by Terry Frei
Joe Williams’ story indeed ran in the Rocky Mountain News on Saturday morning. It began:
Glenn Morris to Marry Sterling Girl,
His Inspiration, On Return Home
By Joe Williams
News Staff Correspondent
BERLIN—Glenn Morris admired the little oak tree that they gave him for winning the Olympic decathlon.
He fingered the prized Olympic medal—one of the trophies that went with the honor of winning the distinction of being the world’s greatest all-around athlete.
But all the time he faced a picture on his dresser. He eyed it proudly and smiled:
“I bet she’s happy. She said we would win; we couldn’t lose. She’s the swellest girl in the world, Mr. Williams.”
The handsome Colorado athlete is in love, and when he gets back to Colorado next month he and Karen Wiley, Sterling, Colo., school teacher, are to be married.
“Karen was my inspiration,” Glenn said, as we sat in his quarters in Olympic Village. “She was the inspiration which made me champion. She was my trainer and coach and offered me encouragement when others were inclined to scoff at my inspiration to win the Olympic decathlon.”
The morning tabloid did an inspired job of packaging, asking Karen to come to Denver to be interviewed for an accompanying story. Karen was pictured smiling above the story on her, and next to the one on Glenn. That story began:
Sweetheart-Coach Tells How
She Trained Olympic Champion
Miss Karen Wiley, on Visit to Denver, Gets News
Of Her Forthcoming Marriage Thru the News
Karen Wiley, pretty 21-year-old fiancée of the world’s greatest athlete, felt Friday night that as if she were being rushed into something—but she didn’t mind it a bit.
Miss Wiley, blue-eyed Kappa Alpha Theta from Colorado State College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts at Fort Collins, is credited by Glenn Morris with being his trainer-coach and inspiration during his two-year preparation for the 1936 Olympics.
Morris told Joe Williams, correspondent for The Rocky Mountain News, that he and Karen would be married when the decathlon champion returned to Colorado in September.
“We hadn’t really set any date,” Miss Wiley said, as she read an early edition of The News for information about the man she is going to marry.
“We didn’t know how Glenn would come out over there in Berlin. We were going to wait and see. I was going to teach home economics and Spanish in the Fountain high school this fall. It takes so long for us to get word back and forth to each other. Glenn writes to me every day, but some of the news of him comes first from newspapers.
“Where does it say we are going to be married as soon as he gets to Denver? When will he get to Denver?”
At the swimming stadium Saturday, Leni again kept looking for Glenn. She was so preoccupied, in fact, she missed an older American tourist woman—Carla de Vries—audaciously asking for and receiving an autograph from Adolf Hitler, seated in the front row of the stands, and thanking him with a kiss on his cheek. Several minutes later, Hans Ertl found Leni, chortled and told her that he had gotten “it” on film.
“What’s ‘it’?” Leni asked.
When he decided she was serious, he explained what had happened, saying reporters apparently quickly had determined it was a wealthy woman from Los Angeles. “The film’s going to be great!” he said.
“She could have had a gun,” Leni said, “and then you wouldn’t be smiling.” She caught Ertl’s look and added, “. . . or maybe you would.”
A little later, Leni approached one of the male American swimmers. She introduced herself.
“I know,” said the 400-meter gold medalist who was about to go for another victory in the 1,500-meter freestyle. “I’m Jack Medica.”
Leni waved at the athletes’ section of the stands.
“I don’t see any of your track and field athletes,” she said. “I heard many of them were going to London . . . but all of them?” Hastily, she added, “I needed to check on something with them.”
“Pretty sure most of them are gone,” he said. “Maybe all of ’em. They were talking about being sent all over the place! Morris is going to Prague, I know that.”
She thanked him and walked away, and hadn’t gotten far when it registered that she hadn’t specified whom she wanted to know about. That didn’t bother her. What bothered her now was that he hadn’t contacted her. The way things stood now, she wouldn’t have a chance to win him back before he left for America. She didn’t try to fool herself. It hurt.
Glenn’s letter was on her desk when she passed through Sunday morning. She knew it hadn’t been there the night before. She went to the door, slammed it shut, took a deep breath, slit open the envelope and froze. She was both angry and anxious. It clearly had been written the morning before and the fact that she didn’t have it in her hands until now meant either Glenn delayed in sending it, or someone had been negligent in not getting it to her faster. Finally, she slid the sheet out of the envelope, unfolded it and read.
By the time she was done, a falling tear had smudged a couple of lines. She realized it was too late to try and catch up with Glenn. He was gone. Leni couldn’t remember the last time she had cried when alone, when it wasn’t for show, when it was real.
Glenn, Walter Wood, Ken Carpenter, and 400-meter hurdler Dale Schofield were on the train to Prague. Glenn had left behind the oak-tree seedling, assured by the Badger in charge of Village checkout that it would be labeled and returned to him on the SS Manhattan. On the train, Wood quizzed another escorting Badger, noting the original listed squad was larger, but couldn’t get a straight answer about why the group was so small. The Badger said he probably would be able to tell them more after their arrival. Wood joked that if he was forced into throwing the javelin, for example, the Czech fans might demand their money back—or somebody might be impaled after his wild toss.
