6 Degrees of Seperation
Jumping for Joy . . . and Peace
S. G. Lacey
​
October 2nd
My girlfriend and I clasp hands as we stroll down the street, careless and fancy free on this beautiful Wednesday afternoon. One of the benefits of being in college as opposed to high school are the additional liberties afforded. No cranky teachers. No nagging parents. Most important, no truancy officers.
Us young folks get to go where we want, when we want.
In this regard, I’m somewhat of an exception to the rule, with a father who continues to toe the fine line between saintly protective and unbearably draconian policies. If I framed up today’s jaunt as a soirée with my new boyfriend, I would have been flatly denied, and forced to stay at home studying tonight.
An innocent trip to the movies, to see the most popular film in the land, accompanied by my bestie since grade school, provides the necessary cover story. Now, we have numerous hours to explore downtown Mexico City unincumbered.
In my first year of what will inevitably be a length path through medical school, following in the footsteps dictated by my dad, and his chosen profession, I need to keep my grades up. The bachelor’s degree in science I’m seeking is just the first step in a much longer journey.
Plus, my extracurricular resumé is even more demanding than my coursework as a college freshman. I need to take a little time off here and there, just to stay sane as a teenage girl.
Considering the warm weather, both of us are wearing flowy and airy dresses, with sandals on our feet, and bandanas in our hair. Attire completely emblematic of the time and place we are in, children of the 60’s, associated with all the complexity and simplicity this decade has simultaneously served up.
My outfit is a bit more curated and fancier than the current casual cut and style. I’m wearing a black and white, thin-striped, costume, the negative space in the pattern spelling the name of my home nation vertically. At the bottom of the skirt, the numerals “68” have been cleverly integrated into 5 colorful, intertwined rings of embroidery. This design mimics the official logo design of the upcoming Mexico City 1968 Olympic Games.
This uniform was issued just a few days ago, as part of the exciting international diplomat role I’m taking on for the next month. Not wanting to lose my grounding in the local culture, I’ve added some local flair. A magnolia flower, in full bloom, picked by my new beau after a spirited wall scramble, when we met up in the local park this morning.
The stark white hue perfectly matches the background of my dress, and perfectly contrasts the wavy locks of my shoulder length hair. Plus, it smells amazingly fresh, just like the relationship I plan to continue next time we’re able to covertly meet.
Mexican names can get quite lengthy, as additional surnames are added through each new marriage, with the older monikers kept to honor the past. Most last name’s fall into traditional Spanish buckets, like Rodriguez and Martinez, Garcia and Gonzalez. I’m definitely unique in this regard.
The Teuscher Kruger portion of my name doesn’t come up much at school, as it’s a product of my German mother’s lineage. But this genealogy is what separates me from essentially all my friends and classmates, both visually and mentally.
I carry this matriarchal surname with honor, as my mom passed away when I was 8 years old, after bringing 3 beautiful daughters into the world. Separated by 6 years in age, with me in the middle, we remain very close. With my eldest sibling recently marrying and moving out, I’m now the primary female presence in the household for my father, who still grieves the loss of his wife. As we all do.
For simplicity, and anonymity, I almost universally go by “Marietta”, a moniker familiar enough to blend in, while simultaneously paying homage to the diverse roots from which I’ve sprung.
As my “mejor amiga” and I finish our leisurely al fresco snack, the sky suddenly begins to darken, suggesting an afternoon shower, typical this time of year, is on the way. In hindsight, I should have heeded this forlorn foreshadowing, and just headed back home to hit the books.
Instead, I forge ahead stubbornly, dragging my malleable acquaintance with me.
“Guillermina, there’s only a few hours until it gets dark. And this is our last week before university studies get serious.”
“Ok, Marietta”, she concedes sheepishly. Based on the tone of her voice, I can tell she’s on the fence, cautiously curious about our next planned destination. I know I can convince her to join me, with a little more prodding encouragement.
Political and social stresses leading up to these Olympics have become increasingly stretched, especially on the North American continent that I live in, most of the time. It’s been a turbulent time across this sprawling landmass.
