Melbourne: A Human Story

Now the Olympic harvest is reaped. The Games were a triumphal sporting festival, not the bitter burlesque they might have been. Seldom has such political strife greeted the opening ceremony, perhaps not since 480 B.C. when some Greeks lingered at Olympia while others died at Thermopylae. In 1948 at London the energy dissipated in war was turned, with relief, to sport. In 1952, Helsinki, teetering on the brink of Russia, looked like being engulfed; but even this uncertainty lacked the universality of our present troubles. That the Olympic Games took place at all was remarkable. We owe their success, even with the shenanigans of the diving judges and water polo teams, partly to Australian munificence but mainly to the fact that the Olympic idea is too good to be trampled underfoot by politics.

As in ancient times the modern Games revealed their heroes—the men who by their prodigious striving toward athletic perfection personify the search for excellence in all things. Melbourne produced several track claimants for the Olympic crown—Kuts, Morrow, Courtney, Delany, Brasher. Kuts has the greatest claim of all. He does not win our sympathy or our affection; he simply demands respect with each remorseless stride that seems to grind the opposition underfoot. Despite the lack of any outstanding physical gifts, Kuts is admirable for the manner in which he made himself by sweat, toil and tears. Z�topek's
aura has descended upon Kuts's chunky frame, upon those features so impassive save when fleetingly lit by triumph.

For me the Games began in the opening ceremony when Z�topek, hero of Helsinki, suddenly flung his hat wildly in the air in no particular direction as a gesture of spontaneous delight as he passed the duke's stand. Unwittingly, he linked for the first time in the Games those who watched and those who ran; he forged in that moment the intangible steel that gives the Games their strength. For me the Games ended when on the last day of the track and field events Z�topek finished sixth in the marathon—the lion with his claws finally drawn, glorying at last not in the winning but in the taking part. Throughout his career he has embodied the Olympic ideals—love of the fierce, uncompromising struggle, always tempered with a touch of humor; generosity in victory, gracious-ness in defeat.

I have a feeling of sadness that Z�topek's records have been eclipsed by a less colorful personality who cannot, in Z�topek's masterly way, take stock not only of the competitors but also of the crowd. The only sign of Kuts's humanity rests on his slender admission that during his annual holiday he drinks his share of vodka. I doubt if he practices running in the bath or carrying his wife on his shoulders—as Z�topek did. Kuts is both faster and stronger than Z�topek. Like so many inventors, Z�topek has seen others gain greater benefit from his invention than he did himself.

Now I expect to see Kuts break every world record from 5,000 meters upward. If he does this, perhaps he will live as the iron man of 20th century athletes—more vivid in our memories than Nurmi or Z�topek. But Kuts is not invincible. Few spectators realize the improvement that must be expected in these distance races. The ultimate limit must be at least 20 to 30 seconds faster than the 5,000 meters we saw in Melbourne and more than double this in the 10,000 meters. Still, the runner who aspires to defeat Kuts must train with frightening dedication.

The 1,500 symbolizes more than any other race the irresistible surge of record breaking at Melbourne that brought new Olympic marks in 17 out of 24 men's events and records either broken or equaled in all nine women's events. In the 1,500 meters, all the finalists broke the Olympic record. The race also uncovered a fresh hero, the sprightly young Irishman Ron Delany from Villanova—at the expense of John Landy, who ironically enough was Delany's erstwhile adviser during his American tour.

The first time I met Landy in Melbourne he was fleeing the camp for the evening, a distraught figure crushed by the obituary he received from his own press two weeks before the Games and by the burden of hope from a public that idolized him. Next day he kept his hat on while, before 100,000 people at the opening, he nervously paraphrased the Olympic oath, leaving out a sentence and substituting "honor" for "glory." This was Landy's mental state before the race—a race in which, later, he seemed to astonish himself by his own performance.

I believe Landy could have won this race. But he ran as though he knew he could not win; he ran for a place and not for a gold medal. Had he regained his confidence before the race and by chance or good planning held Delany's position on the last bend, I think the story might have ended differently. But he closed his career proving one point, at least to his own satisfaction: there is no such thing as being a front runner or a follower—it simply depends on the pace at which the race is run. For Landy this race was probably the end of the greatest solo mile running career the world has seen and of an athlete faster, neater and more generous than any other.

To say that Delany was lucky to win does not detract from the brilliance of the young Irishman's running. He succeeded in a crowded field in getting to the right position at the right time with enough energy left to make the most of it. The finalists were all so close in this—the greatest field of milers ever assembled—that if the race had been run again the next day or a week later I would not have been surprised to see another winner. But this is the strength of the Olympics. If you miss, you wait four years for rep�chage.

Delany, who trains according to the modern interval-running formula, has great natural ability and excellent competitive temperament. When asked afterwards by an American correspondent if he received a check during the race, our minds momentarily flashed to the ghost in Delany's race—the suspended Santee—and we wondered if we were discussing the old amateur problem. Delany wondered for a moment too. Then, in a broad Irish-American brogue in which the Irish still predominates, he emphatically denied any obstruction. "The track is rather small for 12 people," he said. "Everyone had trouble getting through and, if you got too near a person, you were as likely as not to get a wallop." We took Delany to our hearts when he said: "It was John Landy who taught me how to relax; and if I didn't win myself I wanted Landy to."