Chapter Twenty-six
During our last week in Germany Bob disappeared from Das Haus des Sports with Frauline Renatta Von Lieres, leaving me a note with no address where he’d be staying, and he stopped showing up at the training field. Four days before our departure, down to my last ten dollars for food and bus fare, I checked out of the hotel. I hoped coach Heinz could help me find a place for the night before my last European competition the next day in the nearby town of Westerstede. After the competition I was resigned to spending my last night in Germany on a bench in Stadtpark. That afternoon, finding that coach Heinz was out of town, I was really stuck. A night outdoors before the competition was a very unappealing prospect. Maybe Gerhard, the friendly waiter in the hotel’s restaurant, who used to work in Chicago, could help me. Luckily, Gerhard had the late afternoon shift. Sympathetic with my dilemma, he handed me the menu with an encouraging, “Just relax, I’ll arrange something.” He slipped out of the dining room. When he returned, he victoriously came straight to my table. “Everything is ready for tonight. The maid agreed to let you sleep somewhere on the second floor as long as you contact her before nine tonight. Meet me here at seven thirty, have some dinner, and afterwards I’ll take you upstairs,” he whispered confidentially. “And don’t worry about your meals. Come during my shifts and I’ll take care of you. When I worked in the United States I also got a few breaks.” “Herr Gerhard, I can't find words to thank you.” “Young man, I’m happy to be able to help. Before you come back from Westerstede, I will try to arrange for something better, but you can be sure you will have a place to sleep tonight.” Shortly after eight that night, Gerhard guided me through the service staircase to the second floor where he knocked twice on the maid’s door. “Herein,” said a strong female voice. “Guten Abend,” Gerhard said as we entered a cramped utility room where a heavy-set, gray haired lady, wearing a blue uniform and full apron, was sorting a high stack of laundry. I repeated the same greeting, but from then on my benefactors carried on a rapid conversation. I strained to understand what they were saying, but they spoke too fast. “--und ich bin sehr beschaeftigt. Hier ist der Schluessel zum Bad, ich konnte leider nichts bessares finden. Ich hoffe ihr Freund passt in die Wanne.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out some notice on a string, obviously to be hung on a doorknob, and a large ring crowded with keys that she handed to Gerhard after showing him the one he would need. I thanked the lady, “Ich danke sehr schoen. Sie sind sehr hilfsreich..help.” She responded to in a stream of German. Gerhard offered an abridged translation. “Mutti is happy to help you, and she says that she made ready a pillow and two blankets. She also said you should not leave the light on for very long because it shows under the door. She thinks you may be too big but wishes you a good night.” I couldn’t understand anything she said, and Gerhard’s translation simply added to my confusion. Not until we were back in the corridor, when I read the note on the string: “AUSSER BETRIEB. BITTE BENUTZEN SIE DAS BAD IM 3. STOC,” did it all begin to fall into place. That was why the maid worried about my size! “Gerhard, and I going to be sleeping in a bathtub?” “Yes,” affirmed the waiter proudly. “The maid is a good woman. We call her Mutti , that's mother in English, and don’t worry about anybody walking in on you. Mutti has the only bathroom key, and she wouldn’t give it out even if there came a fire. When you are inside, I must give Mutti back her keys.” We reached the door inscribed “BAD,” immediately adjacent to a narrower one marked with the conspicuous double zero. “I believe you’ll get a good rest. Don’t forget; switch the lights off soon as you can, not to get Mutti in trouble. I’m sure you have been in the hotel BAD before and can find your way in the dark. And when you return from Westerstede, if I am not here, go to the porter’s desk. I will leave you an envelope with the key to the bathroom or a better room if I can arrange it. All is good, Harold?” “Don’t worry, I’ll manage. Good night, Gerhard,” I said not feeling, however, as positive about having as easy a time as Gerhard expected. I had not seen the bathroom before because I always showered in the Volkparkstadium. After manually locking the door from the inside, I was enveloped by total darkness. Two small steps later, I tripped over something hard that flipped up and crashed back on the floor with a resounding bang. My foot got caught underneath the object, not painfully, but with enough discomfort for me to disregard any hope of trying to accommodate myself in the dark. I groped for the light switch. Under the light of a single, uncovered, ceiling bulb, I stood in a short, narrow rectangular room with no windows or openings except for a small partly closed ventilator in a corner near the ceiling. The furnishings consisted of an old- fashioned four- legged porcelain tub, that contained the promised bedding, and a low wooden stool next to a wooden grill mat over which I had tripped and which covered a small square drainage hole in the center of the cold, white-tiled floor. Before I started to undress, a sound of shuffling slippers scared me back into darkness. The slippers seemed to stop in front of my shelter, but then came an additional step and the click of the lock inside the next room. Through the obviously paper thin, separating wall I heard the rustling of clothing accompanied by heavy breathing. Motionless, I listened to the impatient yanking on a stuck toilet chain, the cascading flush, and the releasing click of the lock followed by the welcome shuffling away. Safe again. I moved towards the stool, reaching for it in the blackness only to instantly freeze in a bent over position as someone began to violently wiggle the bathroom door handle. He paused to read the note; released the handle, and swearing quietly, walked away. A moment later the quick