Berlin Games (36 page)

Now came the waiting. Leonard changed into his tracksuit and anxiously watched the scoreboard, along with the top brass of the German military. Among the spectators were the Reich war minister, General von Blomberg, the chief of staff of the army, General von Fritsch, and General Milch of the air force. Leonard looked at his time: it was 14:15.8. It was good, but would it be good enough to convincingly beat Handrick? He knew that Thofelt had done badly, but had he done badly enough to drop at least ten places–and therefore 10 points–behind Leonard? Nobody would know the final result until the very last runner came in. The results were finally prepared, and then placed on the board. Leonard came seventh, equal with his fellow American, Lieutenant Starbird, which gave him 7½ points, bring his final score to 39½. Thofelt's time went up: 15:16.2–a dreadful result for the Swede which gave him a crippling 24 points, bringing his total to 47. Leonard calmed himself down–it looked as if he had won silver, as his nearest rival, Abba, had scored 40½ before the cross-country. Even if Orbán of Hungary came first, he too would end up on 40½.

But what of Handrick? Where had he come? Leonard prayed that the German had come at least twenty-third, which would give him a score of 40½ points. Handrick's time was 14:41.7, just under twenty-six seconds slower than Leonard. Would that put him in twenty-third place? Unfortunately, it did not. It put him in fourteenth, bringing his total to 31½. ‘I couldn't overcome Handrick's excellent start in riding and fencing,' wrote Leonard. ‘He is known all over Europe as a poor rider; this time he wasn't…Anyway, I had the satisfaction of beating him personally in four of the five events.' Leonard knew that if only he had ridden his horse harder down the back straight on that first morning of the competition, then the gold would probably have been his. Such is the nature of sport. Leonard was magnanimous, however. ‘He deserves his first,' he wrote.

 

The following morning saw the start of an even more punishing multi-disciplined event–the decathlon. Even though he was the favourite, Glenn Morris found that he was not at all confident. ‘The day before I began the decathlon,' he recalled, ‘I was all alone in the village and consequently I was not relaxed when the final call was sounded.' Morris's biggest rivals were his fellow Americans Bob Clark and Jack Parker, and for the next two days the three men would battle it out in one of the most nail-biting decathlon contests for many years.

The first event was the 100 metres, and Morris's time of 11.1 seconds earned him a respectable 814 points, which placed him second behind Clark. At the long jump pit, Morris fared less well, managing a jump of 6.97 metres, which was trounced by both Clark and Parker, who both leaped well over 7 metres. After that morning's events, Morris lay in third place, just a few points ahead of Guhl of Switzerland and Huber of Germany. Now the athletes faced a problem none of them could solve satisfactorily–what to do about lunch. After the long jump had finished, there was only two hours to go until the shot put started at 3 p.m., which did not leave enough time for two 45-minute bus rides and a decent lunch. Instead, the athletes had to make do. Morris wolfed down a steak sandwich, washed down by four cups of coffee.

Morris's first attempt at the shot put was a reasonable 13.59 metres, which would have placed him in the top three, but it was his second attempt which proved just how strong he was. The shot sailed a good 10 centimetres beyond the 14-metre mark, earning him a healthy 826 points. Clark could manage no farther than 12.68 and Parker 13.52, and Morris once more found himself in second place behind Clark. In the high jump, Morris easily beat off his compatriots, jumping 1.85 metres, second only to Reindert Brasser of Holland, who cleared 1.90 metres. By now, Morris was attracting the attention of the crowd, not just because of his prowess, but also because he would constantly be practising between events. ‘Throughout the long grind, Morris scarcely ever rested,' wrote the correspondent of the
Denver Post
. Perhaps it was just the coffee. The final event of the day was the 400 metres, in which Morris clocked the best time of 49.4 seconds. At the end of the day, he was still second to Bob Clark, but there were only two points in it. With some of his strongest
events to look forward to on the next day, Saturday, he looked to be in a strong position.

Morris did, however, have a small problem. It was that coffee. Unused to it, he found it almost impossible to get to sleep, managing only two hours. The lack of rest did not seem to trouble him, as he won the morning's first event, the 110-metre hurdles, in 14.9 seconds. Clark's time was 15.7, and for the first time in the competition Morris took the lead, with a useful 126 points separating the two men. The rivalry was friendly, however. After each event that day, Morris and Clark would spread a blanket on the ground and lie on it together. They would then place towels on their heads, presumably as a means of shutting out the immensity and the noise of the stadium. Morris's meditation was noticed by Peter Gay sitting among the Hungarians. ‘Only an American, I thought […] could be so composed and so energetic at the same time.'

