Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games (25 page)

When I was first chosen flag bearer, reporters assumed the U.S. team wanted to make a political statement. Around the time of the Olympic trials, I joined a group of athletes called Team Darfur. Created by Joey Cheek, who competed in the 2006 Winter Olympics as a speed skater, Team Darfur spoke out to raise awareness of the genocide occurring in the Darfur region of Sudan. There, the Sudanese government in Khartoum committed the same kind of atrocities they committed in my home region of South Sudan during the civil war that lasted twenty years. In the south, the Muslim government of the north destroyed homes and villages of people who are predominantly animists and Christians. Darfur is a Muslim region. In fact, soldiers from Darfur fought against my people in the south. After fighting in the south ended, the genocide in Darfur began. Arab Sudanese began exterminating African Sudanese. Even though they shared the same religion, the government in Khartoum attacked and nearly wiped out the African Sudanese in the area.

I spoke out against the genocide right after I qualified for the Olympic team. That is why my selection as flag bearer appeared to be a political act. The Chinese government financially supported the Sudanese government in spite of the atrocities. Groups from around the world pressed the Chinese to do something to stop the genocide, but China ignored them. They didn’t even let Joey Cheek attend the Olympics because they did not want him to speak out about Darfur. At the last minute they revoked his visa. I thought that was a huge mistake on China’s part, and I still do.

But the U.S. team did not give me this high honor because they wanted to make a statement about Darfur. Right after word got out of my selection, a reporter asked me if my election had political implications. I did not take his bait. “I don’t have words for how happy I am,” I said. “I’m so proud to be an American and raise that flag proudly.”

The biggest questions came the morning of my news conference. It was one of many news conferences the U.S. Olympic Committee organized that day. The U.S. basketball team, the Dream Team, was scheduled to talk to the press right after me.

When I went into the conference room, I think reporters expected me to say something about Darfur and China’s role in it. As important as that topic may be, I knew what I had to do. I sat down and proceeded to tell my story. I talked about the day I was taken from my church and of being held in the rebel prison camp. I told the story of my escape through the wilderness with my three angels and of my years in Kakuma. I shared the story of watching Michael Johnson run in the 2000 Olympics and the dream he gave me. Then I explained how America opened its arms to me and gave me this great opportunity. “I am so thankful for this privilege of getting to put on this jersey and represent my country,” I said.

At first I felt nervous. But as I shared my story a peace came over me. I knew this moment was why God put me in this position. This wasn’t just my story. He gave me this chance to speak up for all the lost boys and girls and for everyone who suffers from the unjustness of war.

“I hope I’m here to inspire other kids who are out there watching these Olympics, as I did watching the Sydney Olympics. I hope . . . all the countries and all the nations are there watching and they will learn from where I came from,” I said.

Once the press was finished with me, I walked out in the hallway. I needed to get back to training for my event. With all the media buzz surrounding me as the flag bearer, I almost forgot I actually had a race to run in a few days. The president of the USOC walked out with me. “Good job, Lopez. You were great in there,” he said.

“Thank you. I spoke from my heart,” I said. “If you are through with me, I need to go train.”

“Sure. I understand. I need to get back in there for the next press conference. See you at the opening ceremonies.”

I turned to leave when a girl went up to the USOC president and whispered something in his ear.

“Really?” he said to the girl. “Okay. We can do that.” Then, turning to me, he said, “Lopez, I need you to do one more thing before you go. Coach K would like for you to say a few words to the basketball team.”

My jaw hit the floor. “The Dream Team?”

He laughed. “Yes, the Dream Team. Follow Susan here and she’ll take you to them.”

The next thing I knew, I was next to Coach Mike Krzyzewski, the legendary Duke University basketball coach. Coach Jim Boeheim from Syracuse stood off to one side. Coach K put his hand on my shoulder. “We watched your news conference.”

“You did?” I could not believe this.

“We sure did. Listen, I need you to do me a favor. I want you to tell your story to my team exactly like you told it in that news conference. Tell these guys what it means to be an American and what it means to wear that jersey. I don’t think any of us understand it quite like you do.”

“Are you serious? Me?”

“Yes, I am, Lopez,” Coach K said.

I walked into the green room and into the presence of athletic royalty. The room was filled with guys I’d not only watched on television, but I wore their jerseys out on the driveway shooting baskets at home in Tully, New York. Kobe Bryant sat on one side of the room near Lebron James. Carmelo Anthony, who went to college in Syracuse, sat close to the front. The greatest basketball players in the world filled this room, and their coach wanted me to talk to them.

My knees nearly knocked and my voice cracked a little when I started talking. But I did exactly what Coach asked me to do. I told my story. Outside, media people walked the hall, looking for the Dream Team, who was now late for their news conference. The coaches did not care. “We will be out once Lopez is finished,” an assistant told a USOC media representative who knocked on the door. Inside the room, every eye was locked onto me. All these guys sat in complete silence as I spoke. They soaked in every word.

After I finished speaking, Coach K got up. “Now you guys know what this is all about. You are ambassadors for our great country. Now go out there and get it done.” The team broke out in huge applause. Afterward I posed for photographs with the team. One player after another shook my hand and told me how much they appreciated what I said. I walked out of the room with a standing invitation to come hang out with the team whenever I wanted. More than that, I knew many of these guys were already involved in helping people in need both in the United States and around the world. It felt good to share my passion to make a difference in the lives of others.