steps of a ladies’ heels came down the hall. I lowered myself slowly onto the little stool. A legion of visitors made their calls next door before the outside corridor slipped into sufficient tranquility, that I felt at ease undressing and crawling into the tub. To my pleasant surprise, the tub’s concavity was not entirely uncomfortable, and giving my last thought to the next day’s meet, I rested my head back on the pillow and dozed off. Suddenly, I heard the door open. I shot up into a seated position, but the room remained pitch dark and momentarily silent. Then came the sound of several resounding steps which, I was sure, had originated somewhere within my reach. Who else was inside? Suddenly the trill of whistling followed by a short cough, and the thundering roar of water shattering all peace revealed that the noise was coming from the bathroom directly above. Its occupant relaxed for thirty minutes, joyfully splashing and accompanying himself with rollicking German songs, before he sent the water, fortissimo, gushing down the drain in a nerve racking proximity to my head. Two more people took lengthy baths during the following two hours. When I finally made up my mind to definitely fall asleep, the thought occurred to me that in this tomb I might not wake up in time to catch the 7 a.m. bus to Westerstede. I climbed out of the tub, turned on the light and glanced at my watch. It was past midnight and I had to tune myself to six o’clock. With that self- hypnotic determination, I returned to the tub, put my head on its rounded slope, placed my ankles on the opposite rim, and closed my eyes. This time, however, the previous moderate comfort of the tub vanished. Even the rolled up pillow could not prevent the unpleasant crick in my neck; and my feet began to feel numb. While the hotel gradually relaxed into the unsuspecting quietude of night, I felt the tub, the room around me, and the air supply rapidly shrink. The sudden fear of suffocation expelled me from the tub. I sat on the stool which became sma ll and hard. I returned to the tub--then again to the stool--then again back in the tub. I couldn’t get settled, but I had to get some rest. When, finally, my concern over the next day’s competition prevailed over the caprices of my imagination, I discovered that it was already 6 AM. My bones disjointed, my body aching, I got dressed. Notwithstanding my night’s ordeal, in Westerstede I threw my personal record of 181’10”, over 55 meters, to not only defeat closely my teacher, Karl Hein, but also Hugo Ziermann. Receiving a small silver cup on the award stand and looking straight into Hugo’s eyes as he shook my hand were sweet memories of my first victory in Europe. Before the meet, while changing into competition gear in the combined male - female dressing facilities, a spacious barn with wooden pegs and benches lining the four walls, I had spotted Elsebeth Kurz, a diminutive, pretty, auburn- haired, 80-meter hurdler Bob and I had said hello to at an earlier competition. On the way out of the dressing barn after the competition, buoyed by the joy of having won and thrown a personal best, I found the courage to catch up to Elsebeth to congratulate her as on winning the hurdles. “Gluckwuensche zu Ihrem huerdensieg.” Elsebeth stopped, looked directly at me, and struggled in her rudimentary English to also congratulate me on my victory. “Congratulation zu Ihrem Hammer Wurf.” When she smiled, I found even more courage to ask her, in my halting, Anglicized German if she would like to have something to eat with me in Stadt Park when we got back to Hamburg. “Wuerden sie mit mir gehen in den Stadtpark zum Essen wenn wir zuruckgehen nach Hamburg?” Somehow she understood and still smiling, agreed, “Ja, I go mit you.” Seated together in the crowded bus back to the city, the proximity of her vibrant, athletic body and smiling face increased my excitement over my first date with a pretty German girl. During the dinner of schnitzels, dumpling's, two large beers, and a shared strudel, I learned Elsebeth was nineteen years old, a secretary for a trucking company and she lived in a small apartment with her mother and sixteen- year-old sister. Her bright blue eyes saddened when she said, “Mein Vater unt brother were in war killed, als ich was ten.” At that moment I realized that Elsebeth was one of thousands of young women in a war torn country that had lost huge numbers of its young men and boys to death and disabling wounds. Fortunately our conversation quickly lightened up with the fun of discovering more mutually comprehensible phrases, about sports, music and American movies. We decided on a warm evening's walk through the beautiful park. With my sport bag slung over my left shoulder, I carefully maneuvered to take her left hand in my right, as we ventured along the rather dark bending path through the park. I kept looking ahead hoping to find a bench devoid of senior citizens, dogs and their walkers, or other romantically inclined occupants. After what seemed an interminably long time, but couldn't have been more then fifteen minutes, we found a solitary bench on a dark bend in the path. Our bags next to us on the bench, I placed my left arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder. Our minimal communication skills, soon found us very passionately kissing. For the next hour we kissed, then walked and talked and stopped and kissed and kissed. She was more passionate than any girl I had ever experienced, which undeniably were very few, and I was becoming uncomfortably excited. By now it was dark and getting late. Despite our increasingly heated kissing and embracing, it was growing chilly. The dinner had left me with $2.50. I was by now extraordinarily excited, frantically embarrassed and not knowing what to do next. I tried, with great difficulty in halting German, to explain my situation: no money, no hotel room only a bathtub and a hard wooden bench. “Ich habe kein Geld und keinen Hotel Room. Ich schlafe im Hotelbadzimmer.. in einer Badwanne. She told me her home was near, and invited me to meet her