It was during one of these companionable rests that Morris was to meet none other than Leni Riefenstahl. The film-maker had noticed him through one of her many lenses, and she asked Erwin Huber, the German decathlete, for an introduction. The encounter would prove to be fateful for both of them. ‘With a towel over his head, Glenn Morris lay relaxing on the grass, gathering strength for the next event,' Riefenstahl recalled. ‘When Huber presented Morris to me, and we looked at one another, we both seemed transfixed. It was an incredible moment and I had never experienced anything like it.' For Riefenstahl, Morris was the epitome of manhood–a statue from antiquity that had come to life. If Morris was similarly smitten, it did not put him off the competition. He hurled the discus 43.02 metres, which increased his lead over Clark to 236 points. This bought him enough of a margin not to allow Clark to overtake him in the pole vault, which was Morris's weakest event–Clark beat him by 20 centimetres. In the javelin, Morris threw 54.52 metres to come ninth, but this did nothing to alter the positions the three American athletes found themselves in before the 1,500 metres at 5.30 that afternoon. Morris was first, 217 points ahead of Clark in second, with Parker 184 points behind in third. In fourth place lay Brasser, but he was 239 points behind Parker. It was certainly going to be an American triple, but in what order?

The 1,500 metres was delayed by a Hitler Youth demonstration, so the race started just after eight o'clock in fading light. Morris had been told that in order to break the world record he would need to run the race in 4:32, a time that he had never made. He normally ran the distance in 4:49. Nevertheless, the single-minded boy from Simla was determined to try. The 1,500 metres was divided into three heats (there would be no final) and Morris's was the last. In the first heat, Parker ran a rotten 5:07.8, which saw his grip on the bronze severely weakened. Bob Clark crossed the line in his heat with 4:44.4, a time that confirmed his silver medal. By the time Morris started, he knew that gold would be his, but he wanted that world record.

His progress was tortuous to watch; because Morris was pushing himself so hard, he was clearly in agony. During the second lap, Boulanger of Belgium cut in front of him, which caused the crowd to boo. The spectators wanted Morris to beat the record, and even Hitler cheered the American on. The dictator rocked backwards and forwards in his seat, pounding his fist into a cupped hand, willing Morris on. Morris redoubled his efforts, and surged past the Belgian. The last 35 metres were the most painful to watch. ‘The American had none of the grace of a Lovelock,' wrote Arthur Daley in the
New York Times
. ‘His features were strained and drawn. Every step was painful, but still he came on, running only with his heart. His feet were leaden.' Morris crossed the line in 4:33.2, an astonishing sixteen seconds ahead of his personal best. He collapsed on to the ground, suffering not only from exhaustion but from the disappointment of realising that he had missed beating the world record by a mere second. The crowd sympathised, and cheered him loudly nevertheless. A few minutes later, however, came a sensational announcement. The 4.32 announcement had been an error. Morris had in fact trounced the world record by 76 points. American domination of the event was secured by Clark and Parker taking silver and bronze.

According to Leni Riefenstahl, Morris's behaviour at the subsequent awards ceremony was bizarre. Because the light was now so dim, the director was unable to film the ceremony, which was a shame, as the out-takes might have captured an extraordinary moment. After the ceremony, Morris stepped off the podium and headed straight towards Riefenstahl. ‘I held out my hand and congratulated him,' she
wrote, ‘but he grabbed me in his arms, tore off my blouse, and kissed my breasts, right in the middle of the stadium, in front of a hundred thousand spectators. A lunatic, I thought. I wrenched myself out of his grasp and dashed away. But I could not forget the wild look in his eyes, and I never wanted to speak to him again, never go anywhere near him again.' Riefenstahl's approach to the truth seems once more to have been highly suspect. Notwithstanding the utter implausibility of Morris kissing her naked breasts in what was the largest gathering of people anywhere on the planet, the photographs of the medal ceremony show that it took place during daylight, which suggests it was postponed because of the lateness of the hour. The photographs also show the three victors in their jackets and ties, which they would not have had at the stadium that evening. This can only mean that the ceremony took place on another day. Despite Riefenstahl's rank fabrication, however, and protestations that she wanted nothing to do with Morris, the two would in fact meet again.

