Two Minutes to Glory

(See Cover) Long, long ago, when ancient Greece's local wars were called off so that Greek could meet Greek in the Olympic games, athletes were faddish about food. At one stage, the training-table diet for athletes was fresh cheese at all meals -- and nothing else except water. Then things swung the other way: Milo of Crotona, the greatest wrestler of ancient times, ate an entire ox at a single sitting.

Last week, some 2,000 years later, Olympic athletes in London were still talking about food. At Uxbridge, where 289 U.S. Olympic athletes were quartered, their angry roars could be heard in the kitchen. The wrestlers were getting enough to eat, but the wrong kind of diet. One coach threatened to smuggle his he-men into London for a feed on black-market steaks.

Where were the 5,000 steaks, the 2,500 lamb chops, the 2,500 Ibs. of ham that were supposed to arrive with the U.S. team? The team's special chef (borrowed from Manhattan's McAlpin Hotel) didn't know. Back in the kitchen the cooks spoke five languages, and he couldn't make him self understood in any of them.

Mostly Mental. Most from of the U.S. trackmen--recruited 20-odd states -- had met for the first time on the cinders at Evanston, Ill. three weeks ago, or on the trip over. The 1948 squad differed a little from former U.S. teams: the majority of them were ex-G.I.s, many were married, and some had kids at home. At one training table, nobody followed the ancient Greek rule -- designed to prevent dyspepsia and headaches -- that only the lightest topics be discussed at mealtimes. The conversation volleyed from the high price of neckties to reincarnation (one sprinter wanted to come back as a dog, another as a race horse). Then it lit on the most dyspeptic subject of all -- track. The lean steeplechaser asked a half-miler: "Does all that sugar and dextrose you guys fill up on help any?"

Said the half-miler: "Sure, but it's mostly mental. Your running's about 90% in your head. The nervous energy you build up before a race carries you the first 200 yards. You're not breathing any harder than when you started."

The half-miler confessed unblushingly that he invariably goes under the stands half an hour before his race and gets deathly sick. The others nodded understandingly. All of them got sick too, some before a race and some afterwards. It was the terrible "keying up" process that track champions must go through. Since it helps them win, most of them consider it a blessing, not a handicap.

One of them knew a runner who got so nervous before a race that he was afraid to walk down steps and had to be carried by teammates. At those times, Herb McKenley, the great Jamaican quarter-miler, walks around in a stupor, unable to speak when spoken to. Sweden's famed miler, Lennart Strand, gets absentminded; he recently went out for a race without his running shirt.

Was it worth all this nervous strain?

Medals & Headlines. The big show, starting this week in London's huge Wembley stadium (capacity: 82,000), made it seem so. The XlVth Olympiad* was one touch of glory for men who regularly perform in large football stadiums occupied, often as not, by a few dear friends of the family and second-string sportwriters. At Wembley stadium, all the months of sweating and striving by more than 5,000 competitors would end in glory or defeat in a matter of seconds or minutes.

U.S. v. the Field. Win or lose, the Americans could expect few tears or cheers. They have dominated the games so often that an old baseball cry, "Break up the Yankees," could now be heard in 28 languages. In effect, it will be the have-plenty U.S. against the rest of the have-not world. America's rivals among the 60 competing nations comforted themselves with one thought: food (of which the U.S. has plenty) is supposed to be the basis of stamina, but the longer the race the slimmer are U.S. hopes of victory.

The Americans are given no chance at all in the 1,500 meters (about 120 yards short of a mile). The galloping Swedes supposedly have that race copyrighted. Czechoslovakia, with an untiring fellow named Emil Zatopek, has dead aim on the 5,000 meters. Finland's Viljo Heino, a protege of the great Paavo Nurmi, looks invincible in the 10,000 meters. Obviously, many Europeans reassured themselves, the Americans are poor athletes -- good acrobats, perhaps, but poor athletes.

