Bolsheviks, Babushka Women and Spies from the KGB and Stassi

February 22nd, 2010

            In 1969 I made my debut on the international track and field stage by getting invited to an event in the forbidden land of the Soviet Union.  It was in Moscow and we would be going behind what was then called the Iron Curtain, the wall of political isolation that manifested itself in the such things as the Berlin Wall, attack dogs, armed patrols, machine gun towers and land mines. It stretched from Poland to Bulgaria and was mostly to keep people in, rather than keeping people out.  The Soviet Union was that kind of place. People were dying to get out, literally.

            So, of course, I wanted to go there. It was a forbidden zone so that made it all the more exotic and adventurous. It was my introduction to the larger world and a memorable one it was, a coming out party as a shot-putting debutante.

            My travels had been limited to track meets in the U.S. and one to Windsor, Canada, which technically made it international, but since it’s right across the river from Detroit, it’s just like the U.S. It’s like the descending colon of the Midwest. No glamour or romance in that town.    

            For an American blue collar kid at that time, Moscow held no glamour or romance, either.  We thought of Russians and their comrades, the East Germans, as enemies with deadly intentions. Everyone knew of  the film “From Russia With Love” in which Sean Connery as James Bond had to fight for his life against the Soviet assassin played so well by the late actor Robert Shaw.  

            As an example of my sheltered life, Moscow was the first time I had soft boiled eggs, the first time I had espresso. It also was the first time I was followed by secret police. I didn’t like any of those. But I did like the French champagne and the Russian women, even though they didn‘t shave their legs or underarms. They were kind of scary. I liked them anyway. I was pretty scary myself.

            The meet would be between the U.S., East Germany and Russia in Moscow, home to the Kremlin, Lenin’s Tomb and the KGB. I remember there were long lines of Russian pilgrims waiting to see the corpse of Lenin in his glass tomb. They all looked like the cast of “Fiddler On the Roof.” Lenin didn’t though. He just looked dead.  

              Going to Moscow was a very big deal. A huge deal. It would be a test of wills, strength and intestinal fortitude. It was intimidating for a young Midwesterner to go there. As Americans, we had been brainwashed into thinking that Russia was a land where the birds didn’t sing and the sky was always the color of ashes.  It was a fortress country of Stalinistas, death, severe politics, potato soup, and harsh work camps. Almost sounds like an Olympic training camp! 

            I was astounded to find that birds did sing there, that the sky could be blue and sunny, and that the people were real human beings. Even the KGB agents, the ones that followed us around, were human beings, sort of. 

            Windsor was not anything like Moscow, even though the weather was much the same.  Moscow had it all. Drama and dread on the flight there, peasants on the steppes, the Bolshoi Ballet, the Kremlin, hot and cold running vodka, and a great happy ending  in my hotel room with several female athletes.

            I got invited to Moscow by default. I was still a student at Middle Tennessee State University, still trying to graduate. Nobody from MTSU ever went to Moscow. That was enemy territory, featuring godless commies and gulags. The only connection most people in the U.S. had with Russia was the Beatles’ song, “Back in the U.S.S.R.”

            But I had a throw of 63 feet even at the U.S. indoor nationals that year, a personal best, but not a first place in the meet.  The first and second place finishers, Randy Matson and George Woods, who threw 63 feet 11 inches and 63 feet 1 inch, respectively,  declined to go. They were top dogs at the time and had come in first and second in the 1968 Olympic games in Mexico City, winning the gold and silver medals in the shot-put.

            Their refusal had nothing to do with politics or hatred of communism or any sort of protest. They both were married and had other things going on. They were busy in graduate school and were in competitive training programs and were being productive members of society. Besides, there was no pay to go to Moscow. We were amateurs and couldn’t get paid. We just kept doing it for God and country. Well, I also did it for the poontang.

             You did get some spending money — $2 a day. That was it. Of course, at that time in Russia, $2 per diem was a king’s ransom.  Now it sounds ludicrously small. But back then you could buy snacks, beer, cigarettes and vodka if you wanted. Besides, we were just throwers. We didn’t know that we had any cash value. We just threw because we liked to do it.  So Matson and Woods stayed home, leaving the door open for me. I don’t know if I ever thanked them.   

