Appendix - Matrix - Michigan State University

for five bucks?" I asked the shot-to-hell young adults I
grew up with. "What else is it good for?" they replied.
If the weapons at their command aren't used in behalf of
those left behind-it begins to occur to many athletes-how
do they go on living with themselves? We have an avenue
of power open to us: the most interracially significant
gathering of peoples short of the U.N. If the most mobile
minority in the public eye-Afro-American dashmen, leapers,
musclemen, etc.--can arouse continuing worldwide
publicity by not moving at all, at least the ditch-water drinkers
will be remembered. Possibly the gain will be larger.
Until now, foreign interest in U.S. bigotry has been scattered
and blurred, but when the Olympic Games walk-out first
was announced, it rated Page One space in London, Paris,
Tokyo, Rome. France's top sports periodical, L'Equipe, saw
it as "the revolution incredible." The London Daily Times'
Neil Allen wrote, "As we diagnose it, you are hitting at the
middleclass America, the social force most perpetuating
racism-telling it that no longer can sport be excluded from
goals of assimilation." Japan's Sports Federation chief Tetsuo
Ohba expressed surprise "at the depth of your racial
problem," pointedly adding, "The Negro super-stars made
the Games worth seeing." As the national boycott leader,
I have received dozens of why?-type inquiries from Europe,
Asia, and Africa.
Focus of attention in this direction, abroad, actually began
nearly two years ago when Muhammad Ali's world
heavyweight title was lifted. U.S. black fight champs have
been castrated before-in 1913, for instance, when Jack
Johnson was forced into exile by white supremacists. Johnson
was the classic, tragic loser. But the modern spotlight
has caused the plight of one who believes that war is evil
and who stuck with his belief to be well-noted. Ali's treatment
stunned black multitudes everywhere. To us, he wasis-a
god. Demands that we appear in the Olympics, when
placed alongside Ali's case, are revealed for what they are,
especially when based on the pitch that our youngsters are
missing the chance of a lifetime-the glory of being part of
a world-championship show. Ali, as Cassius Clay, won an
Olympic gold medal in 1960. Swell, baby. "Trust no Future,
howe'er pleasant," as Longfellow said.
The Revolt of the Black Athlete' 74
Another form of distortion of sportsmanship in which
we are deeply involved is the class struggle heightened by
Olympic medal-fever (outscore the Russians, show our superiority
by use of complicated point tabulations). At the
1964 Tokyo-held games the U.S. won 20 gold medals in
track-and-field, nine of them contributed by blacks. In
Mexico City, without our help, vicarious patriotism no
doubt will suffer. But what happens to the national point
total concerns us not at all; we say, only, if Olympic zealots
think white, then let them go to the starting line white. If
all our past heroes of the Games, their medals jangling, paraded
into Washington, Detroit, or Cleveland, and confronted
riot squads, all their speed wouldn't enable them to
outrun bayonets and bullets. The sole factor separating a
Tommie Smith, Ralph Boston, or John Carlos from becoming
an ambushed Rev. Reeb or Medgar Evers is that they've
been on no firing lines. Beyond the win-or-Iose motivation
there exists another intimate-and overlooked--concern of
our membership.
Since the time of Jesse Owens it has been presumed that
any poor but rugged youngster who was able to jump racial
fences into a college haven was happy all day long. Hethe
All-American, the subsidized, semiprofessional racerwas
fortunate. Mostly, this is a myth. In 1960, for example,
I was recruited by San Jose State College, a prominent
"track school." Fine things were promised. "You'll be accepted
here," the head coach and deans assured me. It developed
that of 16 campus fraternities (as Greek in name as
Plato, who revered the democracy of the Olympic Games)
not one would pledge Harry Edwards (or anyone of color).
The better restaurants were out of bounds and social activity
was nil-I was invited nowhere outside "blood"
circles. Leaving California, I spent two years acquiring a
Master's degree at Cornell University. Returning to San Jose
State as a teacher, I knocked on door after door bearing
"vacancy" signs, but Mr. Charley was so sorry-the rental
room suddenly wasn't available. The end-Up: a cold cementfloor
garage, costing $75 a month. Not long later I came to
know Tommie Smith, whose 0: 19.5 is the world 220-yard
record and whom this same state college uses to impress
and procure other speedsters and footballers of his race.
Feeding the Flame· 75