Acrobats & Dashes. Even in the field events, where acrobatics come in handy, the U.S. wa not as strong as at first suspected. Italy has the two top discus throwers (Giuseppe Tosi and 238-lb. Adolfo Consolini, whose father complained that he had to hire five men to do Adolfo's work when he left the farm). Hungary has the favored hammer-thrower, Imre Nemath, and Britain is betting on a temper amental high-jumper, Alan Paterson. The U.S. seemed to stand supreme in only three spots -- the pole vault, broad jump and 110-meter high hurdles.

In the past, the U.S. had picked up most of its points in these "acrobatic" field events (see chart). But its pride & joy was in its sprinters, the glamor boys of track. The man who won the 100-meter dash also won a headline-grabbing label: "world's fastest human." The late great Charley Paddock** won the label at Antwerp (1920), then came Eddie Tolan at Los Angeles (1932), and Jesse Owens at Berlin (1936).

Connoisseurs of track often deplore this glamorizing: they argue that there is more room for wit and will in the distance races. To some extent, distance runners can be made; to be a great sprinter, with lightning reflexes and a hair-trigger temperament, it is almost necessary to be born that way.

The leading candidate in this week's glamorous 100 is such a "natural": Melvin Emery Patton/- of the U.S.

Pampered Legs. At 23, Mel Patton looks fragile enough to be bowled over by the smell of locker-room sweat. But he has run the 100 yards faster than any man living or dead--in 9.3 seconds (an unofficial world's record). In the chow-line last week, a husky teammate yelled at him: ''Step aside and let us weight-men in. No fuss, now--you're the one man around here I can lick." Patton, grinning, yelled back: "Better be careful, Moose, I gained a pound last week."

He is tall (6 ft.) and thin (146 Ibs.), like the hand of a stopwatch. His toothpick legs must be pampered; he ran seven races in two days last year and pulled a hamstring muscle. Although a chronic worrywart, Patton usually manages to control his worrying. In his crowded schedule there are special times for fretting, just as there are set times to go to classes at the University of Southern California and a set time to be home for dinner (he has a wife and two-year-old daughter). The proof of Patton's iron control under pressure: he has never jumped a starting gun.

When he runs, Patton's face becomes a study in desperation-- teeth gritted, eyes squinted. He is the opposite of Charley Paddock, who was what trackmen call a "driver." Because of Paddock's high knee action and short back kick, people some times swore that "he ran sitting down." Patton, whose legs revolve' with a smooth wheel-like motion, is a "floater."

Early last year Mel began equaling the fastest 100 yards ever run by Paddock (9.5). Then he squeezed out a mite more speed and equaled the world's record (9.4), first set by Frank Wykoff,/= another old U.S.C. hero. Was it possible to pump more speed out of human legs? It was. At Fresno, Calif, this spring, Patton ran his unbelievable 9.3. His archrival, Lloyd La Beach, was only inches behind him.

La Beach, a Negro with a weakness for red, white & blue berets, is Panama-born, Jamaica-raised, U.S.-schooled (at U.C.L.A.) and the big reason why Mel can make no misstep in the 100-and 200-meter dashes at London.

Forbidden Subject. In Southern California, the Patton-La Beach rivalry was a high spot of every big meet. Betting odds were freely quoted in Los Angeles bars and barbershops. One night at Los Angeles' Coliseum, a record crowd of 59,661 turned out for a meet and saw Patton win.

All season the subject of running was rarely mentioned in the Patton home. Mel never read the sport pages: "I might begin believing those things they write." When the afternoon paper was delivered to their neat, $35-a-month apartment on Beverly Hills' Burton Way, his wife tore out the sport section and put it away. As sensitive to excitement as a punch-drunk fighter is to bells, Patton didn't want any gongs ringing inside him.

His wife always took over the night before a race. Brown-eyed Shirley Ann Patton, with whom Mel "started going steady" in the seventh grade, would invite friends over, instructing them in advance to talk about everything but track. When Mel went to bed, around midnight, he slept quietly. Next morning, Shirley Ann found odd jobs for him to do, and kept a string of small talk going to stall off thoughts of the race until about 11 o'clock. Then, as they parked two-year-old Susan with grandma and got ready to leave, inside Mel Patton the current would snap on.