            I was still competing for the University of Chicago Track Club, my old training ground. The coach, Ted Hayden, had to squeeze me into the championships because my best throw of 57 feet was a little shy of qualifying. But he believed in me and finagled it. I don’t think he figured I would score a third, but I had been training hard and focusing. I am eternally grateful to the late coach Coach Hayden, too, for helping launch me on an illustrious career path.
            And so I made the team for U.S. vs. Russia vs. East Germany in Moscow. I thought it was a real perq. All expenses paid, couple of bucks in your pocket and rubbing shoulders with some of the best athletes in the world.  I was in hog heaven, even though I had to wear a size 17 pair of Puma shoes stuffed with toilet paper since I had size 15 feet. 

            It was March and when we landed in Moscow I remember there were women out on the runway shoveling snow. They were wrapped up like mummies and were out there cleaning off the runways and approaches. They were like shadows out there moving the snow around and around.

            I was stunned.  The Soviet Union had put men in space, had been the first to put up a satellite. They had a huge, feared army. Big, fast tanks. MIG jet fighters, a huge nuclear arsenal. And women shoveling the runways. Even Windsor had snow plows, big ones. 

            We had changed planes in Amsterdam to Aeroflot, a propeller plane that apparently was a hand-me down from the Soviet military. There was a lot of turbulence after that and the plane would drop hundreds of feet and then rise again. It was dead silent in the passenger compartment. Everyone was scared shitless.

          I was sitting next to Billy Gaines who was sitting next to Brooks Johnson, the sprint coach, who was in the aisle seat. Gaines suddenly started sounding like he was going to vomit, putting his hands over his mouth and fumbling with his seatbelt. He started leaning toward Johnson, making muffled retching sounds. Everyone could hear him.  Johnson was frantically trying to unbuckle his seatbelt to get away, but couldn’t. Then Gaines stopped, looked up and grinned. Everyone in the plane cracked up. It broke the tension and fear of the flight. We had been in white knuckle hell. After that, were weren’t terrified anymore. Just scared.

            Charlie Green, the sprinter, was on the squad. He was in the military and always wore sunglasses. I asked him about it and he said he wore them for re-entry. I think we all could have used shades for that flight.  It seemed like it lasted forever. And when we landed, I think the plane actually had square wheels. 

            We stayed at the Hotel Moskva. I drank with the coaches every night. It was an international hotel and there were a lot of women there from Iceland and Norway. It was a very interesting place, filled with spies, apparatchiks, diplomats, business people, and international intrigue. There I was, with the KGB following me, bad eggs for breakfast and beautiful blonde Nordic women all around. I don’t know why they were there, but I wasn’t going to ask questions, except for one.

            It was all heady stuff for me, a factory worker from Elgin, Illinois. In that one month of March, I went from being basically a nobody to being a player on the world stage, feared by opponents, chased by women, followed by the KGB. It was a wonderful feeling, overwhelming and euphoric.

            For a week, I felt like James Bond.

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WORLD RECORDS AND A STORM FROM VALHALLA

February 9th, 2010

            I was throwing like there was no tomorrow. I was throwing the shot like I was trying to save the world.

            I was going ballistic at the 1975 International Track Association meet in El Paso. It was a world record day. After my second throw, I knew I couldn’t be stopped and would beat the other throwers — Fred DeBernardi, Randy Matson and Karl Salb.

            It was the day of “The Shot Heard ’Round the World,” as one commentator coined it. But I was not only battling the throwers, I was battling for supremacy of the day. I wanted to eclipse all the other athletes; to be king of the hill, admired, feared, respected. Besides, I always ran my mouth to the newspapers and radio stations before the meet, predicting records and fabulous performances, so I had to live up to that. And I had predicted the world record to my mother and sister. It was Mother’s Day and I wanted to do something special for her. That was extra motivation.  

            As I stepped into the circle for my fourth throw, I remembered the phone call I made that morning to mom and sis. I had to come through. As I began my windup, I said out loud, “This one’s for you, mom.”  I started the rotation, powered into the spin. I felt like a whirlwind, light and powerful, moving through the circle. I watched the shot arc and saw the puff of dust when it landed. It was 71 feet, 11 inches, an outdoor world record. 

            I stepped out of the ring and away from the pack. I was the dog running with the stick now.  Nobody could catch me. And I didn’t mean just the throwers. I meant nobody could catch my shock wave and eclipse me, not the sprinters, the vaulters or the jumpers or any of the gold medalists or world record holders who were there that day.