mother and sister. I accepted, feeling the least I could do was walk her home. My limited understanding and not speaking German made it awkward meeting and communicating through Elsbeth with her mother and sister in their surprisingly small apartment with so little furniture. They were just sitting down to their dinner and offered to set a place for us. The Elsbeth told them that we had already eaten and they asked me through her if I would like a beer. It was getting a little late, and I began to feel apprehensive about missing Gerhard. I declined the beer and apologized for having to leave so soon because of an appointment with a man at the Haus des Sports who was arranging a room for me that night. With Elsbeth's address and a kiss goodbye I was up the door. In the Ubahn on the elevated train back to the Haus des Sports, I gazed out the window at the hollow, in the, dark buildings flashing by - so that he scarred reminders of the war, like Elsbeth, her mother, and sister. Bob had not shown up for the competition, the door at the Haus des Sports. I heard nothing from him until the moment of the train’s departure for Rotterdam, when I thought about flipping a coin to decide whether to call the police or leave without my partner. With only fifteen minutes remaining, Bob, in the best of humor, walked into the train station, accompanied by Renatta and another pretty girl. “Where’ve you been?” I asked. “I almost gave up on you.” “Come on, Buddy!” Bob responded. “You didn’t think I was lost!” In a few minutes we were waving “Good-bye” to Bob’s girlfriends and Hamburg. On our last night in Rotterdam. We pooled our slightly more than six dollars and, with practical sentimentality, spent it for items we found basic to Europe: a loaf of black bread, two bottles of beer, and two triangles of cheese, with enough left over for a bottle of milk for breakfast. After this last European dinner we used our trouser belts to tie our luggage to a couple of benches next to the train station by the side of one of the city’s canals, and under our top coats we slept on the cold planks. At four in the morning the sodden, pre-dawn mist woke me up chattering, and I saw that Bob and his bags were gone. “Bob! Hey, Bob!” My call woke up a few ducks and a dozen tulips from their misty slumber. I wondered where my roving friend could be this time. Unless he took a swim in the canal, he could go only across the tracks --Yes, he must be in the hay fields beyond the train station! I untied my bag and the hammer Storch had given me and set out to search. Soon I spotted two familiar feet protruding from the largest haystack in the vicinity. Without disturbing my buddy, and with great respect for his ingenuity, I pulled myself and my luggage into the other side of the hay and spent the rest of the morning deeply asleep in that cozy, rustic nook. At eleven we reached the waiting ship at the height of its passenger loading. All along the rail at the head of the gangplank American students, dressed in Lederhosen and Tyrolean hats, and burdened with souvenirs, crowded to see old acquaintances returning and to bid farewell to others seeing them off. The throng hushed at the sight of us. Almost everyone seemed to take notice of our mud covered shoes, wrinkled sweat suits, and dusty hair. Nevertheless, as we reached the end of the ramp, Bob saved us from embarrassment. Overhearing two girls admiring a gift, that was a “real European” something or another, using my Finnish name, he whispered, “Heikki, check those chicks as we pass.” After that, he stopped to ostentatiously remove a clinging blade of hay from my collar and hand it to the girl whose gaze typified the reactions of all the others. “For you, baby. Original European hay,” he said, and everybody around us chuckled. We made it! We were on the way home, and the wonderful staff of the S.S. Zuidercruise served early lunch. Chapter Twenty-seven I was so fired up by coach Christmann that I could think of little else but training and throwing. Despite this obsession one of the first things I did on coming home was to call Virginia to ask if I could see her and take her to dinner. She said she was still working at the Boston Public Library and could see me when she got off work at six the next day. She said she would take the train to work, or her brother would drop her off. “Matt told me you had gone to Europe to train and compete all summer,” she said. “Thank you for the postcards. I'm looking forward to hearing all about your trip.” The next night in the course of our conversation I told her about some of the places I visited and people I met. Virginia, whose direct, sparkling eyes and fresh natural beauty still captivated me, said, “You must have met many pretty girl's.” To which I answered, “ Some.” “Oh, I'm sure at least a few of them fell in love with you,” Virginia said. I sensed she was fishing around attempting to determine how intimate I had been with any of the girls I had met. “I hear the girls are very different in Europe?” she added in an inquisitive tone. When I asked her what she meant by that, she said, “Oh, you know, much freer with affection.” I asked myself, was she seeking a direct statement from me that I was still chaste and reserving myself for the woman I would ultimately marry? Her inquisition on this issue hurt and offended me, and I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of the answer I could have given her, the very answer she was seeking. I was disappointed she had so little trust and belief in me. Saying goodbye to Virginia that night, I felt a deep sense of loss, maybe heartbreak. I could turn now to completely focus on throwing the hammer. I never asked her out again. I continued my studies at the Boston University Graduate School on a part-time basis, along with substitute teaching in the Boston Public Schools. My free time I reserved for the secret purpose that grew relentlessly within me ever since the conversation with coach Christmann: I wanted to overcome the twenty five feet that stood between my results and the elite of hammer throwers. On