Devil at My Heels: The Story of Louis Zamperini by Louis Zamperini Read Free Book Online Page A

Bright, (3) Lochner, (4) Ottey, (5) Deckard. They don’t even know I’m running. But if I can cope with the heat, I’ll beat Bright and give Lash the scare of his life—and then I’ll make the print.” I signed it, “Brother headed for Berlin.”
     
    I TOOK A boat to Randalls Island, warmed up, and then lay in the shade—not that it mattered, it was hot there, too. Ten minutes before the event, I stretched, loosened up, and mentally reviewed my plan. I didn’t think I could beat Lash—he was the world-record holder in the two-mile—but I just had to get second or third place to make the Olympic team.
    When the race started I did just what Pete had taught me: slip in behind the leaders as close as I could, stay on their inside, and relax. Being out in front can make a runner tense. You’re alone and can’t see anybody. I liked to run just behind the leader and look at his feet. If he ran a foot from the curb, I’d place myself three inches from the curb so that psychologically I’d run a shorter mile. Strategy was my game. I stayed constantly alert to who ran besides me, to who might box me in. If I competed against a guy everyone thought would beat me, I wanted to be clever, so when I trained I’d speed up for fifty yards on every lap and then slow down to the regular pace. When I did it in the real race, I forced my competition to catch up every time I pulled ahead. Eventually it bushed him, and by the final lap I’d have it going away.
    At first we stayed packed together. I was maybe tenth of sixteen runners. Bright was in front of me. We had plenty of distance to cover, so I took it easy. After about a mile and a half some guy collapsed from the heat and we all jumped over him. Eventually, that happened to Bright; the intense sun was not kind to fair-skinned, freckle-faced, sandy-haired fellows. I pulled alongside and urged him to stick it out, but Bright had developed blisters from running a 10,000-meter race a week earlier, and his pain was unbearable. I admired him for trying. I desperately wanted to beat him, but not this way.
    Just before the last lap Lash was out front, Deckard moved up on his tail, and I closed in on Deckard. We were all well ahead of the field. On the far straightaway, when I should have made my play and gunned for Lash, I mentally spaced out for a few seconds. My mind said, How can you pass a world’s champion, a guy who took the record away from the Finns? Instead of kicking, I stared at his back with admiration. Before hitting the final curve, Deckard moved out into the second lane, which forced me into the third. I woke up, passed him, and moved into the second lane, just behind Lash. Then we battled down the stretch as I closed in on him—me against the champion. But champions don’t give up. We hit the tape together.
    Because I’d been gaining on Lash I thought I’d won, but the announcer called his name instead. I left the track without congratulating him. But I didn’t care. Nobody knew me, the West Coast runner; the announcer had even called me the “dark horse” because of my black tracksuit. I went to the locker room, but someone rushed in and brought me out again, and an official handed me a certificate that read “First Place.” The race film had confirmed a dead heat. That was great. But even better, most of the New York press finally learned to spell my name correctly.
     
    CONGRATULATORY WIRES POURED in from family and friends. Not only had I proven a point for Pete and myself, I’d made the Olympic team.
    Those who didn’t qualify were gentlemen, congratulating us and bidding us a good time in Berlin. No emotion, just Godspeed. Today it’s different. Someone who doesn’t make the team might weep andcollapse. In my day no one fell on the track and cried like a baby. We lost gracefully. And when someone won, he didn’t act like he’d just become king of the world, either. Athletes in my day were simply humble in our victory.
    I believe we were more