            On my fifth throw, I yelled, “Mike, this one’s for you!” meaning Mike O‘Hara, president of the ITA. He was, after all, the reason that I was in El Paso throwing that day. I was in the groove then, more torque, my rotation tighter, my release almost perfect. I launched. The throw measured 73 feet and ½ inch. I broke the record I had just set.

            I don’t know what the other throwers or athletes or fans were doing. I was in a zone. I wanted to go back to the circle immediately and throw again. I was on fire.

            That 35 second time limit on the throwers now seemed like a week as I waited for Salb, Matson and DeBernardi. And then it was my turn again, my last throw.  I had already set a record, already beaten the other throwers, already made them eat my dust. So I let it all hang out. I let all the fear, anxiety and trepidation of fouling, of stepping out of the circle, fall away.  It was a feeling of pure potential, of fearlessness and of being immune to petty emotion. I said, “This one’s for me” and cranked up the particle accelerator and smashed through. I came out of my rotation faster than I thought possible. I became a blur. It was one of those moments when your dreams, your ideas, your desires all fuse together for the supernova. Every ounce of strength and energy came forth in a lightning strike. It was a throw-gasm.

            I felt myself push off the ball of my foot at the release and it was as if the Earth pushed back. I knew. I knew that I had made the best throw of my life, of anyone‘s life up to that point. I looked down and saw I hadn’t fouled. I ran over to Fred and leaped into the air, pushing off his shoulders, touching the sky. Fred was happy for me and held out his hands in congratulation.  Even my arch rivals became fans after that throw.

             Other athletes came running at me. I ran around like I was crazy. And I was crazy, possessed by adrenalin, high on the performance.  People were saying things to me, but the crowd was so loud I couldn’t hear anything.

            The judges brought out the measuring tape they had been using that day and it struck me that they were using a synthetic tape. That stretches. They measured the throw at under 75 feet.

            “I want a steel tape!” I shouted.         

            The officials began searching but couldn’t find one. After what seemed like a half hour, my greatest arch-rival, Matson, said he had a steel tape. His tape showed a throw of 75 feet, ¼ inch.  That synthetic tape had been stretched quite a bit and under-measured the throw by ½ inch. It made me think of all the 69 foot, 11 inch throws I had made.

            There were still events after that and there were astounding performances in those, too. Warren Edmundson ran the 100 yard dash in 9.1, tying Bob Hayes record.  My friend Steve Smith was trying for a 19 foot, 1 inch pole vault, along with Bob Seagren and Buddy Williamson. They didn’t make it. John Smith ran a 45-second 440 which was a world record. 

            The ITA athletes were trying to build a buzz for the upcoming European tour and were pushing the limits of their speed and strength, pushing against the fear of failure and injury. Europeans love track and field and we knew we were going to be revered, adored, fawned over, treated like demi-gods there. Maybe we’d even get free shoes.  At least that’s what we hoped.

            But while all this record-breaking was still going on, the weather turned suddenly ugly, biblically ugly. Dark clouds swept in. The temperature dropped. Hail started pelting the earth. The wind created dust devils and started knocking things down. The hurdle and jump standards blew over. People started scattering, running to the parking lot with this dumbfounded look on their faces, as if the end was coming. 

            It seemed to be a signal from Mount Olympus,  a message that lesser demi-gods should not strive to be more than they are. I’ve always believed my throws that day evoked a hail storm from the gods, a warning that I had come too close to Valhalla.  Then again, it could have just been one of those spring storms that scare the crap out of mere mortals.

            My world record of 75 feet lasted for 12 years, three months, two days, and a couple of hours.

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Warming Up the Particle Accelerator and Finding the Nucleus

January 21st, 2010

            It was a beautiful spring day and I was warming up for the meet that would put me on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I was throwing well in the warm-ups –  67’ 6”  from a standing position — even though I was dialing back my rehearsal routine. 

            Usually I went all out in the warm-ups. Sometimes I would warm up for an hour, take a break and then throw some more. Indoors, I would throw over 80 feet in warm-ups. It was all part of the show. We were performers, after all, and we wanted to give the fans in the stands their money’s worth. 

            But at the International Track Association meet in El Paso in 1975,  I was conserving my energy. I even cut out the usual back flips and other “Look ma, no hands” stunts that fans loved thought the meet was going to be televised on ABC‘s Wide World of Sports. I just had the feeling that I would need every milligram of energy I could muster that day.