coach Christmann’s advice I purchased films of the top European hammer throwers, only to discard them after several viewings and frustrating attempts to emulate their form. Now there was no doubt that the limitations of my left arm prevented my emulateing their technique completely, and if I was to succeed, I had to develop my own form. Incorporating German training methods and features of the Russian throwing style to my own capabilities and ideas, I conceived a technique most effective for me. I spent every available afternoon and many late evenings at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Tufts College or Boston College’s athletic facilities, throwing, running, or lifting weights. Before the spring of 1955, my father’s illness reached the stage where he had to be admitted permanently to the Northampton Hospital for US War Veterans. Though we visited him as frequently as possible, and he occasionally came home for short visits, the reality of his condition, known to us but not to him, left no hope for him to ever be able to leave the institution permanently; that hurt me very deeply. While I knew my mother was the one who for years had carried the responsibilities of our home, and to her I had been turning with all problems, my emotional ties to Dad yearned for the presence of his still positive personality, and everything inside me rebelled against his detainment. Yet there was nothing anybody could do to reverse my father’s fate. Mary, a graduate student at Emmanuel College, and I considered withdrawing from school for full time jobs in order to provide for Mother. Though we never saw her cry nor betray in any other way her grief over lost dreams, we felt she would have to be seraphic not to worry about the future. If she had to live in the loneliness of Dad’s absence, we decided we would dispel any fears she could have of financial want. But Mother took the lead. Shortly after her consent to father’s hospitalization and his acceptance of its necessity, she called a living room conference that reminded us of the occasion ten years before, when she first told us about Daddy’s incurable illness. Mary and I sat down on our old sofa. Mother lit a cigarette and pulled up a chair to face us. “Harold, Mary, I believe you understand the need for an adult discussion. Your father has left our household and for all practical purposes I have to begin to arrange for living on my own— ” “We will never leave you alone, mother; you don’t have to worry!” Cutie tearfully broke in. “Stop talking nonsense, Mary. I am long beyond worrying about that. Please, now just listen.” With her typical theatricality, Mother parried off our alarm. “I know that you love me, and that if I ever need help, you would be right here to give it. That needs no further discussion. But I don’t want you to be thinking about supporting me when I don’t need it. As of now, I have Daddy’s veteran’s money, and when more of the Connollys’ property is sold, your Father will receive his share of your grandfather’s estate. This should take care of him and me; if not, I’m smart enough to get myself a job. Many other women have had to.” She got up and walked across the room, put out her cigarette, and took two brown envelopes off the top of the piano and continued speaking. “Of course, I cannot take on the full burden of supporting you two; and, therefore, I called you here to give you responsibilities of your own.” She handed us the envelopes. “These are your life insurance policies, which I’ve kept for you ever since you were babies. Take them now and make up your own minds whether you wish to keep up the payments or to cash them in to help you with your studies. I want you to stay with me, but also to learn to live on your own. Mainly, don’t you dare to quit graduate work for some stupid ideas of supporting me--I am not ready in any way to hang on the good graces of my children.” From that afternoon, when mother so decisively disengaged us from the consequences of Daddy’s illness, the three of us continued to live together in an even closer emotional bond, but as independent adults. The throwing improvement I was expecting wasn’t coming. My early spring workout distances were significantly below my previous year’s best throw, and the lingering cold weather magnified the problems of my left arm. Whenever the temperature was chilly my left hand became numb. Even wearing my throwing glove, the circulation in my left hand was always a problem in the cold. I struggled to transform my new concepts of hammer throwing technique into motion, but with each training session my discouragement mounted. I began to wonder if the situation and the wine back in Fulda were more the source of coach Christmann’s divination than my latent ability. My waning hopes of qualifying for the following year’s Olympic team were besie ged by mounting doubts. The previous summer I had met none of the world’s top ranked hammer throwers. From Hein, Storch, and Christmann I had learned that athletes all over the world were already pointing to the upcoming Olympic Games in Melbourne. I did not know much about the Olympics and could not imagine the magnitude and mystique of the greatest of all international sports events. However, I was certain about one thing: the world’s top athletes would meet there to face one another in the ultimate test of their talents, hard work, and luck. My desire to get to Melbourne was impeded by incontrovertible realities: my poor results meant more lengthy, demanding training which practically halted my academic progress; and, even if I made the US Team for Melbourne, it would mean three months away from teaching and the loss of much needed salary. Was my ambition too steep for my handicap? The sacrifices, that could so easily end in failure, seemed to heavily outweigh the possible returns. Was the fleeting personal satisfaction of being an Olympian in an obscure event, known only in the obscure world of amateurism, worthy of the struggle? I had those thoughts, but remained fixed on the goal. Week after week I was bothered by this inner turmoil. But