For A Time, At Least, I Was

After I Came Home From The 1936 Olympics With My Four Medals, It Became Increasingly Apparent That Everyone Was Going To Slap Me On The Back, Want To Shake My Hand Or Have Me Up To Their Suite. But No One Was Going To Offer Me A Job.

It's Like Having A Pet Dog For A Long Time. You Get Attached To It, And When It Dies You Miss It.

To A Sprinter, The Hundred-yard Dash Is Over In Three Seconds, Not Nine Or Ten. The First 'second' Is When You Come Out Of The Blocks. The Next Is When You Look Up And Take Your First Few Strides To Attain Gain Position. By That Time The Race Is Actually About Half Over. The Final 'second' - The Longest Slice Of Time In The World For An Athlete - Is That Last Half Of The Race, When You Really Bear Down And See What You're Made Of. It Seems To Take An Eternity, Yet Is All Over Before You Can Think What's Happening.

Life Doesn't Give You All The Practice Races You Need.

In The Space Of Less Than Seven Days, I Attended A Track Meet In Boston, Flew From There To Bowling Green For The National Jaycees, Then To Rochester For The Blind, Buffalo For Another Track Meet, New York To Shoot A Film Called The Black Athlete, Miami For Ford Motor Company, Back Up To New York For 45 Minutes To Deliver A Speech, Then Into L. A. For Another The Same Night.