The Bond of Humanness                                                                   

One of America's all-time great track stars, Jesse Owens, is best remembered for his victories in the 1936 Olympic Games. 

The Olympics that year were held in Berlin and were attended by the Chancellor of Germany himself, Adolf Hitler/ who hoped to see victories by German athletes confirm his theory of white supremacy

By winning four gold medals in the running and jumping events, Owens—a black man—dealt a crushing blow to the theory of white supremacy. But he might not have succeeded, as this selection shows, without the help of his German rival, Luz Long.

Even though you weren't born for ten/ maybe twenty years after, you've probably heard the story-the story of the 1936 Olympics and how I managed to come out with four gold medals. 

A lot of words have been written about those medals and about the one for the broad jump in particular. Because it was during that event that Hitler walked out on me and where, in anger, I supposedly fouled on my first two jumps against his prize athlete, Luz Long. 

The whole Olympics for me and, symbolically, for my country, seemed to rest on that third jump. Yes, a lot of words have been written about that day and the days that followed. And they've almost been true, just as it's almost true that sometimes every black man weakens a little and does hate the white man, just as it's 

almost true that reality is tough at times and does make you want to weaken.  Yet just like those "truths," what was written about me was only a half-truth without some other more important  words. I want to say them to you now

I was up against it but long before I came to the broad jump. Negroes had gone to the Olympics before and Negroes had won before. But so much more was expected of me. 

Because this was the time of the most intense conflict between dictatorship and freedom the world had ever known. Adolf Hitler was arming his country against the entire world, and almost everyone sensed it. 

It was ironic that these last Olympic Games before World War II was to split the earth were scheduled for Berlin where he/Hitler would be the host. From the beginning Hitler had perverted the games into a test between two forms of government, just as he perverted almost everything else he touched.

Almost everything else. The broad jump preliminaries came before the finals of the other three events I was in-the hundred-meter and two-hundred-meter dashes and the relay. How I did in the broad jump would determine how I did in the entire Olympics. 

For here was where I held a world record that no one had ever approached before except one man: Luz Long, Hitler's best athlete.  Long, a tall, sandy-haired, perfectly built fellow (the ideal specimen of Hitler's "Aryan supremacy" idea), had been known to jump over twenty-six feet in preparing for the Games. 

No one knew for sure what he could really do because Hitler kept him under wraps. But stories had filtered out that he had gone as far as I had, farther than anyone else in the world. I was used to hearing rumors like that and tried not to think too much about it. 

Yet the first time I laid eyes on Long, I sensed that the stories hadn't been exaggerated. After he took his first jump, I knew they hadn't. This man was something. I'd have to set an Olympic record to beat him.                                                                                                                                                                  

It would be tough. August in Berlin was muggier than May in Ann Arbor or Columbus. Yet the air was cool, and it was hard getting warmed up. 

The ground on the runway to the broad jump pit wasn't the same consistency as that at home. Long was used to it. I wasn't. His first jump broke the Olympic record. An this was just the trials! 

Did it worry me a little? More than a little. He was on his home ground and didn't seem susceptible to the pressure. In fact, he'd already done one thing I always tried to do in every jumping event and race I ran: discourage the competition by getting off to a better start..

Well, there was only one way to get back the psychological advantage. Right off the bat I'd have to make a better jump than he did. I didn't want to do it that way-it wasn't wise to use up your energy in preliminaries. 

Long could afford to showboat in the trials. This was his only event the one he'd been groomed for under Hitler for years. I had to run three races besides, more than any other athlete on either team. But I felt I had to make a showing right then. 

I measured off my steps from the takeoff board and got ready. Suddenly an American newspaperman came up to me. "Is it true, Jesse?" he said. "Is what true?" I answered. "That Hitler walked out on you? That he wouldn't watch you jump?"

I looked over at where the German ruler had been sitting. No one was in his box. A minute ago he had been there. I could add two and two. Besides, he'd already snubbed me once by refusing the Olympic Committee's request to have me sit in that box. This was too much. 

I was mad, hate-mad, and it made me feel wild. I was going to show him. He'd hear about this jump, even if he wouldn't see it! I felt the energy surging into my legs and tingling in the muscles of my stomach as it never had before. 

I began my run, first almost in slow motion, then picking up speed, and finally faster and faster until I was moving almost as fast as I did during the hundred-yard dash. 

Suddenly the takeoff board was in front of me. I hit it, went up, up high-so high I knew I was outdoing Long and every man who ever jumped

But they didn't measure it. I heard the referee shout "Foul!" in my ears before I even came down. I had run too fast/ been concentrating too much on a record and not enough on form. 

I'd gone half a foot over the takeoff board. All the newspaper stories and books I've ever seen about that Olympic broad jump had me fouling on the next of my three tries, because the writers felt that made the story more dramatic. 

The truth is I didn't foul at all on my second jump. I played it safe. Too safe. I was making absolutely sure I didn't foul. All right, I said to myself. Long had won his point. But who would remember the preliminaries tomorrow? 