just as the pendulum in my mind swung towards the position of retreat, something within me asked: Is it honestly the outside obstacles that prevent you from facing the Olympic challenge or is it more a fear of the humiliation of defeat and failure? The ever-recurring self-doubt between the emotional challenges and resigning to defensive reasoning forced the need for a final decision. One late Friday afternoon in May, I drove to Boston College’s discus and hammer throwing area on the filled in reservoir where I competed as an undergraduate. Somehow, it seemed appropriate to make the decision about going on with the hammer in the same place where it all started three years earlier. The throwing field and all the area around it were still used by the university as an auxiliary parking lot until the start of construction for the football stadium. I unrolled the steel measuring tape from the edge of circle to the distance of my best throw. Then I took off my sweatshirt and placed it about five feet farther, resolving that if I did surpass my personal record and reach that folded shirt, I would go all out to make the Olympic team. If I failed, I would never throw the hammer again. I stood alone on the sandy, rocky excavation area, watched only by my old Buick, parked behind a mound of rocks near the cement, throwing circle. One other car, a Chevy convertible, was parked way to the left of the direction I was to throw and well beyond the distance of my folded shirt. Being my own judge, I ruled to take three warm up and six competitive throws. For ten minutes I jogged up and down the field, stretching and getting ready, then I took the three restrained but progressively longer tosses. Suddenly, I began to imagine what it must be like to hear the voice of an Olympic official: “Connolly, United States, first throw.” My heartbeat pulsing in my throat, my hands clammy, I took hold of the hammer handle, stepped into the ring and set myself to throw. The hammer landed about a foot short of my Westerstede personal record, my best practice result ever. Now even more excited, I readied myself for my second attempt. My feet spun fast, almost effortlessly. This time the hammer almost hit the folded shirt. I quickly ran to bring the hammer back. The day was perfect; it felt easy. On my third throw I turned even faster, and though I somehow forgot to add my usual extra force into the final lift, the implement took off, perhaps a bit late, with a release speed I had never experienced before. The lead filled, brass ball flew like a flashing meteorite--but somehow drifted too much to the left--I closed my eyes. The next moment I heard a muffled crash. The entire hammer disappeared through the center of the roof of the Chevy. Just then a student came running down the hill from the University. He was waving his arms and briefcase, hurtling himself, nearly falling as he rushed toward me. “What have you done you idiot!” He yelled in a panting, breaking voice. I offered no response. I had mixed emotions over the damage I had caused and the exhilarating awareness that I had just made the longest throw of my life. I felt like proclaiming, “Great throw wasn’t it,” but kept silent. “Oh, no! You’ve demolished my father-in- law’s car!” he shouted. We ran to the wreckage; but my mind, uncontrollably, began to estimate the distance from the ring to the bottom of that automobile. Only the sight of the destruction startled me down from Olympus. “Really, I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think I could throw that far--It went through the roof, I’m sorry.” Then unable to restrain my joy over the resolution of my burden of indecision, I said, “It was the longest throw of my life.” “You--I’d like to see you in a nut house--you and your cannon ball!” That reminded me to ask him to open the door so that I could pull out my hammer. It was the one from Storch, and I was relieved to see it had sustained only a twisted wire and small dent. We exchanged information on our driving licenses and gave the badly shaken victim my telephone number; but I couldn’t share his distress. Melbourne began to seem possible. I even told him a throw that long could get me to the Olympics. My elation only added to his vexation. The day concluded perfectly when, that evening, the car’s owner, an old Boston College alumnus, telephoned to say he wouldn’t prefer any claims against me. His comprehensive liability insurance replaced even roofs crushed by flying hammers. “God protect you from lawsuits at the Olympics, and good luck,” he wished me after my profound thanks. Four months later for my birthday, my sister, now an insurance broker, had some fun and did me a service at the same time, by presenting me with the gift of an insurance policy, that covered my hitting anything but human beings, anywhere in the world for the next two years. Chapter Twenty-eight After college I joined the Boston Athletic Association, one of the nation’s oldest athletic clubs. It consisted of a loosely knit group of out-of-school amateur athletes, mainly marathon runners, who continued competing because of their love for athletics, and the financial assistance of Mr. Walter Brown, owner of the Boston Garden, the Boston Celtics, and the President of the B.A.A., In June 1955, at the New England Championships I became the first American to surpass two hundred feet with a throw of 201’ 5 1/2” for a new US record. The Boston sports writers began to include me among the favorites to win the national hammer throw title at the end of the month in Boulder, Colorado. Because of my increasing prominence in the hammer throw, I was invited by the New York Athletic Club to compete in their prestigious Summer Games at their Pelham Manor Resort. Bob Backus, who represented the NYAC, and I drove down to New York. Arthur Siler, a Harvard University discus thrower, Rhodes Scholar and friend was also entered and drove with us. On arrival Bob and I were told that our reservations were waiting at the desk of the Manor House, but that Mr. Siler was not an invited guest and would have to stay