Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [14]
The morning of the meet I felt awful. My head ached, my stomach churned. I wasn’t really sick, just nervous, like usual. Whenever Pete tried to reassure me—“Aw, Toots, it’ll be a cinch”—I’d snap back, “No race is a cinch.” He didn’t like it, but he had to agree.
Before a race I always liked to be alone, but that morning I was too anxious to go off by myself and focus. Instead, I made excuses for my imminent failure, saying I was from a “little ol’ town” and here were these big competitors—high school seniors, whereas I was just a junior—running in the Coliseum.
Pete finally had enough of my complaining.
“What’s the matter?” he teased. “You scared?”
I blew up. “I’m not scared. I just don’t feel good. You don’t understand.”
“You’re just chicken.”
I wanted to throw the kitchen table at him. Instead, I turned to my mother and said, “I’ll go out there and run. And if I drop dead, my legs will still keep running.” I caught Pete grinning.
But at the Coliseum I balked again. So many runners had entered that we had to start in two lines, the second about three yards behind the first. I drew the third lane of the second row, a handicap of maybe two seconds and a few extra yards. That made me mad. What chance would I have against Hooper now?
The heck with it, I decided, and walked off the track.
Pete rushed over. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m not running. Look where they put—”
Pete let me have it before I could finish. “Now I know you’re chicken. I was kidding before, but now you’re proving it.”
“I am not.”
“Then get back on the track.”
I stood my ground. Then a coach came over and said, “You can make that up. Easily.” I spun around and got back in line.
The gun sounded and I took off. I had a plan: to run the first three laps in 3:17, the same time as my 1,320 state record, and then take off. But because I’d started in the second row, right away I got caught in the pack and couldn’t break through. Runners crowded in front and stretched out to the sides. All I could do was stick to my pace and look for an opening.
Meanwhile, Elmo and Abbot, the two Indian boys, blistered the track with an amazing 58-second first lap and a 2:01 half mile. I had moved up, but I didn’t try to catch them. I just ran my race. If they were that good, I figured, then they deserved to win, but as they rounded the first turn of the third lap both boys wilted and I passed them.
My brother had called out my time at the quarter mile and the half mile. When I heard him yell, “Three-seventeen!” after the third lap, I moved out and passed everyone. Hooper had a boil on his neck, which hampered his style, and had dropped out. I was all alone—or so I thought. With two hundred yards to go I felt someone touch my heel. Gaylord Mercer, a dark horse from Glendale High, had closed the gap. His lead leg hit my trailing leg and startled me so much that I shot out like a rabbit and made for the finish line, beating him by about twenty yards. They timed my last lap at 64 seconds. Pete couldn’t find the words as he pinned the medal on my shirt. Apparently I had broken what they then called the World’s Inter-scholastic Mile record that had stood for eighteen years. My time of 4:21.2 would stand for another twenty. Even more amazing, the radio announcer who interviewed me one minute after the finish was stunned to see me breathing gently through my nose.
TWO WEEKS LATER I lined up again in the Coliseum, this time against college men, in the 1,500-meter, which is 119 yards short of a mile. The favorite was the Pacific Coast collegiate champion from USC. The winner would receive a gold wristwatch donated by movie star Adolphe Menjou.
At the starting line I heard other racers mutter