Golden moment: carrying the flag

Olympics

July 03, 2004|By Olga Connolly | Olga Connolly,SPECIAL TO THE SUN

Guest writer Olga Connolly, then known as Olga Fikotova, won a gold medal in the discus for Czechoslovakia in the 1956 Summer Olympics and, more famously, was involved in an Olympic Village romance with U.S. hammer thrower Harold Connolly. That resulted in a marriage that lasted until 1973. She became a U.S. citizen and lives in California.

In the 1956 Summer Olympics, I represented Czechoslovakia. In four subsequent Olympics, I represented the United States. In this special year, when the ancient Games of Peace return to Athens, I offer my Independence Day story.

A friend asked why would I write it for the United States' birthday?

Because, I said, my intellectual freedom was born when I arrived here.

The world rocked by conflicts, the Cold War at its height, the Czechoslovak team arrived to the 1956 Olympic Games in Melbourne, Australia. We emerged from customs and immediately heard Czech language, greetings and applause. I was one of the last walking along the separation from the crowd.

"You are not allowed to speak with us, are you?" someone asked me.

Indeed, each athlete was warned not to react should the "agents provocateurs" -- Czechoslovak refugees living in Australia -- attempt to talk to us. Looking neither right nor left, ever so little I shook my head and was glad to get out of the terminal and onto the bus.

In my view, the people there waited for us because we brought along some of the homeland for which they were longing. That homeland entrusted me with representing its people, history and culture and perhaps the finest physical education and sports opportunity in Europe.

In the Olympic Village for the first of my five Games, I was struck by the mutual respect among athletes. Athletes intent on the last-minute perfection completed workouts and relished camaraderie on the training fields, offered names and handshakes, took pictures together, even clowned some. Even the athletes from countries where speech was muted by the Soviet umbrella found the courage to break through standard regimentation.

Hungarian friends, just out of the suppressed uprising at home, hearts tormented by decision-making whether to return or seek safety abroad, also found moments of comfort. My father was a political prisoner a few years before and I was thrown out of school for a few weeks as politically untrustworthy offspring of a bourgeois family. My parents grieved the wanton injustices of the political regime. For them, I wanted to win more than for anyone.

Gold and more

In the women's discus throw, a battle developed. Round after round, the lead changed, each distance an Olympic record. After the discus left my hand in the fifth of six attempts, establishing a personal, national and Olympic record, only fatigue was left. But that distance won the day.

I heard a wild shout in Czech language from the stands, "She is ours; she won it for us!"

Before my competition, I met the U.S. Olympic champion and world-record holder, Boston teacher Harold Connolly. Handsome, humble, intelligent, witty, a great athlete and serious educator, he was like none I had met before.

Romances flourish in international meetings, sprouting from the joy of recognition of common interests, the majority turning into long-lasting friendships. Such, we thought, would be ours when the Games ended.

I was the only Czechoslovak team member who brought home the gold medal that year, and countless people rejoiced. But in a private meeting, the Czechoslovak Olympic managers rebuked me for dating an "imperialist athlete."

"The American is a schoolteacher in Boston," I said.

"We cannot send you to compete abroad anymore," they said, ending the discussion.

The Olympic bridge across the Cold War chasm endured. The U.S. State Department allowed Harold visits to Czechoslovakia, and the president of Czechoslovakia expressed no objection to us getting married. He expected me to represent Czechoslovakia in the next Olympic Games, and I promised. An estimated 30,000 people came to see our unpublicized wedding.

Cold War tension

About a week after arriving in the United States, reporters at a reception given by the late John Foster Dulles asked me to compare living in Czechoslovakia and the United States. A State Department official tactfully intervened, advising that I not comment until I had experienced life in the United States for at least three years. Then, he said, I could make an informed decision about whether I wanted to become a citizen.

Three years hence, the 1960 Olympics in Rome looming, I drove an American car on American roads, ate American food, spoke American English and enjoyed my American husband and our 14-month-old American son.

Baltimore Sun Articles
|
|
|
Please note the green-lined linked article text has been applied commercially without any involvement from our newsroom editors, reporters or any other editorial staff.