“I go to the beach,” I said.
“When you’re in there,” he said, nodding toward the two men in the cell, “you can’t go to the beach.”
A message started to sink in, but not the message Chief Collier wanted to send. Instead, I realized that I’d have to be smarter about my mischief and not get caught. A couple of days later I stepped out from behind a tree and tossed a handful of tomatoes into a policeman’s face. I took off running and was gone by the time his vision cleared.
I wasn’t done yet. I discovered that the key to my home also, miraculously, opened the back door to the school gym—allowing my friends and me to get into the basketball games without paying the dime fee. But someone snitched and the locks were changed—and I got taken in again.
This time, everyone who had been willing to put up with me for years had had it. My parents and Pete were tired of the cops coming to the house. The chief of police and the school principal didn’t know what to do with me. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t much care—except for one thing: I didn’t want to be labeled a mental case. Those were different times, and seriously incorrigible kids could be institutionalized and possibly sterilized to prevent those undesirable traits from being passed on to future generations. A common question then, no longer asked, was, “Is there insanity in the family.”
Fortunately, we have come a long way.
But then, I thought, perhaps it was time for me to change. Could I turn my life around?
MY BROTHER, PETE, was always on my side. He tried his best to be a good influence on me. But he was such a good kid that I couldn’t compete with him—though I’m not sure why I thought I had to. I guess it was because compared to Pete I knew I was far from good. Pete was never mischievous. He was always a perfect son and a perfect brother. Some kids would hate a “perfect” sibling, but I loved him no matter what.
Besides, when I tried to be good, it backfired, like the time my mother and dad went to San Pedro. While they were gone, I scrubbed the kitchen floor. When my parents got back, they said, “Look at the floor! Pete scrubbed the kitchen floor!”
I didn’t say a word. Pete said, “It wasn’t me. It was Louie.” But I still let my folks’ first reaction eat at me.
While my parents and the school and the police were trying to decide what to do with me, Pete took me to the local steel mill. The workers looked hot, greasy, and dirty. I said, “My God, what a horrible job.” I didn’t want to end up like that.
“Yeah? That’s what you’re going to be doing: just what they’re doing, because you haven’t put your nose to the grindstone,” Pete said.
That vision of my possible future, and the fear of being labeled a hopeless case, finally shocked me into considering that maybe, just maybe I’d taken the wrong path.
Everyone decided to give me one more chance.
I had to participate in school sports.
I was too small for football, so the principal entered me in an interclass track meet, to run the 660-yard race. If I ran, my pile of school demerits would be wiped clean. “If he gets a break,” Pete said, “Louie may find that there are other ways of getting attention and being recognized.”
The prospect of starting ninth grade with a clean slate was irresistible. All I had to do was run. “I guess I will if you force me to,” I told Pete.
“No one is going to force you to do anything,” he said, “You’re old enough now to make a decision. You can continue in your rotten life and end up in prison or work in a steel mill or an oil field for peanuts. Or you can run and try to accomplish something.”
All I had to do was run. No expected me to win. I didn’t disappoint in my first race. I came in last, exhausted, in pain, suffering from being a smoker. I swore to myself I’d never run again. But a week later I had to. It was just as painful except that while coming down the homestretch I heard my classmates cheering for me as I passed another runner. “Come on, Louie!” I didn’t realize anyone knew my name. “Come on, Louie!” That time I came in third.
Afterward I realized I had to make a big decision: be a troublemaker or a runner? I loved the new recognition from running, but was it worth it? Yes. I began to train as diligently as I had caused mischief.
It took a few more meets, but I eventually won—and kept winning. No one was more surprised than I was, and by then I was obsessed. I made the All-City Finals in the 660 and placed fifth. Not bad for a kid who would rather have been doing anything else—but needed to save his skin.
Thanks to Pete, who helped guide me in a positive direction, and my own developing positive ambition, I turned my life around. Pete helped out by training with me, which meant he ran behind me and swatted my butt with a switch to keep me moving.