I thought I was nervous when I spoke to the Dream Team. I was
really
nervous when it came time to put on the strap for the flag and walk out into Beijing’s Olympic Stadium, also known as the Bird’s Nest. The flag was huge, and the wind whipped down the tunnel where I waited for the signal to start walking.
“Don’t let that flag touch the ground, buddy
,” the president had told me. At the time I did not think that would be hard. With the wind blowing, I was not so sure. And I knew he was watching me from his box up above, he and one hundred thousand other people— along with perhaps a billion people on television around the world.

I placed the flagpole firmly in the holder at the bottom of the strap.
Oh God, hear my prayers. Let my cry come to You,
I prayed. This was my moment, the moment God had in mind when He made my Olympic dreams come true. As soon as I stepped on the track, people around the world would hear my story. Once my story got out there, I knew God would also open doors for the bigger dreams I had for my people in Kimotong. The rest of the United States delegation gathered behind me in the tunnel. A buzz went up from the team. Every face wore a smile. Most of the athletes carried small American flags. All of us were here to celebrate. We were just waiting for the word to go inside the stadium and let the party begin.

I took a deep breath and said another quick prayer. The official in charge of the order of the teams looked up at me. “Okay, it’s time,” he said. A Chinese girl with a sign that read “United States of America” took her place in front of me. The official pointed down the tunnel. I took off walking.

I stepped out of the tunnel and onto the track that led around the inside of the stadium. A million camera flashes went off at once. The crowd cheered. Peace filled me. I walked down the track, my grip tight on the flagpole. I looked up at the giant Jumbotron television screen. There on the screen I saw President Bush, standing, saluting the flag. They then split the image in half. On one side was the president, his hand over his heart. On the other side was me, Lopez Lomong, the lost boy carrying the flag of his new home. I am no longer a lost boy or an orphan. The flag in my hand is my identity; it is who I am now and who I never was before.

I walked down the track, beaming with pride. God had brought me so far, through war, through eating garbage and running to forget about my empty stomach. No matter what I went through, God was always with me. He had always had this moment planned for me through both the good times and the bad, from the killing fields of Sudan to these Olympic Games and back again.

The trip around the track with the flag was going by too fast. I felt the entire US team pushing me along, carrying me through this moment. Up ahead, a cameraman walked backward. He focused his camera close in on me. Far away, in a living room in Tully, New York, my mom and dad wept with joy.

Farther away still, in a small room in Kenya, my mother and family watched the opening ceremonies on the twenty-inch color television I bought for them on my last trip to Africa. My mother’s eyes immediately focused on my left hand. There, on my fingers that gripped the flagpole so tight, was the ring she gave me so I would never forget her. When she saw the ring, she fell to the ground and wept. Through that ring, I told her that I did not make this journey alone. She was right there beside me as well.

A full week passed between the opening ceremonies and my first 1500 meter heat. I needed that time to come down out of the clouds. My mom and dad came before my first race. The entire town of Tully had a huge fund-raiser to send my parents to Beijing. In fact, the day I called my dad to tell him that I’d been elected flag bearer, he and Mom were at the fund-raiser. I thought they were at home. I told him, “I’m going to carry the flag in the opening ceremonies.” He turned around and announced it to this huge crowd of people in my hometown. Over the phone I heard the celebration. Everyone shouted and cheered and clapped. After that, the town raised more than enough for my parents to come watch me run in the Olympics.

Jim Paccia, my high school coach who bribed me to run with a Tully High jacket with my name on it, also came to Beijing, as did my best friend from high school cross-country, Tom Carraci. Six years earlier Tom promised he would come to watch me run in the Olympics, and he kept his word. Unfortunately, Brittany had to report to the Air Force Academy the first week of August, which meant she could not come to Beijing. She plans on being there in 2012 and 2016 and 2020. Like I said, Beijing will not be my last Olympics.

My first race came on August 15. I finished fifth, but my time was less than half a second out of first place. My place and time qualified me for the semifinals. That race didn’t go quite as well. I approached the semifinals with the same strategy I always use in the 1500 meter. My hamstring still did not feel completely right, but it felt good enough that I was confident I could make the finals. However, through the first two laps it felt worse than it had at any time going back to the day I pulled it in Colorado Springs. I did my best to ignore my leg.
Focus, focus, focus
, I told myself as I rounded the first curve of the third lap. I needed to get into position to make my move in lap four. Going around the curve I felt the hamstring tugging. Curves are harder on this kind of injury than straightaways.
Okay, that’s fine
, I reminded myself,
stretch it out on the straightaways then take it a little easier on the curves
.

My strategy worked down the back stretch and into the second curve of the third lap. However, the moment we came out of the curve, everyone broke into their kick. I couldn’t believe my eyes. We still had five hundred meters to go. In all my previous races, no one kicked until the three hundred meter mark. When everyone kicked, I tried to keep up. My hamstring said no. I tried to push myself into a higher gear, but my right leg did not respond. I came away with my worst time of the year, a full five seconds slower than my time in the quarterfinals.