Padecky: Athlete at Barcelona Olympics overcame long odds just to be there

Arku Kortee stood there with two empty dinner plates in his hands, staring at the 200-foot buffet table, motionless, frozen like a statue. The food in front of him represented every type of cuisine the world could offer, everything from muffins to something that might have been still alive.

“I eat rice and water every day,” Kortee said. “That’s what I eat. Every day.”

It was July, 1992 in Barcelona, site of the Summer Olympics. The buffet table was for media and athletes. The story Kortee would tell me was the kind of moment you remember like yesterday. What he said then helps me now to maintain some kind of emotional equilibrium when I begin to feel sorry for myself, stuck in the middle of a pandemic that already feels like a lifetime.

Kortee was an Olympic boxer, a lightweight, from Liberia, a West African country caught in the middle of an eight-year civil war that would kill 250,000 people. One in every 17 Liberians would die.

I saw Kortee standing there alone, and as an admitted Nosey Parker (a job requirement, if you must know), I approached. I was drawn to him as if he were a magnet. Olympic athletes don’t walk around on eggshells. They walk with confidence, composure, reflective of the honor they’ve achieved. Kortee stood there bewildered and, actually, frightened. He said he felt guilty, so much available to him now while his country was starving. He didn’t know what to do. I suggested we grab as many non-perishables as we can for him to take home. I’ll grab two plates myself.

So at his direction I loaded up. He loaded up. We piled up. He said he would feel uncomfortable eating in front of everyone. He would go back to his Olympic Village dorm room and eat. Standing there, looking like party crashers, we spoke for awhile. We would communicate further via the OIympic communications electronic portal.

When he left Liberia, the rebels already had killed his one brother and two sisters. His father, a heavy equipment operator, was safe inside the city of Monrovia, the nation’s capital. Monrovia’s citizens were protected by a United Nations peacekeeping force. His mother, however, was 45 miles from the city. She was farming in the country when the civil war broke out. She was trapped. Kortee had not seen his mother since February, 1990.

“I don’t know if she’s alive,” he said. “She doesn’t even know I’m at the Olympic Games.”

Kortee risked his life just to get Barcelona. “If you leave (Monrovia) the rebels will kill you.”

Kortee and four other Liberian boxers couldn’t leave from Monrovia’s airport. It was closed due to violence. They found a small airstrip outside the city. They flew in a 10-seat plane to nearby Sierra Leone. Two days later they flew to Guinea. They waited before flying to Amsterdam. They waited before flying to Barcelona. They missed the Opening Ceremonies, arriving three days after the Games began.

They missed the boxing draw. It already had been completed. The International Olympic Committee was not moved by the tenacity it took for these five Liberians to risk their lives to compete in the Olympics. Rules are rules and if we allow flexibility to every country in the midst of a civil war, who knows what happens next?

And thus we have the perfect example why the IOC is the most pilloried and disrespected athletic organization in the world. They are as compassionate as a sneer, as flexible as a steel rod. Oh, but if the Liberians had something the barter with. The IOC loves clandestine donations which require only a wink and a nod for approval. Ah, but all Kortee had to offer was rice.

Maybe if the IOC knew that Liberia’s boxing gym was one punching bag. ONE. That’s it. In an abandoned warehouse. The boxers braved the civil war and overcame less-than-Olympic training conditions to get to Barcelona.

“It is hard to concentrate,” Kortee said, “but I am able to train through hard determination.”

The IOC sniffed.

“I was sure I was going to get a medal for boxing,” Kortee said. “I was going to give the medal to my mother. I was going to dedicate my Games for her.”

At least Kortee would be able to tell his mother what it was like to walk in the Closing Ceremonies in the procession of nations. After he told her he was at the Olympic Games.

But a few days before the Games’ last event Kortee received word the rebels found out he was at the Olympics. They were not happy. He was told to fly home immediately otherwise the rebels would hunt down other members of his family and kill them. The airport would be safe for him to land. He would be used as a chess piece.

The last time we communicated he wrote, “I will not be seeing the Closing Ceremonies. It is very upsetting to me.”

I wanted to find out what happened to him. I went to Facebook. There was his picture, taken in June, 2014. Kortee wasn’t smiling. There was anger on his face. His head was tilted down with a glare that created an expression of defiance. He looked as if he had seen too much but was not defeated.

In 2014, Kortee would have been 48. He looked much older. Much worn. According to his profile he was an auto mechanic in Monrovia. Apparently he was a boxing coach at one time. He had received a couple of postings, the last one two years ago.

Did he ever see his mother again? How was his father? Did those non-perishables make it back to Monrovia? How was he treated when he returned home? What did he tell his friends about the Olympics? What does he think of his Olympic experience 28 years later, the one in which he didn’t compete in his sport or march in the Opening and Closing Ceremonies?

These last few months I think of Arku Kortee from time to time. I think of his bravery, tenacity. Kortee represents the highest ideals of sport. This athlete was not a jock. He was something much bigger, much more impressive. He was a role model. Least for me.

Arku Kortee didn’t feel sorry for himself. He didn’t whine about what was. He dealt with what is. He pushed on and through. There’s something so life-affirming in that, why just having the opportunity to take a breath feels so spectacular. I believe all of us have had an Arku Kortee in our lives. And he helps me to this day, like when I get a little pouty for not being able to park at a state beach. I can only imagine the look on his face.

To comment write to bobpadecky@gmail.com.