“Don’t worry about it,” the Badger said. “These people know we have two gold medalists—Morris and Carpenter—and we’re Americans. They had a great crowd for Jesse Owens and the runners the other day, and that’s why we’re back . . . they wanted more. Supposedly, they’re big on the decathlon, so they’re all excited to see you, Morris.”
After they stepped off the train and into the main part of the terminal, they waited, with the Badger assuming that the next official-looking fellow through the doors was going to be their guide. Their bags and clothes announced they were Americans, and they drew curious looks. After fifteen minutes, the Badger went outside to check.
Carpenter spoke for all of them. “Great goddamn system,” he said.
A skinny older man in a fedora approached the Americans. His English was heavily accented, but understandable. “Hello, American athletes,” he said. “I am sorry I am late. Told incorrect time.”
Wood leaned toward Glenn and muttered, “That surprise you?”
The Czech escorted them outside, where the Badger still was scanning the street. Spotting them, the Badger rushed over. A rushed exchange established that the hotel was close enough to walk to, so there was no bus or need to take taxis.
Close enough to walk turned out to be about five blocks, easy under normal circumstances, but not when hauling suitcases and bags of uniforms and equipment.
“Great goddamn system,” Carpenter repeated.
The solemn closing ceremonies, with Hitler present but not speaking, made Leni misty-eyed. Rather than scrambling around, she spent most of the ceremony watching and reflecting. The flame was extinguished, the Olympic flag taken down, a hymn—“The Games Are Ended”—sung. The stadium, overflowing because authorities had let it be known that tickets weren’t going to be checked in order to guarantee a full house, became a choir loft, with most in the audience singing, or at least joining in the linked arms and rocking in time to the music. Leni decided, though, it would make better film—and be better, period—if at future Games, teams were encouraged to keep their athletes at the sit
e through the entire fortnight and make marching in the closing ceremonies as important as in the opening ceremonies. Under those standards, Glenn would have been there.
In Prague, Glenn and the boys had a nice dinner at a small restaurant near the hotel, scraping together just enough of the local currency—obtained in exchanges at the hotel—to cover the bill. “Where’s the Badger when you need him?” Glenn mused.
Carpenter laughed at that. “Wouldn’t have mattered. He would have figured out what he owed. Right down to the penny, or whatever the hell this stuff is.”
Schofield brought up a good point: They hadn’t even been told what time the meet started the next day and what events they would be in for sure. Or whether anyone else was coming. “Anybody else starting to get a bad feeling about this?” he asked.
“I’ve always had a bad feeling about this,” Carpenter said.
The next morning, the Badger announced to them in the lobby that the Vienna meet the next day was canceled, and they would be heading over to the city of Pardubice instead for an exhibition Tuesday. “That’s only eighty miles or so, so we’ll stay based here,” he said. “Then you’ll go on from here—to Paris or Stockholm.”
“What happened with Vienna?” Carpenter asked.
“They decided they couldn’t meet our guar . . . well, they decided to cancel,” the Badger said. “We had some idea this might be coming. That’s why we brought only you four yesterday. These two days will be just a few events, strictly exhibitions against the Czech boys they’ve rounded up.”
Carpenter shook his head. “Great goddamn system.”
On Monday afternoon in Prague, the stands were barely half-filled, but the crowd was enthusiastic. The Americans competed in only four events, and the Czechs didn’t seem bothered. It helped that Carpenter had a terrific toss in the discus, a shade over 174 feet, 1 inch, or better than he had done in winning at Berlin. In fact, was less than an inch short of German Willie Schroeder’s world record. “If I’d know that,” he said with a touch of seriousness, “I would have put a little more oomph in it!”
Walter Wood was second, at 161-11, at least out-throwing the Czechs in the field.
Schofield won the 100 meters, in 10.7 seconds. “These poor people,” he said. “They probably thought I was the guy who finished second to Jesse or something.”
Glenn was more comfortable in the 110-meter high hurdles than he thought he would be. His winning time of 14.8 seconds was better than what he ran in Berlin. The Czech organizers begged the Badger to have Glenn take a few jumps in the high jump, too, and he cleared the equivalent of 5-10 7/8—nothing flashy—and finished second to a Czech.
On Tuesday, the Americans traveled to Pardubice and back in cars. In the exhibition meet against the token competition provided by local Czechs, Schofield won both the 100 and 200 meters, Glenn won the hurdles and Carpenter and Wood were one-two in the discus.
In Berlin, the wrap-up dinner that night saluted the German athletes and the German Organizing Committee officials. Leni was assigned to sit next to Hitler. On the other side of him was javelin gold medalist Tilly Fleischer. The others near them included Göring and a visibly jealous Goebbels; organizing committee leaders Carl Diem and Theodor Lewald; and other German track and field gold medalists, including javelin thrower Gerhard Stöck, hammer thrower Karl Hein, shot-putter Hans Woellke, and discus thrower Gisela Mauermayer.
