Justin Langer: Behind every gold at the Commonwealth Games 2026 will be a powerful pit crew

There is a moment at every Commonwealth Games that outlives the medal.

It usually lasts a few minutes, and it almost never happens on the track. It happens just after the finish line.

There is also another part to glory that I want to touch on.

That is the years, months, weeks and split seconds of unseen work that made those moments of glory possible.

And the people behind the people, who rarely get the accolades, but are critical to the moments we get to enjoy.

Let’s start with the glory.

Victoria, Canada, 1994. A 21-year-old from Mackay named Cathy Freeman won the 400m, then the 200m. They were both extraordinary and brilliant runs. But those victories weren’t the only event that conjured moments of emotion.

When the 400m was done, Freeman picked up the Aboriginal flag and the Australian flag together and carried them, side by side, on her victory lap. Team officials rebuked her. She did it again after the 200m.

Some called it a milestone in the story of our country. Others disagreed. But few could argue that moment, that image, isn’t one of the single most consequential images an Australian has ever produced at the Commonwealth Games.

Melbourne, 2006. Kerryn McCann runs into a packed MCG for the closing act of the marathon. Trading the lead like an arm wrestle with Kenya’s Hellen Cherono Koskei, the final 10 km was exhilarating. Excruciating. Must-watch TV.

“Pain is temporary, glory lasts a lifetime,” was the call from the commentators.

Sprinting down the home straight in front of a screaming crowd, McCann held off her opponent to win by two seconds.

She was 38, the oldest on the track team and perhaps one of the least known. After crossing the line, she hugged her husband and daughter, before scooping up her little boy to share the lap of honour with her.

A panel later called it the highlight of the entire Games. It’s no wonder. When I watched the highlights this week, it was impossible not to cry.

Little more than two years after that, McCann was gone to breast cancer at 41. What we remember is the epic battle and the children in her arms.

Brisbane, 1982. Raelene Boyle wins the 400m in the last individual race of her career — 35,000 people on their feet — after the Moscow Olympics that had slipped away from her.

Matilda the winking kangaroo, 13m of forklift and showmanship, which every Australian of a certain vintage can still picture. The lap of honour was as memorable as the race itself. The seven Commonwealth golds and the injuries and comebacks were all a part of what made the lap mean so much.

Gold Coast, 2018. Kurt Fearnley wins the T54 marathon in his final race, then carries the flag at the closing ceremony.

Both beautiful examples of exactly how to finish.

The Gold Coast was also where para and able-bodied athletes shared the same program in a way these Games have made their own. In Glasgow they will again compete side by side in the same events, which remains one of the most quietly radical but cool things in world sport.

And closest to home: Perth, 1962. Perry Lakes and Beatty Park, Dawn Fraser winning four gold in the pool, the whole thing so warmly run it fed the Games’ enduring reputation as the Friendly Games.

There are so many others such as a 15-year-old Ian Thorpe announcing himself to the country in Kuala Lumpur in 1998, and Emma McKeon finishing Birmingham in 2022 as the most decorated Commonwealth Games athlete in history — 24 medals, 14 of them gold. These moments are what we call glory, triumph and wonderful memories.

But before any of these moments are even possible, there is another layer.

None of us see the decades of dark mornings that put McCann on the podium or in the arms of her family. We don’t hear about the people who ran beside her, or taught her about nutrition, strength training and psychology; let alone the physiotherapists, doctors and massage therapists who kept her body together.

We see and remember most great athletes as solo images.

But ask any of them and they will tell you, they are never solo travellers.

I’ve been thinking about this unseen work leading into these Games and in my role coaching in The Hundred, with the Manchester Super Giants.

The image I have used in assembling a new team of support staff is winning like a Formula One team.

Picture a pit stop.

More than 20 crew swarm the car, change four tyres, run their checks and send it away — all in under two seconds. Blink and you miss it.

Through the process, not one of them ever lifts the trophy mid-race. They all know that unless every single hand does its one job — perfectly — the chances of ever lifting the trophy is minimised.

This isn’t just a sporting metaphor.

Two surgeons at London’s Great Ormond Street Hospital studied an F1 pit stop.

They had recognised that their own most dangerous moments were when they handed over a child from surgery to intensive care.

Within the noise, commotion, overlap and assumption, mistakes were being made. In their case, fatal mistakes.

So, they copied the F1 pit crew formula. Clear roles, one leader, a checklist, no shouting, everyone doing their job.

With disciplined processes and ready people, handover errors fell sharply.

What I figured as a coach is that if it worked with doctors with a scalpel in their hand, it could work with a baton, a bat, or a wheelchair racing glove in another.

I see the unsung work of support staff every day of my professional life.

One athlete does the ‘shoey’ or wears the medal and gets the headline, but behind them stands a crew who nobody films.

A solid example of this right now is the Western Australian Institute of Sport, which has 30 of its athletes on the 257-strong Australian team in Glasgow today.

WAIS estimates it takes six to eight years to develop an athlete from the day they walk in the door to the moment they are considered world-class.

To get them there, the institute employs 17 sport coaches, seven strength and conditioning coaches, five performance scientists, three psychologists, five wellbeing and engagement advisers, six physiotherapists, five dietitians and three data analysts.

To have world-class athletes, you need world-class support staff.

That is not a slogan. That is a roster of reality.

Put names to it. Jason Weber, the lead strength and conditioning coach, has more than 25 years across rugby union, the AFL and Olympic and Paralympic sport, and sets the physical standard everyone else is measured against.

Martyn Binnie stitches together the physiology, the monitoring, the environmental science and turns evidence into something an athlete can actually use on the day.

Josie Tomic runs the wellbeing and engagement program, education, careers, life skills, the transition in and out of the system. She recognises and does the work that treats the athlete as a whole person, not just a result.

You will see their handiwork, and the rest of the crew, in Glasgow without ever seeing them.

When Kurtis Marschall goes for a third straight pole vault title, or flag-bearer Nina Kennedy chases 5m in the women’s vault, or 20-year-old Iona Anderson steps out of Kaylee McKeown’s shadow in the backstroke, or Shayna Jack races for a farewell on her own terms, the moment in the spotlight will be theirs.

But in the shadows will be a crew of dozens standing proudly behind them.

Only time will tell who will provide the iconic Commonwealth Games moments in Glasgow over the next fortnight.

While we all watch the finish lines, the flags, the podiums, the tears and the kids scooped up on the home straight, remember that the golden moment is only ever the last two seconds of a job that hundreds of people have done right.

Do your job, trust the crew, then spray the champagne.

The trophy belongs to one. The win belongs to everyone.