In 1934, while still a high school sophomore, I set a world interscholastic record of 3:17 in the 1320-yard race. Afterward, Pete said he knew I could be a miler—which was just one more lap around the track. “But if you want to be the greatest in the mile you got to run everywhere,” he explained. “If the school track is muddy, run around the block”—which I did, in my street clothes. “And never miss a workout. If there’s a dust storm, cover your mouth with a handkerchief and get out there and run. If it rains, run.” At least it didn’t snow in Torrance.
When school got out for the summer I ran anywhere and everywhere. I just ran, ran, and ran. Instead of hitchhiking to the beach, I ran the four miles from Torrance to Redondo. Then I ran two miles along the beach and four miles back to Torrance. I even ran to the store for my mother. I loved the mountains, so I’d head there in my old 1926 Dodge and run around Crystal Lake, jumping over streams and fallen trees and maybe a rattlesnake or two. I’d chase deer down the hill.
I ran all summer long and, without really thinking about it, built an amazing foundation of physical stamina that would later surprise everyone when I competed and kept winning.
But I’ll share a little secret: Running around a track never made much sense to me because I kept ending up in the same place I’d started. I felt much better when I was running free, which is just another way of saying that after all the trouble I’d caused as a child, I felt much better just being free.
I don’t believe anyone is going to argue with me about that.
The Difference Between Attention and Recognition Is Self-Esteem
_______
I’ve had many years to wonder why I caused so much mischief and I’ve come to the conclusion that what I really wanted was recognition. That’s not the same as wanting attention. Attention comes and goes, usually quickly. Recognition lasts longer. I wanted to be accepted by the good kids, admired for something. At first my running just got me noticed; with repeated improvement and a go-all-out attitude, notice became recognition. I’d begun to break the negative cycle by taking the first steps to building positive self-esteem through hard work and accomplishments.
But my lack of self-esteem went deep, even when I’d started down a worthwhile path. When I broke the world’s high school mile record, there was a party that night. I couldn’t face going in alone. I had to wait until somebody else came, and I went in with them. Also, because now everyone knew me, even admired me, I got elected student-body president. But it’s not as if I campaigned. And once elected I could barely get up and talk to the kids. Facing a crowd was not like running, which I did alone. I stood behind the auditorium, hoping the teachers would take over, but one of them caught me and took me in. At home, I didn’t even tell my mother that I’d won student office. When she found out and asked why I hadn’t told her, I just said, “I didn’t think it was important.”
There are two kinds of self-esteem. I once read in the paper that some people with the highest self-esteem are in prison. Why? Because, for at least a while, they got away with crime, and couldn’t imagine that they wouldn’t. I had high self-esteem in regards to stealing. Every time I robbed the pie shop and didn’t get caught, I become more and more confident and thought the world of myself. But when it came to school and my classm
ates, I was on shaky ground. My self-esteem was affected by my anxiety over what others thought of me. That weakened my natural confidence. And made me angry. Positive self-esteem must be preceded by self-respect. To get self-respect you have to do something good. Causing mischief wasn’t good.
Running was—and it was the first positive thing I did for myself, however reluctantly. My schoolmates’ enthusiastic reaction inspired me.
The more I raced, the more they cheered. Because I knew how hard I had to work to win, I began to develop self-respect, and their in-the-moment attention turned into long-term recognition.
I’ve never forgotten that my fans and family were an important part of my success. Everyone needs that support—even if at first you don’t think you do. Look around. See who’s on your side and in your corner.
You don’t have to go it alone.
It’s Not How You Win, It’s How You Lose
_______
I was just out of high school when my brother called to tell me that he’d entered me to run the 5000-meter race in the first Compton Invitational track meet, held at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum in 1936. He knew I had my heart set on trying to make that year’s Olympic team as a miler, but Pete said that were already five great milers in the country. “Wait for the 1940 Tokyo Games to try the mile,” he said. “By then you’ll be ready.” In the meantime, he wanted to see how I’d do against Norman Bright, who, Pete said, would “almost certainly make the Olympic team in this race.”