Without Malarkey. His stomach would begin to churn and his brown eyes got watery and bloodshot. Normally calm and pleasant, he changed into a grouch. Says Mel: "I feel weak--weak as a kitten --when I walk on the field. I feel too tired to warm up, and I don't warm up much. Not as much as other fellows." U.S.C. Coach Dean Cromwell (now head coach of the Olympic track team), who has a reputation for inspiring his athletes with well-chosen malarkey, never goes near

Patton before a race. The split second the gun goes off, all this pent-up emotion explodes.

After the race, Patton usually goes quietly under the stands and gets sick. Says he: "It's gotten to be a damn bad habit."

Dusty Victory. Mel Patton was born in Los Angeles, and like most great runners, had no speedsters in his family. His father, a power company lineman, was stocky and unstreamlined.

At eight, Mel was hit by a truck outside his home, and his left leg was shattered one inch below the hip. His running career almost ended before it started. "I was fouled up for six months," he says. "I still remember lying on that hospital bed with my leg jacked up in the air by ropes and pulleys. I had to lie a little about no broken bones when I went into the Navy."

At a school May Day celebration, when he was twelve, he outsped a dozen other kids across a dusty field, and discovered his talent. It wasn't until he went to University High that Mel met the coach who knew what to do about it.

Quiet, dark-haired Jim Pursell, a onetime relay runner at U.S.C., was too wise to monkey with Patton's basic style of running. After one look at him, he decided that what the kid needed most was time to develop. Pursell kept him on the "B" squad as long as he dared (until Mel ran a 10.2 against Manual Arts High one day). Then the coach began to rub OR some polish.

The Float. At University High field, he taught Patton how to "float." The idea was, to explode off the blocks and drive like mad for 50 yards. Then he was to shift gears, i.e., relax while maintaining maximum speed (the way Patton describes it: "You just settle down and go along for the ride").

At first, Mel was carrying his arms too low. But the coach cautioned him against raising them too high; that would tighten up the shoulders and cut down his relaxing. Quick to catch on, Mel became a "floater" in two semesters. In his second year he sliced his time down to 9.9 seconds. The-next year it was 9.8. He didn't lose a race in high school.

When Patton first noticed that he was tense and tight before a race, Pursell reassured him: "If a runner is perfectly composed and at ease, he's no champion." Pursell was Patton's idol. When the coach suggested that Mel not dance ("It takes the tone out of your legs"), Mel didn't. He forsook swimming and lolling on the beach because Pursell advised him to. Pursell, no man to grab credit, told Patton that everything he knew about track he learned from Dean Cromwell.

Pursell wanted Patton to go to U.S.C. In 1945, already a polished sprinter, Mel Patton enrolled there. He had just finished a two-year hitch in the Navy without ever running a race, and hadn't shaken off his G.I. legs. He reported to Coach Cromwell.

The Master. Dean Cromwell, 68, who once sold automobiles, is a man who never lets anybody beat him away from a stop light. He drives like a madman, wears natty bow ties, and loves to talk. At Kiwanis and Rotary luncheons he likes to say: "I don't train the boys, they train themselves." With a great show of modesty he also insists that he "has never hurt a good runner," and even his enemies grant him this.

In 40 years at U.S.C. he has produced more championship teams than any track coach in the U.S. He also has more and better talent to work with than any other coach. While other West Coast universities were busy making eyes at prospective football heroes, Southern Cal was ogling both football and track stars.

The glad-handing Dean is a workaday psychologist. He calls every man on his squad "champ" so persuasively that they begin to believe it--and run like it. His tear-jerking "inspirational" speeches that used to go over big with wide-eyed 19-year-olds leave the ex-G.I.s on his present squad pretty cold. Says Patton: "I'm missing something. I don't get to cry."

