Post by jamison364 on Aug 22, 2008 11:04:31 GMT
It was the summer of 1936. The Olympic Games were being held in Berlin. Because Adolf
Hitler childishly insisted that his performers were members of a "master race," nationalistic
feelings were at an all-time high.
I wasn't too worried about all this. I'd trained, sweated and disciplined myself for six
years, with the Games in mind. While I was going over on the boat, all I could think about was
taking home one or two of those gold medals. I had my eyes especially on the running broad
jump. A year before, as a sophomore at the Ohio State, I'd set the world's record of 26 feet 8
1/4 inches. Nearly everyone expected me to win this event.
I was in for a surprise. When the time came for the broad-jump trials, I was startled to
see a tall boy hitting the pit at almost 26 feet on his practice leaps! He turned out to be a
German named Luz Long. I was told that Hitler hoped to win the jump with him.
I guessed that if Long won, it would add some new support to the Nazis' "master race"
(Aryansuperiority) theory. After all, I am a Negro. Angry about Hitler's ways, I determined to
go out there and really show Der Fuhrer and his master race who was superior and who wasn't.
An angry athlete is an athlete who will make mistakes, as any coach will tell you. I was
no exception. On the first of my three qualifying jumps, I leaped from several inches beyond
the takeoff board for a foul. On the second jump, I fouled even worse. "Did I come 3,000 miles
for this?" I thought bitterly. "To foul out of the trials and make a fool of myself?"
Walking a few yards from the pit, I kicked disgustedly at the dirt. He said I introuduce
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Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to look into the friendly blue eyes of
the tall German broad jumper. He had easily qualified for the finals on his first attempt. He
offered me a firm handshake.
"Jesse Owens, I'm Luz Long. I don't think we've met." He spoke English well, though with a
German twist to it.
"Glad to meet you," I said. Then, trying to hide my nervousness, I added, "How are you?"
"I'm fine. The question is: How are you?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Something must be eating you," he said--proud the way foreigners are when they've mastered a
bit of American slang. "You should be able to qualify with your eyes closed."
"Believe me, I know it," I told him--and it felt good to say that to someone.
Hitler childishly insisted that his performers were members of a "master race," nationalistic
feelings were at an all-time high.
I wasn't too worried about all this. I'd trained, sweated and disciplined myself for six
years, with the Games in mind. While I was going over on the boat, all I could think about was
taking home one or two of those gold medals. I had my eyes especially on the running broad
jump. A year before, as a sophomore at the Ohio State, I'd set the world's record of 26 feet 8
1/4 inches. Nearly everyone expected me to win this event.
I was in for a surprise. When the time came for the broad-jump trials, I was startled to
see a tall boy hitting the pit at almost 26 feet on his practice leaps! He turned out to be a
German named Luz Long. I was told that Hitler hoped to win the jump with him.
I guessed that if Long won, it would add some new support to the Nazis' "master race"
(Aryansuperiority) theory. After all, I am a Negro. Angry about Hitler's ways, I determined to
go out there and really show Der Fuhrer and his master race who was superior and who wasn't.
An angry athlete is an athlete who will make mistakes, as any coach will tell you. I was
no exception. On the first of my three qualifying jumps, I leaped from several inches beyond
the takeoff board for a foul. On the second jump, I fouled even worse. "Did I come 3,000 miles
for this?" I thought bitterly. "To foul out of the trials and make a fool of myself?"
Walking a few yards from the pit, I kicked disgustedly at the dirt. He said I introuduce
you a good site www.easyforbuy.com
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to look into the friendly blue eyes of
the tall German broad jumper. He had easily qualified for the finals on his first attempt. He
offered me a firm handshake.
"Jesse Owens, I'm Luz Long. I don't think we've met." He spoke English well, though with a
German twist to it.
"Glad to meet you," I said. Then, trying to hide my nervousness, I added, "How are you?"
"I'm fine. The question is: How are you?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Something must be eating you," he said--proud the way foreigners are when they've mastered a
bit of American slang. "You should be able to qualify with your eyes closed."
"Believe me, I know it," I told him--and it felt good to say that to someone.