Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [13]
NOW THAT GIRLS knew my name and admired my exploits they’d always say hello at school. The one girl I thought was really nice also talked to me, so I took typing class with her even though I wasn’t too keen on typing. When she took tennis, so did I. Soon we began dating.
One day a new girl, Rita, came to school. I’d never run into anyone like her. Rumors about her reputation flew. “She’s a hot pepper.” “She’s a firecracker.”
Rita acted very interested in me, always smiling and saying hi. I ignored her, certain she fooled around with everybody. Frankly, she really scared me. I’d kissed girls before, but only normal girls: sweet, unintrusive, reserved. I wanted to make the advances to someone I liked, to declare my interest. To me, Rita was too hot to handle.
And she couldn’t take a hint. At a school dance she forced me onto the floor with her by threatening to embarrass me in front of everyone. Then she wanted us to go outside and get a drink of water. Reluctantly, I walked with her to the fountain, where she threw herself at me. I was too stunned to move. I’d never had a French kiss before. I couldn’t believe it! And frankly, it was repulsive. Then she pushed her body hard into mine. That did it. I made her stop and ushered her back inside.
I should have learned my lesson, but I didn’t. A few weeks later, to make my girlfriend jealous, I asked Rita on a date. In the middle of the dance we went to her car, where she tried to have sex with me. I pushed her away and got out.
Not only couldn’t I handle her unbridled aggressiveness, but I was in training. The coach had already warned us to use restraint during the track season. “You’ve got to be pure and give your all to your sport,” he explained. He wasn’t moralizing about abstinence as much as worrying that the emotional involvement that’s supposed to go hand in hand with the sex would make a mess of us and our training. He believed entanglements could quickly ruin any athlete.
He was right. When my first steady and I broke up for three weeks, I felt miserable and couldn’t perform well on the track. Training is tough enough, but when someone you love is mad at you, it’s almost impossible.
MY NEW STATURE brought more than dates and recognition; I was elected junior-class president. I’d run but never believed I could win. I didn’t tell my parents about the election, though, preferring to have them find out by accident. A week later, when they questioned me proudly, I replied with an elaborately casual shrug. I’m pretty much the same today. Sure, I get excited inside, but I don’t want people to think my ego’s all swelled up. I just accept life. Maybe that’s why, years later, a friend of mine said, “Fame has never bothered Louie. He’s nothing if not down-to-earth.”
To be perfectly honest, one reason I did my best not to brag is that as a mischief-making kid I had trained myself never to crow about my exploits. Almost every victory was a secret. I guess I’ve just stayed that way.
MILE RACES BECAME easier and easier. As a high school junior I ran 4:28 and 4:29 without being pushed. Because Torrance High’s oval was sandy, my times would have been better on a professional track. I needed a real test, and soon enough I got it.
On May 19, 1934, the best milers in Southern California assembled at the Los Angeles Coliseum for a big meet. Among the runners was Virgil Hooper. He held the state record of 4:49.2 and had already run a 4:24. They expected him to win, with close competition from Bob Jordan, of Whittier High, and two Indians from the Sherman Institute: Elmo Lomachutzkeoma and Abbot Lewis. They’d all run 4:30 or better.
For days Pete and I talked only about the race. We visualized it over