It was the finals that counted. I had to make sure I got into those finals. I wasn't going to let him psyche me out of it. I wasn't going to let Hitler anger me into throwing away what I'd worked ten years for. So I ran slower, didn't try to get up as high during my jump. 

I said to myself, if I can do twenty-six feet trying my best, I sure ought to be able to do a foot less without much effort. That would be enough to qualify for the finals, and there I'd have three fresh jumps again. That's where I'd take apart Luz Long. 

It's funny how sometimes you can forget the most important things. I forgot that I wasn't the kind of guy who could ever go halfway at anything. More than that, no sprinter or jumper can really take just a little bit off the top. It's like taking a little bit off when you're working a mathematical equation or flying an airplane through a storm. 

You need the total concentration and total effort from beginning to end. One mistake and you're dead. More than that, my whole style was geared to giving everything I had, to using all my speed and energy every second of what I was doing. Once or twice I'd tried a distance race just for kicks. 

I was miserable at it. If I couldn't go all out all the time, I was no good. So my second jump was no good. I didn't foul. But I didn't go far enough to qualify, either. It wasn't just Long and Owens in the event anymore. There were dozens of other participants from other countries, and a bunch of them-too many-were now ahead of me.

I had one jump left. It wasn't enough. I looked around nervously, panic creeping into every cell of my body. On my right was Hitler's box. Empty. His way of saying I was a member of an inferior race who would give an inferior performance. 

In back of that box was a stadium containing more than a hundred thousand people, almost all Germans, all wanting to see me fail. On my right was the broad jump official. Was he fair? Yeah. But a Nazi. If it came to a close call, a hairline win-or-lose decision, deep down didn't he, too, want to see me lose? 

Worst of all, a few feet away was Luz Long, laughing with a German friend of his, unconcerned, confident, Aryan. They were against me. Every one of them. I was back in Oakville again. 

Did I find some hidden resource deep within me, rise to the occasion and qualify for the finals as every account of those Olympics says? No, I didn't. I found a hidden resource, but it wasn't inside of me. It was in the most unlikely and revealing place possible. 

Time was growing short. One by one the other jumpers had been called and taken their turns. What must have been twenty minutes or half an hour suddenly seemed like only seconds. I was going to be called next. I wasn't ready. 

I wanted to shout it I wasn't ready!              Then the panic was total. I had to walk in a little circle to keep my legs from shaking, hold my jaw closed tight to stop my teeth from chattering. I didn't know what to do. 

I was lost, with no Charles Riley to turn to. If I gave it everything I had, I'd foul again. If I played it safe, I wouldn't go far enough to qualify. And this is what it all comes down to, I thought to myself. Ten years and 4,500 miles to make a fool of myself and not even reach the finals! 

And then I couldn't even think anymore. I started to feel faint, began to gasp for breath. Instinctively I walked away from everyone so they couldn't see me.

But I couldn't help hearing them. The thousands of different noises of the stadium congealed into one droning hum louder and louder in my ears. It was as though they were all chanting it. Hatefully, gleefully. 

Suddenly I felt a firm hand on my arm. I turned and — looked into the sky-blue eyes of my worst enemy.  "Hello, Jesse Owens' he said. "I am Luz Long

I nodded. I couldn't speak. "Look," he said. "There is no time to waste with manners. What has taken your goat?"  I had to smile a little in spite of myself-hearing his mixed-up American idiom.       

"Aww, nothing," I said. "You know how it is.“  He was silent for a few seconds. "Yes," he said finally, "I know how it is. But I also know you are a better jumper than this. Now, what has taken your goat

I laughed out loud this time. But I couldn't tell him, him above all. I glanced over at the broad jump pit. I was about to be called, Luz didn't waste words, even if he wasn't sure of which US ones to use

"Is it what Hitler did?" he asked. I was thunderstruck that he'd say it. "I - " I started to answer. But I didn't know what to say. "I see," he said. "Look, we talk about that later. Now you must jump. And you must qualify." "But how?" I shot back.

"I have thought," he said. "You are like I am. You must do it one hundred percent. Correct?" I nodded. "Yet you must be sure not to foul." I nodded again, this time in frustration. And as I did, I heard the loudspeaker call my name. Luz talked quickly.

"Then you do both things, Jesse. You remeasure your steps. You take off six inches behind the foul board. You jump as hard as you can. But you need not fear to foul." All at once the panic emptied out of me like a cloud burst.                                              

Of course! I jogged over to the runway. I remeasured my steps again. Then I put a towel parallel to the place half a foot before the takeoff board from where I wanted to jump.    

I walked back to the starting spot. I began my run, hit the place beside the towel, shot up into the air like a bird and qualified by more than a foot. The next day I went into the finals of the broad jump and waged the most intense competition of my life with Luz Long

He broke his own personal record and the Olympic record, too, and then I-thanks to him-literally flew to top that. 