Five thousand meters is twelve and a half laps around the standard 400-meter track. By the last two laps, Bright and I were trading the lead. I thought I could win. But an official made a mistake with a runner that I’d lapped: He motioned him off the track in the wrong direction. Instead of taking a step to the left, he moved across the track to the right. We collided and I tumbled down. I got back up and with a furious kick, angled for the inside. I caught Bright at the finish line, but the excited officials dropped the tape, then they picked it up. Still, I thought it was a dead heat but the officials said that Bright beat me by an inch or two. That’s just the way it went.
I always knew that eventually I’d lose a race. After my very first win, I’d gone undefeated for three and a half years, but it was inevitable that one day I would not cross the finish line first. I often wondered how I’d act when that happened. Would I be ashamed? Resentful? Angry? I honestly had no idea.
When I won races they were often by ten, twenty, thirty yards. I’d be on cloud nine. My friends would be all over me with congratulations. My parents would cheer, my girlfriend would hug me. I’d maybe do a radio interview, and watch as friends and family of the other runners consoled them. I could easily picture how the person who beat me would be treated—and wondered if I’d need the consolation I’d seen them get.
When the time came, I was determined to do it right. I wanted to lose cheerfully, so I congratulated Bright honestly. I put my arm around him and said, “That was a brilliant race, and you deserved to win.” I had a smile on my face. His mother and father stood there with their mouths open. Then his mother hugged me. That’s the way it should be. If you give everything and you lose, so what? It’s not going to put you in your grave. I walked away knowing I could handle defeat gracefully, and I had more self-esteem from that than from winning the race.
Today’s athletes have far more muscle and better physical fitness programs, faster tracks, and lighter shoes. But some still can’t win or lose cheerfully. Perhaps it’s because the media puts so much pressure on athletic competition; maybe it’s also the potential money for medalists. I wouldn’t find it unusual for someone to win a gold medal, imagine all the lucrative endorsement deals to come, and be thinking, “I’m a millionaire!” In my day, we competed for the love of the sport. Performance-enhancing drugs could be had, but no one wanted to win unfairly or damage their health. In my day, we patted the guy who beat us on the back, wished him well, and that was that.
Today it tears me apart when I see an athlete lose and, maybe he or she doesn’t cry, but they sit there with their heads down feeling horrible, and sometimes angry with themselves, for everyone to see. It’s terrible.
I lost that race to Norman Bright, but I won the next and the next and the next. I was always in the spotlight. And my recognition or fame, for what it’s worth, was always with me whether I won or lost. Once you’re on top, you’re on top. Your achievements are real. They can’t take that away from you.
That race began my journey toward securing a berth on the Olympic team and running the 5000-meter race in Berlin—which wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t trusted my brother, Pete, to have my best interests at heart.
Sometimes things look up, sometimes down, but in the end all things work together for good.
By the way, I didn’t win the 5000-meter race at the Olympics, but making the team and not winning is like going to the moon and stumbling over a rock and falling. So what? You’re still on the moon.
A Race Isn’t Over Until It’s Over
_______
After I started at USC on an athletic scholarship, I ran the mile until I went skiing and tore my knee and ankle ligaments and was laid up for three months. But right at the end of track season, because I’d been an Olympian, I was invited to the big Princeton Invitational as a freshman—to run the two-mile race. I won my first national title.
What I really wanted to win was a mile race.
Two years earlier, Pete had taken me to the 1934 NCAA Track and Field national championships in the Los Angeles Coliseum to watch Glenn Cunningham race against Bill Bonthron in the mile. Cunningham had already run an indoor mile at 4:08:04, and had an outdoor time of 4:09.8. I was still, on average, eight seconds behind him. Eight seconds might not seem like much in most situations, but in a mile race it’s a lot longer than anyone realizes—about seventy-five yards.