            The 35 second rule was in effect, too. The producers wanted the action to move fast because a track and field meet can be like fishing without bait on the hook — really boring.  So after you threw and they took the measurement, the next thrower would be called and he had 35 seconds to get in the circle and throw. That way, things kept moving along.

            This was much different than amateur meets, where athletes would take their time. They would go through their prima donna rituals. The jumpers and vaulters would measure their steps,  put on another pair of shoes, or re-lace the ones they had on.  The runners would be checking the starting blocks and feeling the surface, checking the wind. The throwers would be smoking pot.

            No, just kidding. The throwers would hunker down, put on their best, meanest looking game faces and ignore each other. There was always a tremendous level of psych-out in the shot-put. There was absolutely no eye contact because nobody wanted to display any sort of weakness, which can show in the eyes. We were implosively into ourselves and each of us would stake out our little piece of turf and would defend it like junkyard dogs. “Don’t screw with me. Don’t look at me. Don’t see me. Don’t even think about looking. Just think about how I will crush you.”  That was our pre-event mantra.  

            On top of all that, we were in Bowie High School stadium, not much to look at, no cheerleaders, no pom-pom girls. However, for this occasion I was in fashionable black shorts and a tank-top with a Post cereal logo on the back. Post was one of the ITA sponsors. So, I was sitting there thinking about how to crush my opponents while wearing an ad for Post Toasties. I don’t know how much cash the company chipped in, but in the ITA we were glad to get anything. I would have started eating Post Toasties or Sugar Crisps, but they didn’t give us any free samples.  We called the Post rep “Sugar Bear” after the Sugar Crisps mascot.  

            Speaking of bears, I was throwing against Karl Salb, Randy Matson, and Fred DeBernardi that day. They were a tough crowd. Matson had silver and gold Olympic medals, DeBernardi was an NCAA champion in the discus and the shot, and Salb was one of those guys who could throw 72 feet warming up. I would need to reach deep down and gather all my mental and physical strength to beat them.  I would need luck, too.

            Somehow I had come into possession of a shot owned by Hans Hoaglund, a student at the University of Texas-El Paso. Either he had donated it to my cause or I had borrowed it from him. In any case, Hoaglund later used the same shot to win an NCAA championship. It would be a lucky shot for me, too.            

            As usual, I was trying to keep breakfast down. Competitions always made me so nervous I had to hit the bathroom and puke. Better there than on the field. It became a ritual with me. Throw up and then throw.  Worked for me. 

            At this meet I was at the top of the order and would throw first. We each had six throws. We were in the spotlight and the stadium was noisy, but I was oblivious to what was going on in the stands.  The crowd quieted as I stepped into the ring. My first throw was 68 feet 3 inches. Disappointing. I threw nearly that far from a standing position in the warm-ups. 

            I knew that the old fear of fouling was limiting me and that I wasn’t demanding enough of myself.  I was not in the groove yet, not at that point of total abandonment into the throw, not at the point where all of your physical and psychic power come together like nuclear fission and the chain reaction occurs — coil, spin, throw. Blam! Shock wave. 

            I stepped out of the circle and reviewed. It would be less than two minutes before I was up again so I had to make a quick fix. I felt that I had to get lower and attack the toe board. That means you need to drive your impulse foot into the area just behind the front of the board and lift at the end of the rotation. Your body becomes a catapult. In the rotational throw, you don’t heave the shot like you do in the traditional glide. You whip it, like a particle accelerator, except the particle weighs 16 pounds. The shot is already traveling through space and time when you extend your arm, which adds more acceleration to the particle.  

            I dug down into the nucleus of my being and drove a little harder and a little deeper. My next throw was 68-11. The particle accelerator was beginning to tune into the moment. The day wasn’t over yet and I was going radioactive.

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A Scary post-Christmas Trip to El Paso with Devils and a Foretelling of the Rotational Throw

December 22nd, 2009

            “The Exorcist” became a companion on a post-Christmas drive to El Paso for a holiday season track and field meet in 1974,  a companion that was at once comforting and a little creepy. It was a scary trip, but not because of the book. A winter ice storm — a white devil of a storm — forced us to crawl nearly all of the way from Illinois to Lubbock, Texas.   

            I had left behind my girlfriend, my job and life in the stunted river town of Elgin, Illinois, to follow my first love, the shot-put. It was still the holiday season, a time of dreams and renewal of dreams and that’s what I was chasing — dreams of athletic glory, fame and fortune.  