Hours before I had won the hundred meters in 10.3, and then afterward the 200 meters in 20.7 and helped our team to another gold medal and record in the relay. 

During the evenings that framed those days, I would sit with Luz in his space or mine in the Olympic village, and we would form an even more intense friendship. We were sometimes as different inside as we looked on the outside. But the things that were the same were much more important to us. 

Luz had a wife and a young child, too. His was a son. We talked about everything from athletics to art, but mostly we talked about the future. He didn't say it in so many words, but he seemed to know that war was coming and he would have to be in it. 

I didn't know then whether the United States would be involved, but I did realize that this earth was getting to be a precarious place for a young man trying to make his way. 

And, like me, even if war didn't come, Luz wasn't quite sure how he would make the transformation from athletics to life once the Olympics were over. We talked, of course, about Hitler and what he was doing. 

Luz was torn between two feelings. He didn't believe in Aryan supremacy any more than he believed the moon was made of German cheese, and he was disturbed at the direction in which Hitler was going. 

Yet he loved his country and felt a loyalty to fight for it if it came to that, if only for the sake of his wife and son. I couldn't understand how he could go along with Hitler under any circumstances, though, and I told him so. He wasn't angry when I said it. 

He just held out his hands and nodded. He didn't explain because he didn't understand completely himself, just as I couldn't explain to him how the United States tolerated the race situation. So we sat talking about these things, some nights later than two Olympic performers should have. 

We didn't come up with any final answers then, only with a unique friendship. For we were simply two uncertain young men in an uncertain world. One day we would learn the truth, but in the meantime, we would make some mistakes. 

Luz's mistake would cost him too much. Yet we didn't make the mistake of not seeing past each other's skin color to what was within. If we couldn't apply that principle to things on a world scale, we still could live it fully in our own way in the few days we had together, the only days together we would ever have. 

We made them count. We crammed as much understanding and fun as we could into every hour. We didn't even stop when we got out on the track. Luz was at my side cheering me on for every event, except the broad jump, of course. 

There he tried to beat me for all he was worth, but nature had put just a little more spring into my body and I went a handful of inches farther. After he failed in his last attempt to beat me, he leaped out of the pit and raced to my side. To congratulate me. 

Then he walked toward the stands pulling me with him while Hitler was glaring, held up my hand and shouted to the gigantic crowd, "Jesse Owens! Jesse Owens!" The stadium picked it up. "Jesse Owens!" they re-sponded-though it sounded more like Jaz-eee-ooh-wenz. 

Each time I went for a gold medal and a record in the next three days, the crowd would greet me with "Jaz-eee-ooh-wenz! Jaz-eee-ooh-wenz!" I'd had people cheering me before, but never like this. 

Many of those men would end up killing my country-men, and mine theirs, but the truth was that they didn't want to, and they would only do it because they "had“ to. Thanks to Luz, I learned that the false leaders and sick movements of this earth must be stopped, in the beginning, for they turn humanity against itself. 

Luz and I vowed to write each other after the Games, and we did. For three years we corresponded regularly, though the letters weren't always as happy as our talks at the Olympics had been. 

Times were hard for me and harder for Luz. He had had to go into the German army, away from his wife and son. His letters began to bear strange postmarks. Each letter expressed more and more doubt about what he was doing. 

But he felt he had no other choice. He was afraid for his family if he left the army. And how could they leave Germany? It was Luz's world, just as the South had been the only world for so many Negroes. 

The last letter I got from him was in 1939. "Things become more difficult," he said, "and I am afraid, Jesse. Not just the thought of dying. It is that I may die for the wrong thing. But whatever might become of me, I hope only that my wife and son will stay alive.

I am asking you who are my only friend outside of Germany, to some-day visit them if you are able, to tell them about why I had to do this, and how the good times between us were. Luz."

I answered right away, but my letter came back. So did the next, and the one after. I inquired about Luz through a dozen channels. Nothing. A war was on. Finally, when it was over, I was able to get in touch with Luz's wife and find out what had happened to him. 

He was buried somewhere in the African desert. Luz Long had been my competition in the Olympics. He was a white man-a Nazi white man who fought to destroy my country. I loved Luz Long, as much as my own brothers. 

I still love Luz Long. I went back to Berlin a few years ago and met his son, another fine young man. I told Karl about his father. 

I told him that, though fate may have thrown us against one another, Luz rose above it, rose so high that I was left with not only four gold medals I would never have had, but with the priceless knowledge that the only bond worth anything between human beings is their humanness

Discussion 

1. Why did Hitler leave his seat when it was Owens's turn to jump? What effect did this action have on Owens? 

2. What advice did Luz Long give Owens that helped him to qualify on his third jump? In what other way did Luz show good sportsmanship toward his rival? 

3. What drew Luz Long and Jesse Owens together? What did each man find difficult to understand about the other's loyalties? Did these differences affect their friendship? 

4. What did Jesse Owens learn from Luz Long? According to this idea, what is not important in the relationship between people?