Hitler was engaging with Fleischer and the nearby Mauermayer, who both looked as if they could have come off posters for the Aryan ideal. Tilly especially was amazingly relaxed and unintimidated. Hitler talked with Leni off and on through dinner, saying he knew her film inevitably would bring even more glory to the Fatherland, immortalizing the spirit with which the Germans embraced the Games.
Eventually, he asked out of the blue: “And what of your American friend?”
Leni knew it would be ridiculous and even counterproductive to play coy, so she said, “He is headed to Sweden and Finland.”
“And then . . . ?”
“Then home.”
“Am I not correct that he is an important part of your film . . . and more?”
“Yes,” Leni said.
“Could he be a friend of Germany?”
“In what way?”
“As someone who either lives here or visits you and appears not in just this film, but perhaps others. Someone who serves to emphasize the common elements in our nations.”
She was flabbergasted. It was as if he had read her mind. “Well,” Leni said slowly, “I have thought of proposing that.”
“Do it! He also can be paid handsomely from the treasury for his labors and commitment. It could come from the Reich Film Board or from a company, if that would make him more amenable. You have my backing. I will communicate that to Minister Goebbels.”
With that, he turned to Tilly Fleischer, who had been listening to all of this—and pretending she wasn’t. As the dinner broke up, Fleischer smiled at Leni. “Ohhh, the American is handsome!” she said. “Good luck with that!”
Back in the comfort of her apartment, and alone, Leni thought it through, and by the time she was ready for bed, she had a plan.
31
Glenn, Meet Eva
Wednesday, August 19–Sunday, August 23
Glenn and Ken Carpenter headed for the Prague airport early, but the weather turned terrible, with thunderstorms. The delay meant they had a lot of time to kill. Finally, Carpenter said what was on his mind. “You notice I haven’t asked you about her yet,” he said.
Glenn winced.
“Hey, don’t get the wrong idea,” Carpenter said. “Wood wouldn’t tell anyone a damn thing. Not that we didn’t try. He also made me promise that I wouldn’t press you about anything. Said it was a sore subject and I should mind my own business. Sorry . . . I tried to mind my own business.”
“Don’t worry,” Glenn said. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“So you’re going to tell me all about it?”
“That’s not what I said,” Glenn said. “I said it doesn’t matter.”
After finally making it to Stockholm, Glenn and Carpenter rushed to the stadium, but the events at the first day of the three-day meet were over. A handful of Americans remained in the dressing room. “Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence!” Earle Meadows teased.
“Did the fans miss us?” Carpenter asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” deadpanned sprinter Foy Draper. “I signed all the autographs ‘Glenn Morris.’”
“And I signed ‘Ken Carpenter,’” chimed in shot-putter Sam Francis. “They all went away happy!”
On the track on Thursday, Glenn was taken aback when young Swedish boys and girls jammed down near the front rail of the bleachers and over the tunnel leading out from the dressing room, calling for his autograph. At first, he thought it was simply a case of just screaming at the Americans, but then he picked up the repeated calls of, “Morris! Morris!”
Glenn Cunningham came over. “See why they were upset when you weren’t here yesterday?” he asked with a grin. Then he turned sheepish. “I don’t know how I got roped into this,” he said, “except somebody had to do it . . . and it’s better than having some Badger telling us what to do.” He explained that Jesse Owens’s coach, Larry Snyder, had been ticketed to serve as the supervising coach on this trip, but Jesse’s withdrawal and his coach’s trip home with him fouled up those plans. “I’ve got you down for the high hurdles and, just to get you in a field event, the broad jump today,” Cunningham explained. He smiled and nodded in the direction of the nearby Dave Albritton, the high jump silver medalist. “Actually, our two broad jumpers will be you and Albritton. He said he’d give it a try, too.”
“Just hope neither of us hurts himself,” Glenn said dryly.
“Tomorrow, how about if you try the 400 and the discus?”
Glenn laughed. “I guess so, that’s as good as anything,” he said.
He felt awful and sluggish as he wa
rmed up, and he teasingly begged Towns not to completely embarrass him in the hurdles. When the gun sounded, though, he was surprised how suddenly the juices flowed again. He finished fourth, behind Towns, a Swede, and a Canadian, but again, he was impressed with his own time—14.7 seconds, or 0.2 of a second faster than his showing in Berlin and 0.1 of a second better than in Prague.
He watched as Cunningham ran away from the field in the 800 meters, and the crowd’s reaction was tumultuous when the announcement came that the American veteran had just set a world record—1:49.7, breaking John Woodruff’s record by 0.1 of a second. In fact, it was over 3 seconds better than Woodruff’s winning time at Berlin in the wild, strategic race. Hearing the time, Glenn and his teammates mobbed Cunningham.
In the broad jump, Glenn wasn’t paying attention as he left the pit after his second jump, stepped on the board holding in the sand and twisted his ankle. He didn’t fall, and the pain was only a minor flash, but it was significant enough to leave him with a slight limp. He told Albritton and an official that he would pass on his third jump. The Badger who had been in Prague, apparently still feeling as if he was Glenn’s monitor, followed him into the dressing room. “Can’t you do that after your last jump?” the Badger inquired as Glenn asked a Swedish trainer for ice.