in the dormitories with the other competitors. I objected, only to be told it was club policy and nothing could be done about it. On the way to our rooms, Bob told me it was possibly because Art was Jewish and the club excluded Jews from membership privileges. After the competition, which I won with a new American record, Bob and I were invited to the club's sumptuous, dining room for the after competition dinner for the officials and selected athletes. Following the dinner the club's head coach, with Bob's enthusiastic support, offered me athletic membership in the NYAC, and, sensing my hesitancy, took me aside and told me privately, that if I were to win the Olympic Games, I would receive a free, life's membership. Knowing that Art was waiting at the dorms to join us for the ride home, and that they had, despite my request, refused to allow Art even to eat with us, I declined their invitation, saying I wanted to remain with the Boston Athletic Association. I have always regretted not telling them it was because of their exclusionary policy, but I have never regretted my decision. I was very grateful when Mr. Brown rescued me from the disadvantage of an exhausting automobile or bus trip to the West by offering to pay my round trip air ticket to the US championships. During the two previous years, I had paid my own expenses to every competition. With the National Championships victory, came a return trip to Europe. I learned that each year the meet directors of European competitions sent invitations for American athletes, sometimes by name, but usually by events; the places were filled on the basis of performances in the championships. In 1955, I won my first US hammer throw title, and Western and Eastern Europe requested hammer throwers. Backus, who placed second, was off to Prague; and I was overjoyed to accept the trip to Scandinavia and Germany, where I knew I’d see Storch and Christmann again. Five other boys comprised our touring group: 400 meter runner Jimmy Lea, hurdler Josh Culbreath, shot putter Don Vick, high jumper Ernie Shelton and miler Fred Dwyer. Our team manager, Carl Russ, a fireman and volunteer official from Buffalo, arranged the travel from meet to meet but left us pretty much on our own. The six-week’s journey through Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Germany differed greatly from my trip the previous year. We competed in top meets, lived in the finest hotels, and on our final leg home, laden with gifts and prizes presented by the competitions’ directors, took a two-day side junket to the “City of Lights.” “We can’t go home without seeing the sites of Paris!” exclaimed our adventurous leader from Buffalo on his first trip abroad. Without a doubt the sites and experiences of Paris were not a disappointment. What I remember most was the night in Pigalle. We spent most of the earlier part of the day with Karl seeing the traditional Parisian locations and having a spectacular dinner. Knowing we were leaving the next morning, we left Carl, who was exhausted from all the walking, and headed for the infamous Pigalle. We were barely into that quarter of the city, gawking at designing women and obliging men of all nationalities, when a middleaged, not particularly attractive, red-haired lady of the evening approached Josh Culbreath and Jim Lee, who were walking up ahead of us. Clearly she was propositioning Josh and he was not an easy sell. When we caught up to them and she realized she was dealing with five Americans not two, her price went up. Despite her halting English, she seemed to understand and accept reluctantly when Josh said, "Listen lady we're not paying until we see the quality of the merchandise." They bickered for a few minutes but Josh refused to yield any francs. She led us down the street, around a corner and into a three-story, red brick apartment house that looked like an old Boston walk-up brownstone. Inside numerous other ladies in various stages of flamboyant and revealing attire were slipping about furtively opening and closing doors for self- conscious men going in and out. We were led to the third-floor into a large room, with a huge bed, a few chairs, a dressing table and mirror, and what appeared to be, a bathroom off to the side through a door. I was very apprehensive with this unfolding scene, but we were all in good humor, laughing and observing all the way. Once in the room, the lady began to become physically familiar with Josh. Then she said, “You pay something now!” Josh responded, “First show us what you can do for us.” She led him to the bed as we stood around laughing our heads off. He leaped into the bed, lay back on the billowing pillows, zipped down his fly, hung out his penis, and said, “Okay, baby, show us what you can do.” Josh kept challenging her until she realized he had turned the whole episode into a comic sideshow. She began shouting, “Get out1 Get out!” When she went for the telephone on the dresser, we decided the joke was over and it was time to split. Josh pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and caught up to the rest of us already out the door and on the way down the stairs. We were not quiet in departing, and for the hell of it, Don Vick and Ernie Shelton started pounding on doors as we passed them, causing people to dart out into the halls wondering if the place was being raided. We showed our speed with a hasty exit back out onto the street, around the corner and out of sight. The next morning we were packed and ready to depart. Flying home, I thought what pleased me most was meeting coach Christmann in Dusseldorf and hearing his enthused exclamation, “Harold, you improved tremendously since last summer! You are developing a new technique in hammer throwing.” With every meet I won, I gained more confidence for the upcoming Olympic year. My best result of 1955 came early in October, in a small meet at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology where, before a few competing athletes and a handful of students, I neared the world record with 209’7”. Four days later the Soviet, Michail