 

If Morris had made a Herculanean effort to win his world record, then so too would the marathon runner Son Ki-Jung. Although a Korean, Son was in fact a Japanese subject, as Korea had been conquered and annexed by the Japanese in 1910. Whenever Son raced, he was forced to wear a vest that featured the rising sun, the emblem of a country that had massacred thousands of his fellow countrymen, as well as destroying all but ten of the magnificent 330 buildings that comprised the Korean Royal Palace. For Son, running represented a way of escaping the tyranny. ‘The Japanese could stop our musicians from playing our songs,' said Son. ‘They could stop our singers and silence our speakers. But they could not stop me from running.' Son spent much of his boyhood running, even running two miles to the bakery every day. He was brought up in Ishu, a small and poor farming and logging community near the Yalu river, on the border with the part of Korea that was not under Japanese occupation. He raced against friends on their bicycles, often beating them. He would also run up and down logging trails, the steepness of their inclines giving him much endurance. His talent was prodigious, and it was soon spotted. He was sent to Yangjung High School in Seoul, a private school that had produced many fine runners.

In April 1935 word filtered to Europe and America from Tokyo that someone had beaten the two-and-a-half-hour barrier for the distance. Then, in November, the world was even more shocked to hear that the same athlete had run the marathon in 2:26:42–an almost incomprehensible achievement. According to the wires, the athlete's name was ‘Kitei Son'. It was the name the Japanese had forced on Son, and it was the name that Son had to use when he represented his conqueror at the Games. During his stay in Berlin, the twenty-three-year-old Son refused to sign his autograph as ‘Kitei Son' and insisted on using his Korean name, which was often accompanied by a small outline of Korea in order to emphasise the fact that he felt subjugated to the Land of the Rising Sun.

The marathon was held on Sunday, 9 August. The field was a large one, consisting of some fifty-six competitors who would be running past an estimated million spectators lining the 26-mile (42-kilometre) course around the Grunewald. Son's rivals included Carlos Zabala, an Argentinian who had established the Olympic record of 2:31:36 in Los Angeles in 1932–some five minutes slower than Son's unofficial world record. Three other threats came in the form of three Finns–Tamila, Muinonen and Tarkianen–who were regarded as being dangerously crafty. The one dark horse came in the form of Englishman Ernest Harper, a miner from Sheffield who at thirty-four was the oldest in the field.

From the start in the stadium, Zabala sprinted away from the pack, eager to prove his supremacy. At the 12-kilometre mark he was one and a half minutes ahead, and it looked as though he was going to smash the world record. Behind him were Son and the rangy Harper, who made an odd couple. At the halfway mark, Harper fell in behind Son, and the two men murmured encouragement and advice to each other. ‘Harper kept telling me not to worry about Zabala,' Son said after the race, ‘but to let him run himself out. So we paid no attention to him or any other runners and set our own pace.' Nevertheless, it was a painful experience, Son later recalled: ‘The human body can do so much. Then the heart and spirit must take over.' Harper kept up with him, his face pulled into a strenuous grimace.

Son's efforts paid off. He and Harper caught up with Zabala at the twenty-eighth kilometre. The Argentinian could not believe it, so
sure was he of his imminent victory. After just 100 metres he fell back, and 3 kilometres later he collapsed. The Finns were surprised too, especially at one point in the track when they could see the Korean and the Englishman running towards them on the return loop. Their tactics of bunching together had not worked, and now they had far too much work to do. Nevertheless, they tried, but they could not erode the sockless Son's masterful lead.

The Korean emerged into the Olympic Stadium just under two and a half hours after he had left. He was on his own, his already slight figure rendered minuscule when set against the vastness of the stadium. His face was expressionless, showing no sign of the tremendous effort he had made. In fact, Son seemingly had energy to spare, as he ran the last 100 yards in twelve seconds. He crossed the line at 2:29:19–an official new world record. Two officials chased after him with a blanket, which seemed to cause Son to collapse. Harper followed two minutes later, his face racked with pain caused by a blister, his shoe filled with blood. He fell on to the grass, and officials piled the mandatory blankets on top of him. Just ten seconds behind him was the unexpected figure of Nam Sung Yong, a fellow Korean, who had managed to outwit the Finnish threesome. The crowd cheered Son, but he was in no mood for celebrating. His mood was not helped by the fact that he was mobbed by weeping Japanese journalists in the dressing room. Bizarrely, while Son lay down to relax, every so often a Japanese would come and press his head against Son's chest and then burst into tears. ‘We've been preparing for this victory for twenty-four years,' said one of the weeping genuflectors. ‘Now we can hardly believe we've won. It's a big moment for Japan.' Those words must have been bitter for Son to swallow.