While we have our fair share of violence and corruption here in Mexico, the United States has seen a recent run of assassinations at the highest level of politics. Two highly influential men, both famous enough to garner 3 letter acronym monikers, M.L.K. and R.F.K., were brutally killed in just the past several months.
There’s no shortage of turmoil regarding our larger neighbor to the north. Escalation of the Vietnam War, a conflict initiated and facilitated by the U.S. military. A volatile civil rights movement, cutting through the American South. At least our discrimination policies are much less overt here is Mexico.
While America and Asia have gulped up much of the geopolitical oxygen in the increasingly stuffy room, Europe is waking up and breathing again as well. Substantial protests by ambitious students and diligent workers seeking social reform have proliferated throughout Europe this past summer. I’m aware of these developments through local Mexican newspaper articles, as well as on-the-ground observations during my annual summer pilgrimage to Germany.
Now, it’s our time to join these peaceful uprisings. Leveraging the worldwide viewership platform created by the upcoming Olympics. The passive gathering we’re headed to at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in downtown Mexico City is a great start.
This specific region of the city has been selected because it’s located between a pair of major secondary schools, the National Autonomous University of Mexico, 17 km to the south, and National Polytechnic Institute, 7 km to the north. As a result, it’s not surprising this plaza is a common assembly spot for youthful rallies. As is the case tonight.
The Plaza de las Tres Culturas is named for the trio of unique architecture styles found in close proximity on these grounds: tiered and weathered stone temples from the original town of Tlatelolco, a Catholic church and synagogue with red clay tile roofs build by the Spanish, and modern multi-use high-rise towers of shiny glass and metal.
The ancient ruins, build by the Nahua tribe, a people eventually conquered by the Aztecs, were discovered during recent project excavation at the start of the 1960’s, date back over half a millennium. Making them very valuable. And substantially hindering the apartment development plan on this site. Thus, the massive protected open space between disparate structures has become one of the largest clearings in downtown, making it ideal for large gatherings, like the one we’re heading to.
A recent change in the student movement has been formation of the National Strike Council, established back in August, to align protest efforts of various disparate groups, and presented a clear set of unified demands. The reform targets are a laundry list of repressive policies enacted by current Mexican President Gustavo Díaz Ordaz: union advocacy, democratic liberties, labor conditions, and civil rights improvements.
Despite increasing opposition, Díaz Ordaz and his cronies in the Institutional Revolutionary Party remain in power. Increasingly by force, using covert monetary support and military resources from the neighboring country to the north. The involvement of the United States in Mexican governmental affairs has become increasingly clear. Especially to those who don’t simply turn a blind eye.
In the past few weeks, the struggle between students and soldiers has been coming to a sketchy head. Per regime mandates, army forces took over UNAM, the college I just started at, on September 18th. Quite a stressful way to begin my secondary education journey.
This military imposition, a full month before the all-important Olympic Games are scheduled to start, is couched as an effort to root out extremist leaders, squash any student uprisings, and most importantly, demonstrate to the world that Mexico City is fit to host the world’s finest athletes. A righteous goal, but to the ends justify the means?
This bold action, just as the fall semester kicked off, heated the tension up, as opposed to cooling the climate. Every time I walk around campus, this rigid occupation is evident. It’s probably best that the venue for tonight’s gathering is well afield of the UNAM lockdown.
However, as we get closer to the site, I spot many of my fellow classmates. Has the entire student body made the trip into downtown for this rally? Word must have travelled well through the verbal grapevine channels which are prevalent amongst any group of impassioned collegiates.
I have very little frame of reference for crowd size. Sure, I’ve been to football matches, where they always announce the attendance, and packed beaches, with tallies unknown, on multiple continents. But this congregation has a different feel and scale.
It’s an order of magnitude more adolescents than I’ve ever seen in this expansive courtyard, during even the most vibrant block party. There must be over 10k people amassed on these grounds. Examining the demographics in more detail, I quickly determine the distribution of students here extend well below college age.
Huddled adjacent is a gaggle of teenagers. Based on clothing and physique, especially amongst the girls, which I’m more knowledgeable in assessing, having gone through this puberty transition just a few years back, these gals are still high school, and potentially even the middle grades.