            Holiday meets were always off-Broadway type events to prepare for the indoor season. I had competed in the University of Chicago Track Club’s holiday meet, an event that attracted athletes from all over the U.S. — high school kids, college students and post-college athletes. It was an event that had gained national status under Ted Hayden, the club’s legendary track coach. 

            But the University of Texas-El Paso was a very happening place in track and field at the time, too. The school held an open meet in January and anybody with a desire to compete and some credentials could join in the fun. UTEL’s team name was the Sun Devils, by the way, another odd element in what remains my favorite holiday story.

            I had been a member of the U. of C. track club since 1964 and was one of its stalwarts, leading me to the Olympics and a job as a professional thrower for the International Track Association, which drafted me in 1973.

            I was in my prime, ranked 7th in the world, had been to the Munich Olympics and was trying to live life as large as possible. My plan was to head south to El Paso for warmer weather, compete in the meet, and then stay there and train for the pro circuit. I was big and needed a big state, so I was going to become a Texan.

            In a sense, El Paso became our Stonehenge. All the sporting warriors, chiefs and lords would meet and talk things over. We’d train, critique, then have beers,  talk philosophy.  I drove there with Rick Bilder, a thrower from Illinois who was a UTEP coach working on his master‘s degree.

            So El Paso seemed like a good fit. The university’s track program had a lot of international people, very unusual for a Texas school at that time. There was a hammer thrower from Australia, runners from Africa. Besides, I had to get the hell out of Elgin, a river town that had seen better days.  I had to go to Stonehenge, where the modern descendants of ancient stone throwers were going to assemble. 

            I jumped in Bilder’s Ford sedan that January and we set out, with a couple of his buddies, and drove right into the teeth of that ice storm. Sometimes we were doing 10 miles an hour, driving on the shoulder where there was better traction. It was a white-knuckle, death-grip ride for nearly 40 hours.

            I brought a copy of the novel “The Exorcist” for reading material. The film had just come out and was playing to stunned audiences. People were fainting, screaming, fighting to get tickets, then praying and going to get exorcisms. It was like the opening ceremony at the Olympics.

            There we were, stuck in Bilder’s sedan, swerving, skidding, and crawling along on a skating rink. Cars and trucks were in the ditches, snow plows couldn’t keep the highways clear, people were stranded. We couldn’t get any radio stations, so I started reading the book aloud. I had taken drama courses in high school and college, so I had a flair for the dramatic.     We had ice, sleet and snow all the way to Lubbock. It was as if the continental U.S. was in the grip of a white devil. The book was creepy, but the weather conditions were so unnerving that reading it actually relieved the tension of the ride.    

            We finally got to El Paso and as tired as we were, we went to a McDonald’s and then right to a theater across the street and watched the film. Sitting in that warm theater, the movie wasn’t nearly as frightening as the drive down with Father Marin and the Beelzebub sitting on my shoulder.

            We settled in and started training every afternoon until dark. Then we would go to the local cafeteria and have competitive eating.  Forced feedings, lifting weights, and working out at Sun Devil Stadium. That was our routine.  

            Then, a few days before the meet, I had my right heel down in a throw and my foot caught. I tore the lateral meniscus in my right leg, my power leg. It popped a little at the time, but I didn’t know I had hurt myself. But I found out very quickly that I had, and that was a turning point in my career. The ITA took care of me and I had surgery on it in California that June.  

            After that, I made career changes. I made vows. I quit smoking. I put the grail of the shot-put above all else. But the real turning point was that the injury made me decide to become a rotational thrower, using my left leg as the dominant one. After the surgery, I would stand on my left leg and do one-legged throws against a fence for practice.     

            So, I’ll always remember the El Paso holiday trip from hell and “The Exorcist,” the film in which the possessed girl’s head rotated 360 degrees. Coincidence? I think not. Exorcism wasn’t for me, though. I wanted my devils. They kept me together.  I also found out that El Paso had a really nice airport. I never drove there again.

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Meet Day

December 12th, 2009

            Fred DeBernardi lived in El Paso in 1975 and I had stayed at his place the night before the International Track Association meet of May 10, 1975, the meet that would put me in the history books.

            He was a thrower, too, about my size, 6-5, blonde hair, blue eyes, another surfer-type. He resembled a big, well-muscled sprinter and had been the NCAA champion in shotput and discus, one of only five people to ever do that. He played football at the University of Texas-El Paso and was drafted as a pro in 1972. He ended up with the Kansas City Chiefs for a year.  After that, he joined the ITA.

