My memorable encounter with Steve Prefontaine
the day he won the 1972 Olympic Trials 5,000m
by Mark Cullen
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Steve Prefontaine Murals
Coos Bay, Oregon
United States
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It’s the last day of the 1972
US Men’s Olympic Track and Field Trials.
The organizers at Eugene’s legendary
Hayward Field were no fools. They scheduled the men’s 5,000m race as the last
event of the 8-day program.
It featured Steve
Prefontaine, the young man whom Sports Illustrated named “America’s Distance Prodigy,” and George Young, the venerable
veteran, the three-time Olympian trying to make his 4th Olympic team.
In an epic race that would
see both men break the American Record, Prefontaine and Young went at it, lap
by excruciating lap, and the issue was in doubt until the 9th
circuit, when Prefontaine edged ahead, inexorably, and led Young to the finish.
Prefontaine (13:22.8) and Young (13:29.4) both broke Pre's American record of 13:29.6.
It would be a cliché to say
that the crowd went wild.
But it did.
The sound of that last lap
lives with me still.
The roar was deafening as Prefontaine approached the
finish stripe, but the sound when he crossed it is unlike any I have heard
before or since.
If there’s one word I associate
with that day, it’s “spectacle.”
The spectacle of Gerry
Lindgren bounding from the stands wearing one of the memorable “Stop Pre” t-shirts, a
lasting symbol of the Sparrow’s - and designer John Gillespie's - impish sense of humor.
The spectacle of the race
itself, of seeing this prodigy realize the next stage of his potential.
The spectacle of what
followed.
A lengthy victory lap, an
ovation sustained, an achievement shared. What was so appealing about this young
man was his generosity - his willingness to share his joy and, indeed, his
triumph.
The celebration continued
well into the evening, though it became more personal in nature. It shifted to
an area on the east side of Hayward Field, where temporary bleachers had been
erected to accommodate the overflow crowds. There a media platform had been
built.
On it, young Mr. Prefontaine held court.
The television lights were
blinding, the camera bulbs kept flashing, and person after person, kid after
kid, asked something of him.
Long after the friends I had
watched the race with decided their evening was over, I knew mine wasn’t finished.
For the previous nine months
I had embarked upon a running career, such as it was, of my own. I had started
running in Bill Bowerman’s beginning jogging class in the fall of 1971, a week
after Bowerman had been named head coach of the US Olympic track and field team.
Bowerman’s “Hamburgers”
shared the track with Gary Barger, Todd Lathers, Pat Tyson, Arne and Knut Kvalheim, future Olympic discus champion “Multiple” Mac Wilkins, US Olympic decathlete Craig Brigham, and Steve Prefontaine himself.
I was captivated and missed
but one meet in five years.
When you run on the track
inhabited by the likes of these memorable Ducks, no matter how slowly in
comparison, you do get to know them. One of them, Coach Pat Tyson of the Mead
and now Gonzaga University cross country programs, remains a friend to this day.
When it came to young Mr.
Prefontaine, we saw each other 4 or 5 times a week during the first year I ran.
I was from the wilds of Western Massachusetts and knew little of him when I
began running. He seemed to like the
fact that I never got caught up in the myth of Pre, and that we used each
other’s first names was a bond of its own.
That I saw him as a new
compatriot, special in terms of his ability but otherwise in many ways like
everyone else, created the framework of our passing relationship, and formed the
basis of what we Yankees call a 'nodding acquaintance.'
Indeed, the one time, the
only time, I asked him for an autograph - not for me but for the 8-year-old son of
a friend I had in tow - he grew quite impatient with me. It took me awhile to
realize I had violated the boundary. It was the only time in his presence I had
bought into the mythic “Pre.”
Fortunately, he forgave me.
So, as he sat surrounded by
worshipping kids and an adoring, and yes, fawning press, I wanted to watch the
rest of the spectacle.
I made my way up the
temporary bleachers, sat in the corner closest to him, and watched. Watched for
over an hour as Steve sat there with the patience of a saint, even though he
wasn’t one, and did not claim to be.
Every now and then he’d cock
his head, look up at me and wonder what on earth I was doing there.
Come to think of it, for
someone known for his strong opinions and sometimes colorful language, “what on
earth” were probably not the words he was thinking.
Yet he was curious,
inquisitive, clearly wondering.
It got dark.
Fortunately, the scoreboard
operator had a sense of the moment and didn’t turn off the lights. The darker
it got, the more clearly etched into the evening sky was Prefontaine’s new
American Record.
I can see it today, just as
clearly, more than half a lifetime later.
Finally, there were only a
couple of families left, little kids waiting for their moment of magic. I scurried
up the rickety bleachers, down to the track, and waited while he completed his
hero’s duties.
He smiled in recognition,
still with that quizzical look.
The kids are gone now, and
it’s just the two of us with his drug tester in attendance. We exchange
greetings and I offer my congratulations. I’m delighted to sense his
receptivity, in spite of how long his day has been.
He actually has a few moments
left, for me.
Well, I say, I’ve watched
this spectacle unfold this afternoon, and now this evening.
He nods.
I’ve seen many people
approach you and ask for many things.
He nods, as if to say this is
not news.
An autograph, a photograph,
an interview, a moment, even, with you.
Yes.
But Steve, I say, for all
these people have asked, and all you’ve given in return - one thing has not
been said today.
One thing is missing.
What’s that?
Thank you.
He clutches my forearm with
both hands.
He will not let go.
Tears come to his eyes.
We both just stand there, at
ease in the moment.
When he can speak, I wish him
success in the Olympics, and he wishes me good luck in the summer all-comers
meets.
Off he scampers across the
track and onto the infield. Before he vanishes into the enveloping darkness, he
turns and gives me a huge, full-body wave.
I wave back.
Off he jogs into the
underbelly of the now gloomy West Grandstand and to his appointment with
destiny in Munich.
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My favorite photo of Steve Prefontaine.
With Coach Bill Bowerman the day Pre first broke 4:00 in the mile.
Multiple sources listed, including milesplit. |
copyright 2016 Mark Cullen. All rights reserved.