At U.S.C., the "world's fastest human" has a $60-a-month part-time job sweeping halls. With that and his monthly G.I. allowance ($90), Patton just managed to support his family, until Congress boosted the G.I. allotment to $120 a month. Says Patton: "We've got money to burn now."

Sleepless Night. Three weeks ago, when he set out for Evanston to compete for a berth on the Olympic team, he suddenly realized that he was on his own: "I wish I could have brought Shirley Ann along--she kind of organizes me." At the Great Lakes Training Station, where the athletes were quartered four to a room, all his roommates talked about was winning. The night before, he couldn't sleep a wink. Next day in the 100 meters,* he got a slow start and lost out to veteran 30-year-old Barney Ewell, who won in world-record time (10.2). Patton wired Shirley Ann: "It was terrible, honey. I don't know what happened. My start was bad and I just ran sloppily."

But in the 200 meters, Mel bounced back. He "boomed" the turn ahead of Ewell and then went into his float. He floated home ahead of Barney in 20.7, equaling Jesse Owens' Olympic record. In London, he would have Old Barney to worry about in addition to 1) Lloyd La Beach, 2) Harrison Dillard, who failed to qualify in the high hurdles, 3) Ion Moina, a Rumanian who has broken two European records, 4) such unknown quantities as Great Britain's MacDonald Bailey and Australia's John Treloar. The thought of it was enough to give any high-strung sprinter the frets.

Two from Jamaica. Over & beyond 200 meters, the one American who is given a chance to come through is Air Force Sergeant Mai Whitfield, the only runner who won two events at Evanston (the 400 and 800 meters). Whitfield, a Los Angeles Negro who wants to be a furniture designer, is troubled by the fact that he can't work himself into an emotional dither before a race, the way most of his teammates do. Says he: "I know it's bad, but there's nothing I can do about it."

He has to catch Jamaica's two Negro speedsters, among others. Herb McKenley, son of a wealthy West Indian doctor, has already run the 400 in the unheard-of time of 45.9 (Whitfield's best is 46.4) and has confidently announced that he will do three-tenths of a second better in London. The 800 looks tough too. Tall (6 ft. 41 in.) Arthur Wint, ex-R.A.F. pilot and son of a Jamaica, minister, has run it in 1:47--2.8 seconds faster than the Olympic record.

That Old Feeling. This week, after the best athletes of 61 nations parade past King George VI in the royal box and the "permanent" flame is lighted by a torch from Olympia, it would all be up to the legs, hearts and nerves of the athletes. As they waited, that old familiar nervous feeling began rising.

Coach Cromwell inspected Wembley's new clay track (covered until about two weeks ago by a turf for greyhound racing) and pronounced it fit for breaking records. At Uxbridge, U.S. runners jogged around the grass without removing their sweat suits, letting themselves out in a few short bursts. Cromwell was making sure that his men built themselves up gradually. At week's end, as the runners increased their training, Patton ran 200 meters in 20.6, a shade better than the Olympic record.

Mel Patton would have to run eight races in five days--a total time of about two minutes running time, with hours of leaping over mental hurdles in between. Patton, who lacks cockiness almost to the point of seeming to lack confidence, acted like a man who wished he were home. Was "the world's fastest human" afraid? He laughed: "I keep telling myself there's nothing to fear--but I got a lot more fun out of running back in high school."

*The XlVth, that is, since 1896, when the modern Olympics began. The original Olympics lasted nearly 1,200 years, from 776 B.C. until 394 A.D., when Emperor Theodosius I of Rome banned them as a pagan exhibition.

**Killed five years ago in an airplane crash near Sitka, Alaska, while a captain in the Marine Corps.

/-No kin to the late General George, an Olympic competitor who came in fifth in the 1912 modern pentathlon--swimming, riding, fencing, running and shooting--at Stockholm.

/=And since equaled by four others, including Jesse Owens.

*About one foot short of no yards.

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