Krivonosov, improved his world mark to 211’8 1/4” in a large internatio nal competition in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, where he met a contingent of visiting US athletes. Through an interpreter, Krivonosov asked if somebody knew Connolly. With Boston miler, Joe LaPierre, he sent me a note, which translated into English read: Continued success in our favorite event. I wish you luck. Your comrade in sports, Michail Krivonosov. Enclosed were three Soviet lapel pins and a picture of Lenin’s Mausoleum in Moscow. Krivonosov’s friendly gesture impressed me greatly. I speedily sent back an Amateur Athletic Union lapel pin, my blazer patch of the A.A.U. National Champion, a photo of Boston College inscribed, “This is the school where I learned to throw the hammer,” and my further reply, composed in Russian by the Harvard field events coach, Al Wilson: Greetings to a great athlete. I look forward to meeting you in Melbourne. Your sport friend, Harold Connolly. Things were changing so quickly for me. I was now encountering the intense worldwide rivalry, growing curiosity, and potential friendships experienced by all athletes who become one of the top performers in the same track and field events. I found myself looking forward to Melbourne more than ever. Thirteen months before the Olympic Games, I pasted a newspaper photo of Krivonosov on a square of cardboard and clipped it to the sun visor of my car. The Soviet’s name in translation meant, “Crooked nose,” but there was nothing in his determined, serious face that elicited a joke; Krivonosov appeared to be a tough adversary and looking at him each day reminded me to train a harder. In my final competition of the year at an all-comers meet at the South Boston Naval Training Annex, a sailor, watching us throw, asked me: “Don’t you get dizzy spinning around like that?” “No,” I told him, “It’s like ballet dancers. They don’t get dizzy either.” And I began to wonder if studying ballet might add more distance to my throwing. The next day I drove to Arlington to my Aunt Mary’s home, whose entire basement level was a very successful ballet studio and the main spring of the perpetual activity in that beautiful house. I asked my aunt if I could join one of her male classes. The large, blue, Corbett eyes ignited with satisfaction. “Of course, Harold, of course. Finally you’re getting smart,” she smiled. “I always thought you’d discover that ballet would do a much better job than all that—that—iron lifting you do. You need to develop smooth relaxed motions to be able to turn with your hammer so that a bluebird could perch on each shoulder. Well, you’ll come for one hour of ballet every other day. I think you’ll take to it very well; look at the way you stand. You’ve got naturally turned-out feet! Others would give anything for a pair of legs like yours.” I listened to my aunt's enraptured bubbling with hidden amusement, but also admiration. My aunt lived and breathed the world of ballet. Dancing was her answer for everything. To her weightlifting was the antithesis of grace and beauty. To my Aunt Mary, who extolled ethereal grace, squatting with a five- hundred- pound barbell was grotesque. The evening I arrived for my first ballet lesson, Aunt Mary was leading her other two young male dancers through evocative fouettes, but she chained me to the exercise bar with never ending plies and stretching routines. “By next week,” she promised, “you’ll be more supple, your movements will soften and the bluebirds won’t be frightened.” After ten days the damned birds were not coming, and my dissatisfied teacher blamed my beefy proportions. “Harold, you outweigh my biggest student by a hundred pounds. I can’t perform miracles teaching a tank.” “Aunt Mary, you’ll never make a dancer out of me, and I can’t quit lifting weights. The bluebird I throw weighs sixteen pounds, and all I need is to improve my balance, flexibility, and turning speed.” My aunt, though frowning at my methods, agreed to keep on with my lessons. Every now and then she remarked, “What a pity those natural turnouts are wasted.” Quite often a talented, dark-eyed, faun-like, dancer named Walda, who appeared to me to be no more than nineteen, assisted my aunt in her teaching. She helped at the school to refresh her skills between her seasonal engagements as a member of the Professional New York Ballet Company, corps de ballet. After frequently seeing and saying hello to this shy, delicate girl at the studio, I finally got the courage to ask her out; the approval of which had to be preceded by a visit to meet her father, the owner of a large trucking company, her mother, brother and sister, I could never pinpoint whether I was more captivated by Walda’s grace and beauty or her determination to excel, but I thought she might be the ideal girl to pursue after my Olympic quest. Discussions with Walda and my own enthusiasm for ballet generated many new ideas to improve my throwing; one of the most important was shoeing my “natural turnouts.” Before I studied ballet, I never had the feeling my hammer throwing shoes were cumbersome; but after watching Walda perform, and doing countless fouettes myself, I realized that the available athletic flats were not constructed for the precise footwork of the hammer throw. I took one of Walda’s old ballet slippers apart, seeking a design for a throwing shoe that would allow faster, balanced spinning. I discarded my German made Hummel, hammer-throwing shoes for ballet slippers, which I secured to my feet with a roll of athletic tape. While they felt much more like what I was seeking, the soft leather soles wore out in one training session on the cement, throwing circle. Gluing a thin rubber composition sole to the bottom of the slippers improved vastly their longevity, but they still were not right. Louis D’Ambrosio, an Italian -American shoemaker across the street from my home, provided me the materials and let me use his grinding and sanding machine to modify my throwing slippers. Though I ended the previous season far ahead of any other American, I was not the only