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Kim Jong-il, the ultimate competitor
My locker room buddy, Kim Jong-il
Jim Rutter
I first met Kim Jong-il in 1992 on a weightlifting exchange program to North Korea. We bonded quickly over our common love of bodybuilding (he bench-pressed 750 pounds, albeit with help from two assistants) and our mutual passion for libertarian philosophy and free-market economics.
Kim— "Kimmie," as we used to call him— possessed an intensely competitive drive that led him to take on one sporting challenge after another. I was among the lucky few who saw him crush Michael Jordan in a game of one-on-one, just hours after he smashed Gary Kasparov at chess.
After drawing straws, I won the chance to caddy for Kimmie when he shot his legendary 38-under par. He let me keep one of the 11 hole-in-one balls he shot that day (although I subsequently sold it on eBay to pay for my kidney transplant).
Unfortunately, after Kim's father Kim Il Sung died in 1994, Kimmie had to put sports on the back burner for three years while he struggled for control of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. In this pursuit, as in his athletic career, he constantly pushed the envelope, rising from General Secretary to Eternal President in just four years.
I had already lost touch with Kimmie by the end of the millennium, by which time his competitive fury morphed into megalomania. He still loved sport, but once he'd broken every conceivable world record— even bowling a perfect game the first time he played— he was no longer able to muster his old enthusiasm. With seemingly no worlds left to conquer, who could blame him for choking an umpire at his son's Little League game or developing a nuclear weapons program to derail the Green Bay Packers' winning streak?
Although he wasn't much of a team player, Kim guided North Korea's 2010 World Cup soccer victories by coaching the team remotely by cell phone. When he destroyed Pyongyang's stadium after the team's defeat, I understood his bitterness.
"It's like your Vince Lombardi said," he often reminded me. "Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing."
They say a champion is humble in victory and gracious in defeat. But of course, anyone who says that never met my pal Kim.
Kim— "Kimmie," as we used to call him— possessed an intensely competitive drive that led him to take on one sporting challenge after another. I was among the lucky few who saw him crush Michael Jordan in a game of one-on-one, just hours after he smashed Gary Kasparov at chess.
After drawing straws, I won the chance to caddy for Kimmie when he shot his legendary 38-under par. He let me keep one of the 11 hole-in-one balls he shot that day (although I subsequently sold it on eBay to pay for my kidney transplant).
Unfortunately, after Kim's father Kim Il Sung died in 1994, Kimmie had to put sports on the back burner for three years while he struggled for control of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. In this pursuit, as in his athletic career, he constantly pushed the envelope, rising from General Secretary to Eternal President in just four years.
I had already lost touch with Kimmie by the end of the millennium, by which time his competitive fury morphed into megalomania. He still loved sport, but once he'd broken every conceivable world record— even bowling a perfect game the first time he played— he was no longer able to muster his old enthusiasm. With seemingly no worlds left to conquer, who could blame him for choking an umpire at his son's Little League game or developing a nuclear weapons program to derail the Green Bay Packers' winning streak?
Although he wasn't much of a team player, Kim guided North Korea's 2010 World Cup soccer victories by coaching the team remotely by cell phone. When he destroyed Pyongyang's stadium after the team's defeat, I understood his bitterness.
"It's like your Vince Lombardi said," he often reminded me. "Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing."
They say a champion is humble in victory and gracious in defeat. But of course, anyone who says that never met my pal Kim.
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