Glenn Cunningham was my hero. I’d read the story of how he’d been severely burned as a child in a fire that killed his older brother. Much of the flesh on his knees and shins was gone. When bandages were changed, pieces of muscle came out. He also lost all the toes on his left foot. Years later, I saw him in the shower and confirmed what I’d read and heard. He was burned on both legs, up to the middle of his back. The doctors thought his chances of walking again were remote. But Cunningham was not about to give up.
Cunningham epitomized resilience and resolve. He massaged his legs and stimulated blood flow. He endured physical therapy and willed himself to stand and then walk. Soon he began to run. I don’t know how he did it, but he was my inspiration. His perseverance made me realize that if I was willing to make the effort and sacrifices, I could be a champion, too. What a great example for any athlete. Cunningham was the greatest ever. I still don’t know any story as compelling as his.
He was also a decent man. I once raced against him at an indoor meet. I came up behind him and although I was in better shape, I wouldn’t pass him. Out of respect. “Louie, you damn fool,” he said. “Run!” So, reluctantly, I did.
We hadn’t yet met back in 1934 when I saw him race at the Los Angeles Coliseum and lose to Bill Bonthron, whose time was 4:08.9. I wished the outcome had been different. Then and there I promised myself that someday I’d get that record back for Glenn.
IN 1938, I went to Minneapolis with the USC team for the NCAA championships. I was the miler and I felt great, a tiger brimming with adrenaline. The night before the race, Coach Nicholson of Notre Dame came to my room. “I’m ashamed to say this,” he said, “but I just came from an East Coast coaches meeting and they’re going to tell their milers to do anything they can to knock you out of the race tomorrow. They’re going to box you in the last half mile.” The eastern coaches were tired of USC’s Dean Cromwell being called the world’s greatest track coach because USC had won so often—especially when he also had a championship miler. Me.
I was in part responsible because I’d made the mistake of bragging: I’d told someone I was going to go for a four-fla
t mile because I had been picked by athletes and sportswriters as someone who might be the first to do it.
“I can take care of myself,” I told Coach Nicholson. I should have been more appreciative and paid better attention. But you know how kids are: know-it-alls.
The next day on the track, the runners were introduced. Chuck Fenske of Wisconsin had won the mile the year before in 4:13.9. But I had my race planned. I wanted to run the first two laps in 1:58, and then move out, and then sprint the entire last lap to finish with my usual big kick. No one had ever caught me from behind.
Hubris goes before a fall. As Coach Nicholson predicted, the other runners boxed me in—but they didn’t wait for the last two laps. I’d say something to the runner next to me, and he’d curse back. One ran his spike through my little toe. Another let his foot trail for a second and, because I was directly behind him, he gashed my right and left shins. Every runner knows that when you’re training and a stray dog chases you around the track, all you’ve got to do is reach back six inches with one foot and catch them in the nose with your spike, and then they won’t bother you anymore. A third elbowed me in the ribs and cracked one when I tried to pass him.
I was severely limited until the last 120 yards, when it looked like Fenske, the leader, was far enough ahead. The other runners loosened up. I took advantage and squeezed through and, ignoring my pain, turned it on. I passed Fenske and made for the finish line. I won by five yards.
Coach Cromwell rushed over. “How fast do you think you ran?” he asked. “If I’m lucky I broke 4:20,” I said. After all the pushing, shoving, elbowing, and spiking, I thought there was no way I’d run a good race. In fact, when it was clear that I would win, I had slowed down just a bit before the end because I was so disappointed. “Then you’re lucky,” he said with a grin. “You just broke the national collegiate record. You ran 4:08.03.” I couldn’t believe it. The record had been Bonthron’s 4:08:9.
Mine stood for the next fifteen years.
The next day, a picture of me in the papers showed the extent of how I’d been butchered. I was wrapped in tape and looked like I’d gotten into a hockey brawl. This made victory all the more sweet. I’d won for myself and, as I’d once vowed, for Glenn Cunningham.
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