In addition to the education contingent, there are various pockets of local renters, retail employees, and casual bystanders milling around. This open space, ringed by multiple large apartment buildings, with ground floor shop amenities catering to both residents and tourists, facilitates a natural social melting pot. Especially when a huge influx of students are deposited onto the scene.
Transitioning from high school to college, this past summer provided a welcome break from traditional study, and an opportunity to dive deeply into two of my budding passions. Language and politics.
While odd hobbies for a normal 18-year-old, my life path, and experiences, have made this exploration inevitable. The product of a mixed nationality household, with a German mother, and a Mexican father, I’m much more traveled, and cultured, than most of my high school counterparts.
The fledgling adult cohort throughout Mexico City have been integral in the Olympic Games preparation. Helping to hurriedly construct the required infrastructure. Serving at the soon-to-be-inundated restaurants. Ushering fans flocking to the various sports venues. Covering the entire town with festive decorations.
My specific assigned role is a privileged one, an “edecane”, in my native tongue, which translates to aide-de-camp, in English military parlance. A glorified tourism guide, I’m tasked with hosting the entire Swiss Olympic delegation once they arrive in town. There weren’t many locals capable of taking on this unique job. Being responsible for communicating with a country that has 4 official languages is a tall order.
While I don’t have all their dialects covered, my German is perfect, and I can get by conversationally in pretty much all the Romance languages. Also, I’m hoping most of these world traveler athletes and diplomats know English, which is becoming increasingly ubiquitous on the global stage. Another benefit of my ethnically diverse pair of parents.
With the Olympic opening ceremony quickly approaching, and many key Swiss personnel arriving soon, this may be my last evening enjoying the city I call home, speaking only informal Spanish, which comes instinctively to me.
As a representative of the Games, I’m obligated to the know the complex history which led up to the acceptance of the country’s bid, and the subsequent developments required to host.
It’s been almost exactly 5 years since Mexico City earned the privilege of presiding over the 1968 Summer slate, a decision made during an International Olympic Committee session was held in Baden-Baden, Germany, from October 16th to 20th of 1963.
At that time, I was just a 14-year-old adolescent, barely able to identify this obscure European city on a map, let alone follow the privileged proceedings. But, my more recent research of the official meeting suggests this was a historic event, which vaulted Mexico into the modern era.
This was the 3rd time that Mexico City had reached the final stage of the voting process, with failed bids for 1956 and 1960. The 1968 success was a testament to diligent dedication towards a specific goal. Along with an absurd amount of lobbying by Mexican representatives.
At this Baden-Baden convention, Mexico City achieved the required 30 votes in the first round, meaning no second tally was needed, as is typically the case. My homeland beat out several much more developed and prominent global metropoles: Detroit, USA, Lyon, France, and Buenos Aires, Argentina.
That’s the history of how we’re the first Latin American country to host, in this, the upcoming 19th Summer Olympiad. And not the only novel element about the winning bid, a topic which has been closely scrutinized over the past half decade since the decision was made. Mexico is also about to check off boxes as the inaugural still-developing and Spanish-speaking nation to host.
There are two major concerns which continue to surface as the Olympics approach. One is with regards to athlete performance challenges at high altitude, with nearly all the venues sitting above 2k meters. Not much can be done about the natural geography of a selected city.
The other worry is much less tangible, but potentially easier to allay. The safety of the athletes and fans, considering the ongoing tensions across the nation. Drug cartels, widespread poverty, government corruption, and marginal infrastructure were all known issues for Mexico back in 1963. All of these detrimental factors, while not solved, have at least been improved.
However, a new challenge has arisen, which wasn’t even on the radar of the review board back in the early 1960’s. The rise of the youth in Mexico City, both in quantity, and increasingly, activism. I am a poster girl for this movement. Coming of age, getting educated, exuding feminine confidence, and aspiring to do good in the world.
The closer we get to the plaza epicenter, the more lively young folks we pushing forward with similar direction and purpose. These are my people.
For this protest, the main group has congregated at the front of the Chihuahua Building, a modern 13-story apartment complex, which makes it one of the taller buildings around. On a 3rd floor balcony for one of the residences, positioned near the middle of the structure, a raised podium with microphone and sound projection system has been set up, allowing a rotating collective of orators to present their social messaging to the entire crowd.