hammer thrower training fanatically that winter. In the spring of 1956, I became merely one of the U.S. hopefuls for the Olympic team. At Cornell University, Al Hall, the National Collegiate Champion and the Cliff Blair from Boston University clung consistently around 200 feet. Five others, Bob Backus and Martin Engle, 1952 Olympians, and John Morefield, Bill McWilliams, and Stewart Thompson had all exceeded 190 feet and were capable of qualifying in the upcoming Olympic tryouts. The problems of excelling on an international level were overshadowed by the challenges at home. The pressure was mounting, and the news about Michail Krivonosov’s new June world record of 216’1/2,” only heightened it. My response to the anxiety was more determined training for the Olympic year’s National Championships in Bakersfield, California. The hammer throw was held at dusk, when the temperature dropped from over a hundred degrees to the high nineties, but the dry, hot desert air clung motionless over the green grassy hammer throwing area outside the stadium, where we began our abbreviated warm-ups. The atmosphere was tense, because this was the first time we were all competing against one another since the previous season. Our results in the Nationals would determine the degree of confidence with which, a week later, we would fight for the three positions on the Olympic Team. From the first round of attempts, I led the competition. Then, in the third round, I unwound a 205’ 10 ½” throw for a new championships record. On his very next effort, however, Al Hall achieved a personal best, just a little over a foot short of my throw. Elated by his close runner-up position, and with what appeared to me to be an overly gleeful grin, Al came over to shake my hand: “Harold, you did great—I just like to compete against you; it pulls me to my best. Too bad Blair didn’t show.” Somehow Hall’s spontaneous words shook my confidence, and having Blair skip the meet didn’t help either. I was aware that many coaches felt their potential exceeded mine. Still, many American sports writers considered me the best U.S. hope in the Olympic hammer throw. Regardless of what the expert observers said, I knew the tryouts would be the greatest obstacle ahead of me. Reporters and statisticians could rarely see beyond the athletes’ surface reactions and past performances. They never thought about the influence of my personal battle with my left arm. Would that anchor drag me down and prevent me from achieving what, at that moment, I wanted most from life? My anxiety over my troublesome arm heightened my natural tension. In practice I became increasingly annoyed by the kink in my winding the hammer around my head, caused by the restricted range of motion in my left shoulder, that resulted in a shortened pull on the hammer wire every time it passed up and around my left side. I was frustrated by the necessity of having to use unorthodox straight up and down preliminary winds that I had to flatten out into the first turn to get the hammer into a reasonably smooth entry orbit. These technical difficulties created by my shortened left arm, and usually overridden by my quick footwork and leg power, suddenly became my chief concern. Chapter Twenty-nine The program of the two-day United States Olympic Trials scheduled the hammer throw event for June 29, 1956, the day on which I was either to qualify for the U.S. team or be buried together with two years of relentless striving. The Los Angeles Coliseum was tense and somber. In the dressing rooms hardly a word was said; dozens of athletes who competed that afternoon in various events moved around one another like anxiously isolated units, shielding themselves from any influence which might impair their concentration on earning one of the coveted seats on the plane to Australia. Young men, jogging, bending and stretching in the outside warm up area fought for detachment from the pressure around them, some by watching fellow athletes warm up, others by ignoring each other; but few escaped the mounting tension. Inside the stadium athletes were lying on benches staring at the ceiling, conserving energy. A line of sullen, glowering sprinters and hurdlers waited patiently near the rubdown tables. Trainers perspired over tense backs and sinewy limbs, loosening up the explosiveness that would determine the split second victories. Competitors meeting in the doorways made room for each other, exchanging little more than a grunt; only pals form different events nodded at each other, or exchanged signs or short wishes of good luck. Al Oerter, the nineteen-year-old Kansas University sophomore who placed fourth in the NCAA discus, and the thirty-four year old discus world record holder, Fortune Gordien, took turns using the throwing circle but passed each other in silence. Parry O’Brien, the reigning Olympic Champion and absolute master of shot putting, not only did not exchange greetings with his competitors, but also applied a way of looking past them which made them feel invisible and distressingly insignificant. The hammer throwers as well warmed up in mute concentration. We all knew that only three of us would leave that stadium as members of the U.S. Olympic Team; the immediacy of having to produce our best during this one and only chance put a tremble into everyone’s hands and a vice on our throats. Knowing that after another ninety minutes, this Olympic opportunity would be gone forever, with another not returning for four years, created almost unbearable anxiety. The Officials announced that each of us would receive three preliminary throws and the top six men three additional attempts. The ruling complied with the custom of all other competitions, but suddenly three throws seemed to be crushingly insufficient. Under that urging influence, the first few throwers pressed too hard and fouled, stepping out of the throwing circle, others threw more conservatively and ended up with poor distances. With each wasted effort the pressure kept increasing. Of the top competitors who qualified for the finals, Cliff Blair led with