            We became throwing and training partners. He was fast and we would run against each other. We ran sprints because it helped your footwork and leg strength for throwing. We were friends and competitors and became good sprinters. He was good and once forced me to run a 4.3 second 40-yard dash to beat him. That’s quick for big humans.  I called him De-Bo, as in turbo.

            We were fast, unless we were smoking pot. Well, it was the 70s and we would sometimes light up doobies before training sessions. Everybody was lighting up back then. Even the future President Clinton, who didn’t inhale. I’m sure President Bush the Second lit up, too, and inhaled, though he wouldn’t admit to it.          

            DeBernardi and I would toke up and it would slow things down to about 33 -1/3 rpm.  The really good stuff would slow you down to about 16-1/6, super slow mo. Your voice would change. You’d sound like you were speaking Gaelic with a lisp. You would get tunnel vision. You’d look at the sky a lot and see how blue it was. Birds looked like they were flying three miles an hour. 

            Your anxieties, fears and inhibitions would fall away, or at least seem very, very small. You wouldn’t worry about how far you could throw or about fouling. It was a helpful thing to do, actually, because you would be able to detect tiny flaws in your technique. You would become detached from the outcome of the throw and then you wouldn’t hold back and the shot just seemed to float up and out, like Sputnik. 

            Then once you worked through the high, the world came into focus and back to normal speed with an extra sharp, cool alertness and you remembered the little flaws you had to work on. We never smoked pot before meets, however. Absolutely verboten. You didn’t want to slow down on meet day.            

            It was an afternoon meet and I was scheduled to throw about 2 p.m., so I had a lot of time to think about it and work up my mojo. I went back to Fred’s apartment, made the bed, packed, and tried to control the adrenalin pulsing through me. We went out to a buffet place to eat real food,  along with Paul Gibson, the hurdler. Gibson was one of those guys who ironed his jeans to sharp creases, a very neat kind of guy. I thought jeans were the antithesis of ironing. So did most people. Gibson apparently didn’t get the memo.

            We filled up at the buffet and headed to the stadium. My thoughts were rushing. I remembered reading about other great athletes who always claimed to know that they were going to set a record or win the meet. That’s how I felt. I was going to go over the top in a contest with the mighty.

            Then I saw the stadium and said, “This is it?” It looked like an end-of-the-road place, sort of desolate and scruffy. There was no grass, just dirt and weeds, which were well-manicured, however.  It didn’t seem quite like the appropriate stage for a professional sporting event that would be broadcast to a national audience. On the other hand,  the Bowie High School Stadium was deluxe compared to some of the other places we had ITA meets.

            We parked, walked into the stadium and onto the field. There was no locker room to change, which was typical. We basically lived in our sweats.  Things were ready to go and we were among the first up.   There were nearly 10,000 people there, so it was noisy and there was a sense of expectation in the air.

            I looked over at the broadcasters’ table. They had on their trademark ABC mustard-colored sport coats. That’s being kind. Those coats were more the color of baby poo. I had one of those sport coats from my time as an ABC commentator at the  1976 Olympics and Olympic Trials and finally gave it to the Hall of Fame at Middle Tennessee State University. That was after I wore it for Halloween. Didn’t need a mask with it. 

            There was one ABC crew with a shoulder-carried camera. Just one. There were no flags, no marching bands, no banners, no fanfare whatsoever. The next year they had cheerleaders recruited from a local strip club to spice things up, but this meet was like a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich without the bacon, lettuce and tomato. No mayo, either.

             I didn’t need any fanfare. I was ready to set the world record that day and was hell-bent for throwing. I was ready for the “Performance of the Decade” as it was later dubbed by a sportswriters group.

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The ITA

November 29th, 2009

            The International Track Association was a dream of Mike O’Hara to capitalize on the great track and field stars of the 1960s and 1970s and bring sensational running, jumping and throwing performances to the world on a regular basis. 

            O’Hara figured he would win over American audiences with athletes such as Jim Ryun, Kip Keino, Bob Seagren, Steve Smith, Bob Beamon, Steve Prefontaine, and Frank Shorter and last, but not least, yours truly in the shot-put.  Some of the athletes were medalists from the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City and the 1972 games in Munich. That list would include thrower Randy Matson, my arch-rival, who won gold in Mexico City in 1968 and silver at Tokyo in 1964. 