As we approach this central throng, the next speaker takes the stage, introducing himself as a professor from the local Instituto Politécnico Nacional. As I’m attending a different college, I have no familiarity with this individual, in either name or image. But agree with nearly every word he says.
Apparently, this gentleman is fairly well-known, based on the intent focus, and waving signage, of the constantly growing throng. This contingent is primed to soak up any liberal messages this lecturer delivers.
I check the petite wristwatch I’m wearing, a sleek brass dial on the fine brown leather band, a gift handed down from my grandmother. It reads 6:15 PM, which I know is correct, considering the precise Swiss engineering of this device.
A firm tug on my arm shifts my attention from the hands and numerals on this timepiece. Guillermina is yanking on my elbow with her intwined left arm, while pointing skyward. Following her direction, another sensation, audible sound, links up with the visual observation.
A rapid thwapping in deep baritone, combined with a pair of dark, blurry blotches against the orange sunset backdrop slowly coalesces in my mind. Helicopters.
Not a common aerial occurrence here in downtown Mexico City. What happens next is even more unique. From this duo of mechanized craft, colorful bursts are suddenly emitted. Fireworks? A mechanical issue? Searchlights?
As streams of vivid green and red arch through the air, I realize these are flares, whizzing across the increasingly dusky sky. It’s not clear if this aerial signal is a summons to disperse, a means of communication to troops on the ground, or simply a patriotic display.
In the moment, I revel at these vibrant streaks, matching the primary hues of our national flag. In hindsight, the disappearing sun, blackening background, and gathering rain clouds, should all have been sufficient forewarning for my friend and I to make ourselves scarce. Unfortunately, we stay and listen to the speech, with fateful consequences.
Returning my focus to the ground, I spot a row of tanks rolling up the road on my left. That’s odd, I wasn’t aware of any military parade planned for tonight. Whirling to my right, I find a line of soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder, brandishing their guns. This doesn’t look like a training maneuver.
With the wide and tall apartment building in front of us, and substantial quantity of civilians packed in behind, for most of the huge horde, there’s nowhere to go. It appears the deployed armed forces are here to prevent people from entering or leaving the scene.
The mood of the crowd quickly changes, from boisterous but passive, to tense and chaotic. So has the composition of people. Seemingly magically, comingled with our split gender student cohort are many older, stronger men. While wearing civilian clothes, it’s clear these brutes are not attending class anymore, if they ever did.
Another dead giveaway, beyond their size, are the white markings each participant has donned, in the form of a bright white bandana or glove, all attached to their left arms. This seems like some sort of covert marking signal. What else about this sudden government incursion is also carefully planned?
As the mob tightens, squeezed into an increasingly smaller footprint within the plaza by armed soldiers and military vehicles on opposite sides, I’m quickly realizing that attending this rally may have been a bad decision.
The professor at the podium, sensing the shift in attitude, urges the amassed group to remain calm over his loudspeaker, even as conditions continue to deteriorate. A lofty aspiration, but nothing can control the crazies as this next phase of the plot plays out.
Suddenly, shots ring out, a rapid sequence of retorts, which seem to be coming from multiple directions. I instinctively cower and cover my head with my hands. Considering the layout of the square, with numerous raised vantage points, and lots of echoey concrete, it’s impossible to establish where the gunfire is materializing.
All around me, folks are being mowed down indiscriminately, adult men, collegiate coeds, even the few children in the crowd are at risk. Bullets seem to be raining down in all directions, with no reservation or restraint. Precision rooftop snipers. Machine gun bursts. Pistols at close range. The scene is utter chaos.
In the confusion, I’ve lost my friend Guillermina. It’s amazing how alone a person can feel, even when packed into a confined space like sardines in a tin can. I need to find her, or at least someone I recognize from school.
Maybe if I get to higher ground, I can get my bearings. Glancing around, through the throng I spot a staircase leading to the main entrance of the Chihuahua apartment building. That could offer a better vantage point, and many even some marginal protection from the onslaught.
