Peter Mueller, their coach: “I think he’ll skate the best race of his life.”

Sean Callahan, publicity director for U.S. speedskating: “He’s one of those honest-to-God sweetheart kind of kids. You want nice things to happen to him.”

Feb. 15, 1992: For days and days, the sunshine has been bright. Each of Blair’s three races have been postponed one hour because of the sun’s effect on the ice. But on the first day Dan Jansen is to skate, the sun does not appear. The sky is dirty as dishwater. A face-pecking rain is falling. Dan inspects the track, describes it as pebbled. The word his wife uses is bubbled. His mother calls it like sandpaper.

He skates on it. What choice is there?

He skates and he waits.

The gold medal is lost.

Then the silver.

Then the bronze.

No medal for Dan Jansen. His coach is subdued. His wife is calm and glad that it’s over. His mother bites her lip and says she is pleased that he didn’t fall. Dan says: “Falling was never on my mind. Calgary wasn’t on my mind.” He looks dazed.

He has one more race. It is 1,000 meters long. It is not his best event. But should he not win it, not finish second, not finish third, Dan Jansen will return to Wisconsin from France with one medal.

It will say: “Olympic Participant.”

Dear Dan:

Wear it with pride.

* DAN JANSEN IS FOURTH

The speedskater’s Olympic struggles continue with a disappointing finish in the men’s 500-meter race. C6