Ultimate Triumph: The Olympic 1,500

After completing exams the Villanova track team headed west in May of 1956 to compete in the Compton Invitational meet and the National Collegiate Championships. The American boys on our squad had a lot at stake for they were trying to make the final tryouts for the Melbourne Olympics. Charlie Jenkins and Phil Reavis were to be successful and gain selection on the American team. As an Irishman I was under considerably less pressure. We have no tryouts in Ireland. An Irish Olympic Council sets standards for the various events, and if an athlete meets the required standard he is eligible for selection. For my own part I had already bettered the standards set for the half mile and the mile, 1:50 and 4:05.8 respectively. But I still did not know if I would be selected and was not to know officially for a long time yet.

At that time Irish sport was very complex at the organizational level. In our small country we had three different athletic bodies administering the sport of track and field. For various reasons, political and otherwise, they did not see eye to eye. As a result, the Irish Olympic Council, which is made up of representatives of the various Olympic sports such as boxing, fencing and weight lifting, did not have any representative of track and field on its board. This amounted to our athletics team being selected by persons with no knowledge of or connection with the sport. This misfortunate system almost led to my not going to Melbourne.

But, for now, back to Compton. After my defeats by John Landy I was paradoxically not nearly as anxious about my miling and my desire to beat four minutes. I was in a relaxed frame of mind, and I was not thinking specifically of trying to break through the magic barrier. There was a classy field lined up for the Compton Mile. World 1,500-meter record holder Gunnar Nielsen of Denmark headed the list. The American challenge included Fred Dwyer, formerly of Villanova, and Bobby Seaman, a rising UCLA star. Before the race I was more concerned with getting a pair of spikes to run in, for my old ones were worn out, than in preparing myself for the race. I got a pair on credit about 15 minutes before the off from a shoe salesman at the meet. He made me pay up afterward, too, my last $10 in fact, in spite of the exciting result of the race. He obviously didn't appreciate the value of good public relations.

As usual, by now, there was a rabbit in the Compton Mile to ensure a fast pace. Danny Schweikart, a no more than average miler, did the early running. I lay back in the field but at no time lost contact with the leaders. Jumbo determined the "contact point" as anywhere within 10 yards of the pacesetter. I was always supposed to keep within this range. However, I must have given Jumbo many a start, for I seldom if ever could keep up early on in a race. I often felt more tired during the second lap than at any other stage, and I had this terrible tendency to dawdle along behind—completely out of touch. But in Compton I was not taking any chances and for once followed Jumbo's orders. The early part of the race, up to the three-quarter mark, was unexciting. The lead interchanged a few times between Nielsen, Dwyer and Seaman. I did not hear the three-quarter time called out, so I had no idea how fast we were going or, more important, that we were on schedule for a four-minute mile.

The final lap was a scorcher. Nielsen was being chased by Dwyer and Seaman. About 200 yards from home I began to move up. I slipped past the two Americans and into an attacking position about one yard behind the big Dane. I was only conscious that I was racing another man at this point, and I had absolutely no idea of how fast we were going. About 100 yards from the finish I moved up on Nielsen's shoulder. He was still very strong and held me off. But I was determined to pass him, for I was still smarting from the two Landy defeats. Forty yards from the tape I edged in front. I stayed there, barely holding off Nielsen's challenge. Immediately I finished I was swarmed on by my teammates and some of the spectators. I knew I had achieved something in beating Nielsen, but I could not quite understand all this excitement. In the jumble of voices around me I thought I heard someone say I had broken the barrier. Just then over the public-address system came the voice of the announcer. There was a silence, startling in its suddenness, as he called the result of the mile and the time: 3 minutes 59 seconds.

I had made it, and Nielsen also with 3:59.1. I could hardly believe my ears. I was amazed, dumfounded. I knew I would break four minutes someday but not so soon. But, suddenly, I was the seventh four-minute miler in history. I had joined Roger Bannister, John Landy, Laszlo Tabori, Chris Chataway, Brian Hewson and Jim Bailey in the most exclusive club in the world. And, with Tabori, I was the fourth fastest miler of all time. I was full of gratitude in my heart to everyone who had helped me achieve this, and especially to Jumbo Elliott for his unceasing confidence in me.