Leveraging my slender frame, I squeeze through a few impossibly narrow gaps between shoulders, hips, and feet, sometimes almost crawling, other movements aided by levitating atop the seething masses.
My waypoint along this bumpy journey remains the shiny glass of the new apartment complex. Intermittently, I spot bright muzzle flashes reflecting off these windowpanes. Or are the shots actual coming from inside these raised rooms?
Running towards the risk seems counterproductive, but I know there’s a rear exit through the lobby out the back of this structure, which leads to a busy restaurant row beyond. If I can get there, where locals and tourists are likely mingling in relaxed and ignorant contentment, I should be relatively safe from danger.
I make it to a low brick wall, just as silence finally fills the air. This seems like a decent spot to take stock of the situation. I cautiously peek my head up over the railing. This turns out to be the last act of my young life, as another flurry of firepower reigns down. All my senses are in overdrive, both exaggeratedly heightened, and completely numb simultaneously.
Suddenly, a piercing pain inundates my jaw, lasting just a split second before dissipating, like getting numbed by Novocain at the dentist’s office. Instinctively, I reach up rapidly, touching my slight fingers to my tender cheek.
As I collapse backwards in slow motion, I recollect looking skyward, and spotting a sea of red droplets. It must be raining salsa. Not the tangy green tomatillo and lime-based version I prefer, but a dark red offering, heavily infused with chipotle peppers and chili powder.
Why is this sauce all over my chest and face? What odd restaurant have I stumbled into? This is my last delusional thought, before everything goes dark.
​​
Guillermina incurred a leg injury during the attacks, and called “Marietta”’s father from the Red Cross where she was receiving treatment around 10 PM, pleading with him to go search for his daughter. After visiting countless shelters, churches, hospitals, and classrooms throughout downtown, eventually a brother-in-law found the young lady, on the morgue table, with half a dozen 0.45 caliber shots in her head and back.
Ana María Regina Teuscher Kruger was one of the 45 confirmed dead during this event, later dubbed the Tlatelolco Massacre. To this day, the actual deaths and injuries from this debacle have not been fully tallied. Many estimates put fatalities in the hundreds, with the wounded innocent in the thousands.
After the Mexican Armed Forces opened fire with rifles on unarmed protestors, they went on to break up the protest, arresting and detaining nearly 1,500 individuals. Occurring just 10 days before the Olympic opening ceremonies, this was a bad start to the Games, and necessitated a substantial cover-up by the local government.
The youngest confirmed casualty was Rosalino Marín Villanueva, a 13-year-old first year high school student at the local Secondary School No. 100. The true losses from this atrocity may never be known, as many of the American and Mexican documents related to the event remain sealed, over half a century later.
October 12th, 1968​
I’m used to racing on the track, but not in front of a crowd this large. I’ve also got plenty of experience running with a baton during relays, but never had to carry such a hefty object. Most unique in my brief athletics career, I’m the only person in this event, with the stage completely to myself.
I try to keep my cadence measured, but the exhilaration of adrenaline coursing through my veins is difficult to regulate. My feet bounce off the newly installed purple track surface with a rhythmic consistency, which I’ve dialed in during the countless training regimens that led me to this point.
As I motor down the front stretch, occupying one of the prime middle lanes, since all are open, I raise the object in my right hand high, incited by the increasingly loud cheers from the crowd. These voices are coming from both the stands, as is typical for a meet, and the infield, with is decidedly less common. On this occasion, the entire grassy infield is full, athletes, dignitaries, and photographers, with some of the best views in the arena, all encouraging me onward.
The item I’m carrying is not a traditional hollow cylinder of aluminum used for track relays, but instead a much more complex device. While a lightweight metal alloy is still the primary material of construction, this unique element is significantly longer, at nearly half a meter, and conical in shape. The conveniently provided rubber wrap at the bottom end of the taper offers up an accommodating gripping location.
In a different context, with 3 or more of these implements, I could be confused for a juggling performer at the circus. Especially considering the bright flame emanating from this tool’s top.
This torch has been on quite journey over the past few months. The flame was lit and left Greece on August 24th, eventually arriving in Mexico City yesterday, October 11th. This lengthy route was designed to mimic Christopher Columbus’s journey from Europe to the New World, way back at end of the 15th century.