            So there we all were in May, 1975 clinging to our dreams in dusty El Paso, Texas, in a high school stadium that was not very conducive to dreams of athletic and monetary glory. But track and field competitors are used to that,  performing in out-of-the-way places and back-waters before a crowd of five. O’Hara was out to change that and so were we.  

            There were about 60 athletes in the ITA and they owned about 60 Olympic medals between them.  Some, like Matson, had won several medals. Those who hadn’t, like me, were just a chin hair away.  Matson was a throwing demi-god who helped me rear my ugly face into the ITA program book. When I threw against him, I had the great fear of losing, so always did my utmost.  

            O’Hara never signed Shorter and Prefontaine, which is too bad. If Prefontaine had been with us, he might not have gone to that party and gotten killed by a hit-and-run driver on the way home, a case that has never been solved, incidentally.  Shorter, a great runner, would have added more star status to the events.  But in the 1970s they had their own businesses going and the ITA was not on their agenda.

            The ITA was not only O’Hara’s dream. The ITA became my dream, too, and the dream of a lot of other athletes who had labored in obscurity and poverty because they loved their sport and the competition and energy it brought to their lives. 

            It was a costly love because you have to pay the price to get to the top — practice, dedication, sweat, tears. Loneliness and isolation. When I started throwing in high school, I would walk over to the athletic field after school to practice.  I would throw, jog over, pick it up the shot and throw it back, jog over, pick it up, throw it back. Back and forth for hours; just me, no coaches, no friends, no family.

            The sun would go down and I would be throwing in the twilight hours, trying to loft the shot into orbit in my own galaxy, creating those small shock waves that displace something at the other end of the universe. When it got too dark to see I would walk home. It became my temple out there under the sky, my religion. I became a true believer in the Church of All Throws and it paid off in El Paso in 1975.  

            O’Hara had been a member of the 1960 U.S. Olympic men’s volleyball team and had a master’s degree in business. He was the guy who developed big sporting events such as the Virginia Slims tennis tournament and would sell them. He had connections and could get things done. He was brilliant and could really give you a snow job. He was really good at that. I know from personal experience. 

            O’Hara started the ITA in 1973 and recruited me. He called me when he was passing through town. I was working as a teacher at the St. Charles Training School for Boys in St. Charles, affectionately known as “Charlie Town.” It was a reform school for delinquents. It was perfect for me. I could relate to the kids. 

            I was competing in the amateur indoor circuit at that time, so I was still in good shape and was competing against throwers like Komar, the Polish powerhouse who won gold at Munich.

            Becoming a professional athlete sounded pretty good at the time. But even though I was one of the founding members of the ITA and became a seasoned pro, by 1975 I was barely eking out a living. We got paid a per diem of about $25 or $35 when we competed and then got bonus money for performing well. Setting a record netted you $500. Taking first in the meet earned you $500, too. Second place earned you $250, third was $100 and fourth was $50. 

            On a weekend, if you only took fourth place, you could earn a $150 or so, which, for runners, jumpers and throwers who dwelled in obscurity, was decent money and would fuel their continued participation and gave them hope. I was doing radio promotions for the ITA and would get $50 per day for those. I got the radio gigs because I could had a good rap and could pile on the baloney. Fifty bucks for radio blather was good money then.

            Being an ITA pro certainly was better than being an Olympic amateur. At that time, U.S. Olympic athletes only got $2 per diem.  We got the money once a month, so it accumulated and you had a little slush fund so you could go out on a date. I remember when they raised it to $3 per day in the 1980s. Wow!  I don’t know what it is today. Maybe it’s $4 per day even.  

            The U.S. Olympic Committee should have been embarrassed, but it was run mostly by arrogant people of means, who thought that $2 a day was plenty for the athletic riff-raff from the world’s richest nation.  I know that sounds unfair, but I think it’s accurate. We were volunteers for glory. That is still the case for most Olympians.         

            The shot-put was never a glamour sport, never had the electricity that, say, the 100 meter dash or the pole vault or the 440 relays had.  The perception of throwers at the time made them out to be squat, Neanderthal-like people who grunted a lot and could carry a cow on their backs if they had to. One of those rat pack sports writers for the Los Angeles Times coined us “dancing elephants.”  He was one of those weasley guys who liked to put athletes down, unless he’s sucking up to them. 

