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

since the summer I decided to run everywhere I went. This meant no running up and down the stairways in the stands at the Coliseum. The doctors said it would damage the heart; in reality it did the heart good. And the legs. I didn’t listen. Every evening I’d climb the Coliseum fence and do the “agony run.” At the top my legs seared with fire, then I’d walk across a row, go down again, and up another staircase. I did that after each normal workout. Here’s why. People say all anyone needs is a positive attitude. It’s nice to have, but a positive attitude has nothing to do withwinning. I often had a defeatist attitude before a race. What matters is what you do to your body. Self-esteem can’t win you a race if you’re not in shape.
     
    IN JUNE 1938, healthy again and a sophomore, I traveled to Minneapolis for the NCAA meet. The USC team had won three years straight, but the competition this time was far more rugged. The morning of the meet Cromwell walked his thirty-four athletes half a mile from our hotel to a cafeteria for lunch, then across the street. He pointed at a large plate-glass window. “There’s the trophy,” he said, as we stared at the four-and-a-half-foot symbol of victory.
    I thought we could win again, especially if I beat Chuck Fenske of Wisconsin, who’d won the mile race two years in a row. Everyone expected him to repeat. In fact, no one rated my chances better than fifth. Maybe the experts were right; no Pacific Coast runner had ever won that NCAA title. In fact, the West had never produced any great distance runners; the East controlled everything. I wanted the record badly, but despite Coach Cromwell’s motivational exercise, I could only taste the bitter pill of my own pessimism.
     
    THE NIGHT BEFORE the race, as I lay in bed reading, I heard a knock at the hotel room door. Coach Nicholson of Notre Dame stood there. “Louie,” he said, “I’ve got something to tell you.” He motioned me outside. “I’m ashamed to say this, but I just came from an eastern coaches’ meeting and they’re going to tell their milers tomorrow to do anything they can to get you out of the race. Be aware of what’s going to happen, and try to protect yourself.”
    The eastern coaches all disliked Dean Cromwell because the press kept calling him the world’s greatest track coach even though he’d never had a great distance runner. To them, the mile was the glamour race, not the 100 or 220 yards. The mile was magical. They didn’t want Cromwell to have a winner.
    “Thanks, but don’t worry about me,” I told Coach Nicholson. “I can take care of myself.” Or at least act like I could.I went back to bed and didn’t give it a second thought. I’d never seen anyone do anything evil on the track. My competitors had always been gentlemen. Of course, they’d all been from the West.
     
    THE NEXT MORNING my roommates and I went to see The Count of Monte Cristo , with Robert Donat. Being Italian, I loved it; the count got revenge on everybody. My adrenaline pumped and flowed. After the movie we took a taxi to the hotel, had a light lunch, and went to the track. Over the loudspeaker I heard the announcer call the names of the three or four fellows they thought would win the race. One at a time they jogged back and forth in front of the stands.
    No one mentioned me.
     
    THE GUN SOUNDED and we took off. As usual, I didn’t try to take the lead, but I felt great, like I would never get tired. I thought about what Coach Nicholson had said about the East Coast runners. I figured he meant they’d try to box me in and keep me from making my move.
    Soon I was boxed in, but I quickly realized they had other tactics in mind when I suddenly felt a searing pain in my leg. The runner ahead of me had reached back with his foot and caught me in the shin with razor-sharp spikes, making three gashes a quarter inch deep and an inch and a half long. I’d been nicked before; that happens when you run in crowds.