As explained to me, since I had no participation in the relay until it reached my home country, this trip spanned 13,620 km, over 11k on the ocean, with the remainder on land. The convoluted scheme even included a swimmer as part of the procedure, holding the flaming portion out of water with one hand. Not surprisingly, this awkward aquatic transit method was an Olympic torch transport first.
As a result, 7 different implement designs have been used during the relay to accommodate the various modes of movement. Which is 3 times more than any previous fiery journey. All manner of Olympic records are being broken here in 1968, even before the official proceedings actually begin.
With 2,778 separate torchbearers along the lengthy parade, there’s an absurd amount of logistics to keep track of. I’m happy to be at the very end of this convoluted procession, with a known destination, on a known date.
My queue to start the last leg of this lengthy relay is easy to spot. Peering out from the tunnel, I see a huge mass of orbs floating aloft, covering all the colors of the rainbow. This visible aerial display, like a smoke signal in the sky used frequently by my ancient ancestors, tells my mammalian brain that it’s time to move.
The balloon release is mesmerizing, a seemingly endless amount of helium-filled flexible rubber spheres rising effortlessly. Another nugget learned from my organizer’s briefing; I know there are 40k inflated objects being released from various positions around the stadium concurrently. I can’t stand here counting them all. I have my own role to play in this complex production.
My entrance to the stadium via a downward sloping ramp, located in the middle of the turn, carrying the official torch, corresponds perfectly with the balloon release. Gazing skyward, to catch the elevated proceedings out of the corner of my eye, I see the colorful balloons mingling with the equally colorful flags, from all the participating nations, that ring the top of the stadium.
This impressive display turns out to be much different than a child’s birthday party, and experience which I’ve just recently aged out of enjoying.
Interspersed with the encouraging and congratulatory yells of the fans, I’m able to catch bits and pieces of the live soundtrack. The unique sounds of ancient Mexican instruments: conch shells, deer hide drums, reed flutes. The generated collective noise from this ragtag band is pipped into the stadium speakers, amplifying these gentle natural notes.
This XIX Olympiad opening ceremony is held at Estadio Olímpico Universitario, a massive multipurpose stadium in downtown Mexico City. This venue was built in 1952, on the main campus of the National Autonomous University of Mexico, or UNAM. This is Mexico’s largest secondary education conglomerate. Just starting my junior year of college, I proud to count myself amongst its many students.
At this point in my fledgling career, there’s no way I can sustain a living based purely on my athletics pursuits. In fact, between the modest rate I pay my coach and trainer, the high-end running gear I must purchase, travel expenses to various far-flung meets throughout the Americas, and the sacrifice of work hours to practice, I’m likely losing money as a professional sprinter.
As a result, I’m currently pursuing a degree in sociology at UNAM, an endeavor which has conveniently drawn me from the laid-back land of my upbringing on Mexico’s west coast, to this bustling country’s capital. It’s not lost on me the symbolism of competing in the Olympics at the on-campus stadium which is essentially my home turf.
The facility’s major launch from a sporting event standpoint was the 1955 Pan American Games. Over the past decade plus, this facility has hosted the largest and most prestigious athletic events to come through Mexico.
My handlers told me the original seating configuration was for 69k fans, with recent modifications made to increase capacity to 83k, without any major structural changes. These tallies seem irrelevant, as over 100k spectators are attending this momentous event, including the large throngs amassed on the infield; this on-pitch space isn’t available for viewers during a standard football match.
In addition to the paying attendees, 5,516 athletes, from 112 countries, competing in 172 events, all Games records, are enjoying these opening ceremonies for free. The traditional Parade of Nations has just occurred, each squad decked out in the colors and logos of their home countries.
All these delegations are now organized in neat lines on the infield. Looping around the track, I notice every row is identified by a banner with the country name, for those in the audience who haven’t memorized all the flags of the world. Which includes me.
I didn’t get to walk in with my Mexican teammates, who were the last cohort in the procession, per tradition. I guess a private solo introduction to the stadium, and the globe as a whole, will do. Hearing my name called out over the loudspeaker is sufficient to quicken my already rapid pace. The announcer uses my full formal Spanish name, but I’m simply known as “Queta” to all my colleagues.
