For A Time, At Least, I Was

Hitler Didn't Snub Me - It Was Our President Who Snubbed Me. The President Didn't Even Send Me A Telegram.

I Wanted No Part Of Politics. And I Wasn't In Berlin To Compete Against Any One Athlete. The Purpose Of The Olympics, Anyway, Was To Do Your Best. As I'd Learned Long Ago From Charles Riley, The Only Victory That Counts Is The One Over Yourself.

I Fought, I Fought Harder . . . But One Cell At A Time, Panic Crept Into My Body, Taking Me Over.

The Black Fist Is A Meaningless Symbol. When You Open It, You Have Nothing But Fingers - Weak, Empty Fingers. The Only Time The Black Fist Has Significance Is When There's Money Inside. There's Where The Power Lies.

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.