No Track Shoes, No Uniform, No Starting Blocks
Barry Kritzberg
Those of us who played non-stop sports at Brentano playground (Chicago) knew what track meets were, but our closest experience to participating in one was running the timed 40-yard dash in the annual physical fitness tests we did in our elementary school gym classes.
Our playground instructor, one hot May Saturday morning, said there was a city-wide track meet and he would take anyone interested in competing.
“But you gotta be ready to leave right now,” he said, looking at his watch.
Eight or nine of us went along in his station wagon, and when we arrived, we were somewhat intimidated to find that most of the competitors had, not only track shoes, but also (to our eyes) fancy track outfits with the names of playgrounds on their jerseys.
Our “uniforms “ were blue jeans and t-shirts, and some of us wore sneakers, and a few (like me) figured that baseball spikes would be just the right thing. We could each sign up for one field event and one running event.
I had done the standing broad jump in those physical fitness tests, but never the running long jump. I had seen track meets, so at least knew what it was supposed to look like.
The long jump approach was not very inviting, just grass, not marked off in any way, and the take-off board looked as though it lost a battle with termites. The pit had sand in it, but at the fifteen foot mark of the pit, there was a fragile, falling-apart board.
I had visions of the disasters that might occur if, on a leap, one actually hit that back board, but I took my preliminary jumps and qualified for the finals. My best jump— 14 feet, 2 inches—was just shy of that back board, and qualified me for the city finals, which would be on my birthday.
I had initially signed up to run the 440 (yards, not meters), the longest race available to thirteen and fourteen year-olds. I had not formally run that distance, but I knew it was one lap around the track, and I had run much greater distances while tagging along with my uncle, a college miler and cross country runner, as he ran along forest preserve paths.
There was an immediate obstacle to my running the 440: all the lanes, at the north turn, were under several inches of water, and I had no desire to ruin my kangaroo leather “lighter than a feather” baseball shoes.
I also wasn’t very keen on the set up for the 440. All 50 or so runners would run once, together, with the top eight qualifying for the city finals. If I got in the back of the pack, I would be doomed. I withdrew from the 440 and switched to the 100-yard dash.
There were more than a hundred entrants, but I figured I had a better chance in the 100 than the 440. In my first heat, I coasted to win over the second place finisher by more than 20 yards. Time: 12.4. The next heat was almost as easy, and I jogged to a ten-yard win in 13.1. I won my third heat in 12.6, not much challenge there. There were now 64 runners left. I was pressed a little, but came in first with 11.7 in my next heat. It was on to the quarter-finals, and I was then running against the guy with the fastest time thus far, 11.0. I beat him easily, winning in 10.8. [Note: these details are not here because of an extraordinary memory, but because I kept a journal in those bygone days.]
I had now run more yards than I would have if I just ran the 440, and I was having more fun. I won the semi-finals heat with 11.4.
Other runners, I could tell, were fatigued by running so many heats, but my informal cross country jaunts with my uncle led to my not being the least bit tired. I won the sectional title with my fastest time of the day, 10.7.
Our team, the blue jeans and t-shirt bunch, also scored enough points to win the sectional title for Brentano playground.
The city finals were held at Rockne Stadium a week later. I liked being in a stadium named after the Notre Dame player and later football coach. Our coach told us that Rockne had also gone to Brentano, but we thought he was just trying to inspire us. (It was true, however.)
There were sixteen finalists, and I was the only one who did not have track shoes. I was also the only runner who did not have track shorts and matching tops. My uniform was the standard blue jeans and t-shirt.
I was also the only runner who did not use starting blocks. I stood up for my start (as I had in the sectionals). Starting blocks were not standard equipment at Brentano playground.
I was called for a false start in the semi-finals.
Overly cautious, I got a slow start, but caught up with leader after about fifty yards, and then led the rest of the way, finishing in 11.0. The winner of the second heat was clocked at 11.4. I had another poor start in the finals, but caught the leader fifteen yards from the finish and edged past him just at the finish line, winning the 100-yard dash city final in 11.1
It was rumored that Jesse Owens would present our medals, but that seemed as wildly improbable as the claim that Knute Rockne had attended Brentano.
The medal presenter was an African American man, who, in my adolescent opinion, did not look like the Jesse Owens I knew, based on the films I had seen of him winning everything at the 1936 Olympics. The man presenting the medals was not introduced, and seemed to be too old to be Jesse Owens.
“Nice run,” he said, as he presented my medal and shook my hand. I did not ask if he were Jesse Owens, for his eyes had already shifted to the next medal winner in line.