Nielsen and I, in breaking the barrier, ended a lot of drivel at that time about the psychological aspects of four-minute miling. There was no resolution here on either side, no great tactical planning for our achievement. Rather, two men pitted against each other had run as fast as they could in an effort to defeat the other and in the process had run four minutes. Perhaps Bannister had to fight a psychological barrier to become the first to crash through, but from now on four-minute miles would become a matter of physical condition and the necessary effort required. The die had been cast.

To add to my joy, two weeks later in Berkeley, Calif. I won the NCAA 1,500-meter championship, beating Landy's recent conqueror, Jim Bailey of Oregon, in the process. So I was able to set off on the journey home to Ireland for my summer vacation happy in the knowledge that I had run a four-minute mile and had beaten Bailey. I was becoming optimistic about my chances in Melbourne—if I ever got there. But on arrival home in Dublin I discovered the members of the Irish Olympic Council had not yet made up their minds about sending me to the Olympics. Under tremendous pressure from the press and athletic officials the council met again. But they were not going to be rushed. The outcome of their meeting was a bald statement to the effect that Ireland would be represented in Melbourne if funds were available. They mentioned certain sports, athletics included, but did not nominate any one athlete. This was most upsetting at the time and the strain of not knowing officially if I would be traveling to the Games had an adverse effect on my training. I began to wonder seriously what I would have to do to earn selection.

To add to my worries I was seriously spiked in the heel during an 800-meter race in Paris in early July. For some strange reason or other the organizers had about 20 athletes entered in the race, and they elected to start us on a turn. There was a mad stampede at the start. An Iranian athlete running his first international race ever chose, in his excitement, to try to run over me rather than around me. In the process he nearly cut my right heel off. I was taken to the hospital with two deep gashes in the heel, but the doctors said they would mend in about a month. I was greatly relieved. My relief nearly turned to horror when I saw a nurse preparing the largest injection I have ever seen in my life. I knew it was for me, but I didn't expect her to want to put it directly into my back above the shoulder blade. I tried to reason with her in my best school French, suggesting an alternative area with a little more flesh in preponderance. However, she kept insisting id and pointing to my back, so I had to succumb. I really was beginning to hate nurses. But it's an ill wind that does not blow somebody good, for after leaving the hospital, in the company of Louis Vandendries, a Belgian resident in Dublin and secretary of the Irish Amateur Athletic Union, I hobbled around the famous night spots of Paris. Knowing I was out of training for at least a month, I had a great night smoking cigars and sampling the vin. I had started out the evening hobbling, but I had developed a distinct roll by the time I got back to our hotel.

A month later I was back in training. After six days I ran my first race, a moderate 4:06.4 mile at London's famous White City. I then attempted the ridiculous and took on Brian Hewson of Britain, another four-minute miler, before a partisan home crowd in Dublin two days later. The result was disastrous. I finished 75 yards behind him in 4:20, the slowest mile I ever ran in my life. I learned my lesson and decided no more racing for the remainder of the summer, for obviously my layoff and injury had affected me more than I thought. I continued to do light training, and on my return to Villanova in September, two months before the Games opened, I was moderately fit. Jumbo Elliott appreciated that my poor miles in Dublin were a result of the injury in Paris. He still believed that even with two months' training we could win the 1,500 meters in Melbourne. At this stage, believe it or not, I still did not know if I was going to be selected for the Irish team. The Irish Olympic Council had not issued any further statement since June and to date had not selected a team. This was utterly ridiculous. It meant that the aspiring Olympic hopefuls, including myself, were training in the hope and belief we would be selected, but nothing more. It was a tremendous worry. I mention this to highlight the different approaches of the small country and a track power like the U.S. Whereas Ireland's team was still unannounced, the U.S. team had been selected at the final Olympic tryouts the previous June, and the team would gather shortly on the West Coast for collective training prior to going down to Australia well before the Games would open. I would arrive in Australia, as it turned out, only three days before the opening ceremonies—a very brief period in which to become acclimatized.