            The image changed when I came along. Sports reporters made a big deal about my Speedo swim briefs that I wore for meets and about the fact that I smoked, talked like a maniac, and was irreverently funny.  Some of them thought I added some color and life to an athletic endeavor that was pretty drab and wrote some pretty good articles about me.  But, there was the Sports Illustrated writer who called me a “cigarette-puffing whackadoo” in a story about the 1972 Olympic trials. There’s a real stroke of genius writing for you. I believe the correct spelling is “wackadoo.”

            After El Paso in 1975, nobody ever called me a wackadoo again. At least not in print.

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The Shot Heard Round the World

November 12th, 2009

            On the day I set the world shot-put record, I think I punched a hole in the sky.

            I wanted an entrance into Valhalla, at least in my mind, and launched the shot as far as I could. I was seething with power that day. I knew I could do it, commanded myself to do it.

            There were others at the International Track Association meet that day in El Paso who were trying to be super-human and set world records. My friend Steve Smith was trying to reach a 19 foot -1 inch pole vault, along with Bob Seagren and Buddy Williamson.  Warren Edmundson ran the 100 yard dash in 9.1 seconds, tying Bob Hayes record.  John Smith ran a 45 second 440-yard dash, which was a world record.  It was an amazing day for track and field history and while we did it for the glory and because we loved it, we also got paid.  

            It was a day of signs, portents and desires, a full moon, I remember. When I walked off the field, I felt like Hercules. An illusion of grandeur, I know, but give me an illusion like that anytime.  But at the end of the day, the Olympian gods were not happy and they gave us a small reminder that we were mere mortals and had overstepped our boundaries. 

             It was Mother’s Day, May 10, 1975, and I was up at 5:30 a.m. I didn’t sleep much. I got up and walked to a convenience store and started eating Hostess Suzie-Q’s, and Cupcakes, and drinking chocolate milk.  It doesn’t sound like a menu for a world record performance, but it worked for me that day. 

            Besides, it was all that was available in El Paso, Texas at sunrise within walking distance. At least that’s the excuse I used. I always ate sweet stuff in the morning, but you would think on a day that important, one of the most important days in my life, really, that I would have eaten a breakfast worthy of a champion. Bacon and eggs, oatmeal, fruit.  Maybe even Wheaties topped with alfalfa sprouts. 

            No. Junk food it was, except for the chocolate milk, one of the basic food groups. It didn’t matter. I was feeding my mental and physical energy reserves. I would burn all those junk calories off by sundown. It was one of those days where you know you are on the verge of a great leap forward, to borrow a phrase from Chairman Mao. My leap would be from the thrower’s circle and I was going to make some headlines. 

            I tried calling my mother several times from the convenience store payphone, but she didn’t answer.  So I called my sister, Joan. I told her they could watch me on television that day and see me set a world record.  Joan scoffed.

            “You don’t know you’re going to do that,” she said.

             “I never lied to you before,” I answered. “Just believe me. Just tell mom to watch Wide World of Sports.”

            We hung up.  I was going to turn 30 the next month, a fully grown adult male, but I was still at play in the fields of the lord of the flies, where you lived to defeat not only your enemies, but your friends, too.  “Lord of the Flies”  was one of my favorite books, by the way, an exploration of the nature of the beast that dwells within.   

            The meet was going to be televised on ABC’s “Wide World of Sports”  because we had the best runners, jumpers and throwers in the world. I was one of them.  As a matter of fact I became a marquee name for the ITA, and my on-going war with Randy Matson for throwing supremacy in the shot-put became a major attraction.

            Matson had won the gold medal at the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City and the silver in 1964 in Tokyo at the age of 19. So he was a superstar in throwing. But I had beaten him to get a spot on the 1972 U.S. Olympic team and from then on, we had an on-going cold war. In my mind, I was the U.S., wild, free and fun-loving, and he was Siberia: cold, draconian and fun-less. Don’t get me wrong. Matson is a nice guy and we were on friendly terms, but we were polar opposites.

            Even though my teammates and I were famous in athletic circles worldwide, we were shoestring professional athletes, meaning we didn’t make much money, and our meet was going to be held at Bowie High School stadium. This indicates the level of our operating budget. If it would have been any lower, we would have held the meet on the other side of the Rio Grande.

            I didn’t know it that morning, but my arch-enemy Matson would come to my aid later that day, albeit grudgingly. I don‘t know if I ever stopped to thank him.  I’ll talk more about that next time when I divulge one of my secret training strategies that helped me visualize setting the world record.

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