Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [25]
We did have one big interest in common: neither of us was a scholar, and we agreed that our immediate mission in life was to do whatever promised to be adventurous and fun. On a Christmas vacation trip east with Harry I bought a new tan Plymouth convertible in Detroit. At home, we’d tool around the state, go to festivals and beer busts.
Another friend, James Sasaki, was a mild-mannered, brilliant Japanese citizen. He was about thirty, slender, with a narrow, squarish face and slicked-down hair parted in the middle. During his nine years in America, Sasaki had attended Harvard, Princeton, and Yale, and he was now at USC. Because he was well versed in American history and slang we occasionally talked about athletics after our political science class. His educational zeal impressed me. We had two things in common: a love of sports and many Japanese friends in the South Bay area.
DEAN CROMWELL GREW unhappy with my attitude. He didn’t say much, but I could tell what he thought from the way he looked at me. In the fall of 1939 I’d received many calls from indoor track-meet promoters, begging me to run. At first I said no, but they hounded me until I was ready to give in. Cromwell forbade it. “You can’t do it, Louie,” he said. “You’re on a scholarship here. And you’ll wear yourself out before track season. Running indoors is not the same, and the cold weather back east will knock you flat. You’re not used to it.”
When someone stood in the way of what I wanted, I stopped listening. “Well, I’m working at the studios making thirty-five bucks a week,” I countered, “so I have money.” (When studios needed extras, athletes at USC and UCLA often got first crack. I got to work on Juarez and The Hunchback of Notre Dame with Charles Laughton.)
The only way I could compete indoors was to quit school and my scholarship on a Friday, race on the weekend, and reregister on Monday. That would cost $170, but the promoters promised to cover me. I finally gave in and defied Coach Cromwell by accepting an invitation to run at Madison Square Garden. I ran under the auspices of the Los Angeles Athletic Club.
Every Friday afternoon I caught a plane for New York, ran my race, then hopped a return flight to Los Angeles. Sometimes, if I won, I wouldn’t even wait for the grandstand review; I’d just pick up my medal and dash to my hotel across the street, still in my tracksuit. That was foolish. Because of the miserable winter weather I frequently got sick. But I still ran well: ten races in a row under 4:10. In one, the Wanamaker Mile, I ran 4:07.6 with a fever and strep throat, and came in second to Fenske, followed by Glenn Cunningham and Gene Venzke, all of us in record time. Those races kept people saying I had a good shot at being first to break the four-minute barrier.
No matter what Coach Cromwell said, I loved running indoors. There was no wind or weather to contend with. The crowd sat closer; I could see their faces and even smell the women’s perfume. But Cromwell was right: it was different. In their drive to win, the runners did not hesitate to trip, shove, push, and elbow.
The competition finally did me in. We ran on a smaller track, built on boards. At the Garden, the straightaway rose an inch and a half over a terrazzo floor. During one race I got knocked off the track, into a pileup. There’s a picture in Life magazine of everyone in a heap. My shoe slipped into the space beneath the track and floor. Trying to get free, I tore the ligament in the second toe of my left foot.
With time off to recover, I took inventory of my life. When my foot healed I would set my sights on the Tokyo Olympics. I also resolved to work hard and be more disciplined. I felt great that I was once again reaching for excellence in my athletic career.
Unfortunately, I developed a severe chronic pain under my right