My outfit is a little more revealing than I would typically select for a formal gathering, especially one with an audience this large. However, I’ve been competing in tight fitting bras and briefs, the standard uniform for female track and field athletes, my entire career. Compared to that, this loose, sleeveless shirt and stretchy shorts ensemble is modest, covering my collar bone, stomach, and hips.
My entire costume is stark white, including the socks and shoes on my feet. Even the embellishments, a thin metallic headband oriented vertically, and small pearl earrings, match this shimmering shade.
My own body is a stark contrast to the clothing I’m wearing. Caramel colored skin, as a result of relentless sun exposure, and black hair, a product of Latin American genetics, which is cut short. My tall frame is slight yet muscular, as is the case with most elite women in the field of athletics.
The assigned white hue for my outfit is universally associated purity, cleanliness, and new beginnings. All sentiments that the Mexican government, and its citizenry, hope to communicate to the world during these 1968 Olympics, which are meant to be a coming-out party for our country on the global stage. The massacre of students in Tlatelolco Plaza just 10 days ago wasn’t a great start in this regard.
Considering this Olympic opening ceremony is being held at a university stadium, there’s a decided irony that the protests and deaths were primarily collegiates. Many of my classmates were entangled in this bloody protest, and the subsequent government backlash.
Predictably, the marquee speech, delivered an hour earlier, was executed by Avery Brundage, the current IOC president. While the Mexican government is clearly happy with this influential official’s brokered agreement to bring the 1968 Games here, the locals are becoming a lot less enamored with this character. Especially after the past week of media appearances, during which this administrative outsider, hailing from the United States, has come out strongly condoning the ongoing peaceful protests of the Mexican youth.
There’s a decided irony in this message, since the current stated purpose of the Olympics, championed by Mr. Brundage, is to celebrate the athletic prowess of young adults, and the unifying nature of sport. This sentiment is a far cry from the goals of the elder statemen who deftly pull the strings of the entire lucrative IOC operation.
This 19th Summer Olympiad is being held much later than usual for a northern hemisphere host nation, spanning from October 12th to October 27th. With Mexico City located near the equator, the Games have been shifted back to avoid the summer oppressive heat, even at this high altitude.
Also, the Major League Baseball World Series, offering substantial competition for sports fan viewership, wasn’t scheduled to end until October 10th. While us Mexican’s don’t follow baseball to closely, this pastime is important to many of our Central American neighbors. There’s a lot to take into account with regards to Olympic timing.
At this point, I’ve traversed around the track roughly 250 meters. It feels odd to run the oval backwards, meet races go exclusively counterclockwise, but apparently this route offers the best logistics. As a short sprinter, most of my running occurs in a straight line. However, in training, I often do longer distances, sometimes in the reverse direction. So, this is just another day at the office.
While the casual lap around the flat track has been relatively easy, the next, and last, phase of this torch transit is going to be much more rigorous. Maybe I was selected for this job simply because leadership knew I wouldn’t pass out on the final climb.
A set of wide stairs has been assembled, all the way from the field level to the very top of the arena. This installation has displaced a significant number of seats, but is required for providing access to the official Olympic cauldron, which is located directly in the middle of the backstretch, but much higher in elevation.
The format and aesthetics of the staircase is reminiscent of the Aztec temples which dot my homeland. A respectable culture to honor.
The stairs are plenty wide and sturdy, as the stone structure of our ancestors were. Which is why they remain standing centuries later. However, the construction method here is different: plywood that has been painted, laid atop metal scaffolding underneath, allowing transition between the various levels of the venue.
Understandably, this long incline is temporary, assembled simply to accommodate my skyward ascent to the rooftop mega-torch. After my task is complete, this runway will be torn down, opening up even more seats for the hordes of rabid fans. I’m just hoping this hastily constructed slope can handle my slight weight for a few more steps.
I focus on climbing directly up the middle of the grey treads, keeping clear of the pink stringers on both sides, as there’s no railing to aid my accent. Interesting color choice, but like everything at this choreographed event, I’m sure there’s a hidden meaning. Decisions which are way over my pay grade, or responsibility level, for this production.
