Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [17]
Just before the last lap Lash was out front, Deckard moved up on his tail, and I closed in on Deckard. We were all well ahead of the field. On the far straightaway, when I should have made my play and gunned for Lash, I mentally spaced out for a few seconds. My mind said, How can you pass a world’s champion, a guy who took the record away from the Finns? Instead of kicking, I stared at his back with admiration. Before hitting the final curve, Deckard moved out into the second lane, which forced me into the third. I woke up, passed him, and moved into the second lane, just behind Lash. Then we battled down the stretch as I closed in on him—me against the champion. But champions don’t give up. We hit the tape together.
Because I’d been gaining on Lash I thought I’d won, but the announcer called his name instead. I left the track without congratulating him. But I didn’t care. Nobody knew me, the West Coast runner; the announcer had even called me the “dark horse” because of my black tracksuit. I went to the locker room, but someone rushed in and brought me out again, and an official handed me a certificate that read “First Place.” The race film had confirmed a dead heat. That was great. But even better, most of the New York press finally learned to spell my name correctly.
CONGRATULATORY WIRES POURED in from family and friends. Not only had I proven a point for Pete and myself, I’d made the Olympic team.
Those who didn’t qualify were gentlemen, congratulating us and bidding us a good time in Berlin. No emotion, just Godspeed. Today it’s different. Someone who doesn’t make the team might weep and collapse. In my day no one fell on the track and cried like a baby. We lost gracefully. And when someone won, he didn’t act like he’d just become king of the world, either. Athletes in my day were simply humble in our victory.
I believe we were more mature then. Today’s athletes have more muscle and better physical-fitness programs, lighter shoes and faster tracks—but some still can’t win or lose cheerfully. Maybe it’s because the media puts so much pressure on athletes; maybe it’s also the money. In my day we competed for the love of the sport. Performance-enhancing drugs could be had, but no one wanted to win unfairly or damage his health. In my day we patted the guy who beat us on the back, wished him well, and that was that.
That’s not to say I had no emotions. I just kept them to myself as usual. But inside, the punk kid from California, the high school boy, was overjoyed at having prevailed.
THE NEXT DAY I checked in with Olympic headquarters, where they measured and fit me for my official team dress wear: white slacks, navy blue jacket with an Olympic shield on each button. A straw hat, too. After I got my team tracksuit—satinlike pants, light wool shirt—I boxed up my lucky shorts and sent them home. I was allowed to keep my shoes.
Afterward we attended an orientation about how to comport ourselves on the SS Manhattan—our ship to Berlin—and at the Games. They talked to us as if we were children.
The ship left port on Wednesday, July 15, on its way to the Eleventh Olympiad. Everyone assembled on deck for a group picture that made many a front page. Overhead, airplanes and blimps soared and dipped. Well-wishers chanted, “‘Ray,’ ray for the USA! A-m-e-r-i-c-a!” With its two massive funnels colored red, white, and blue, the ship carried 1,064 passengers. Of those, 334 were athletes, and 354 were officials, coaches, trainers, newspapermen, chaperones, and relatives.
The athletes traveled second-class. I shared a stateroom with Billy Brown, who did the hop, skip, and jump and like me was the youngest competitor in his event. The accommodations were impressive. I especially liked the big ballroom. Although no Fred Astaire, I was light on my feet, and the older girls—thankfully—gave me a break. I also liked to waltz, slow and smooth. But one night a storm hit and the boat pitched and rolled so much that everyone slid all over the floor. One of our shyest athletes careened headfirst into a female athlete, an