I do know, based on discussions backstage, that this is the first Olympics that will be television broadcast to the world live in color. Realizing how many folks will be watching my every action, I take a deep breath, swallow aggressively considering my dry mouth, then forge ahead up the manmade hill.
As I climb the lengthy stairs, I contemplate how I got to this point. At just 20 years old, participating in my first Olympics, there are certainly more decorated athletes on the Mexican team. This year, as the host nation, the squad consists of 275 individuals, our largest contingent ever.
I have my own theories about my torchbearer selection, all of which are circumstantial, with no confirmation from the government officials who informed me of this honor 3 months ago.
The fact that I’m a female athlete definitely plays a part. Equality is an important element of the Mexican culture. Still, with 42 local ladies qualifying for the Games, there were plenty of other options.
My age, at just 20, must be relevant. These Olympics are a chance for my home country to experience a rebirth on the global stage. Or it could be my physique, tall and thin, typical of modern Mexican youth, and a stark contrast to the short and squatty build of prior generations.
Then there’s my upbringing in Mexicali, the capital of Baja California, the nation’s newest state. A nod at inclusivity? In reality, I have no idea why I was chosen for this distinguished task, but I’m definitely not complaining.
As I near the finish line, I realize there’s an unanticipated final challenge. The last portion of the ramp kicks up substantially, approaching 45 degrees, to account for the platform built to accommodate the large cauldron. Also, the thongs of fans on both sides of the runway have fallen away, leaving me alone on the ascent. I forge on, drawing deep on my teenage training tactics.
Maturing early, as an adolescent I started out as a high jumper, leveraging my long and limber legs. However, as my body matured, and musculature developed, I transitioned to hurdles in high school. As the current Mexico national record holder in the 80-meter women’s hurdles event, there’s now way a single steep flight of steps will slow me down.
Suddenly, I’ve summited. Catching my breath from the heavy exertion, I take as second to regain composure. My lungs are burning, even more so than would be typical during an aggressive hill climb workout session. Maybe the irritation has something to do with the grey smoke billowing from this torch I’m carrying. That soot can’t be good for the respiratory system.
There’s one more important job to do, which will require all my faculties. And justify the lengthy journey of the flickering flame I’m transporting. The desired destination is now to my right, just out of reach. This cauldron has a distinctly modern look. Again, an ode to the youthful advancement of the Mexico as a developing country.
The vessel itself is conical in shape, with rounded edges, and made completely of shiny sheet metal. The shallow slope of the outer surface and ovular concave center feature are reminiscent of a food stable I’m quite familiar with, based on my Baja roots. The bottom half of a sliced avocado, with the pit removed. Presented in art deco form, for sure.
Considering the waist high girth of the structure at its lowest point, and the 1.5-meter radius of the ring, I’m forced to lean over with full arm extension to reach the inner core of the firepit. As the flame from my torch hits the quintet of round tubes, from which the gas is apparently being pumped in, the entire bowl ignites. As does the crowd.
Job complete, I slowly turn and look back into the stadium, which is absolutely packed, many in the athlete and delegate contingent now covering the track I just travelled across. Everyone has been whisked into a frenzy by the flame ignition. It’s only now, standing tall and proud next to the inferno, that I realize the true gravity of the moment, and my part in it.
I’m the first woman ever to light the spark for the opening ceremony of the Olympics. Fighting back tears of joy, I raise the torch high aloft, and bask in the raucous cheers which rain down on me.
While I remain stoic, feet close together, left arm against my side, and now-fatigued right arm with the still-lit torch outstretched, my heart continues to pound rapidly. I want to jump into the air, arms raised in celebratory joy. But that wasn’t part of my choreographed role in this broader operation.
As part of the production, I know the sequence of steps. The next activity is the important Athlete’s Oath, a ritual which I’m going to be a part of, considering the multiple track events I’ve qualified for, as part of the host nation’s team. I look forward to this official initiation procedure, which is a time-honored tradition of the Olympic Games.
My privileged position also gives me another piece of intel. At the end of this ceremony, 10k pigeons will be released freely into the air. The full stadium of people will soon be looking upward as the Mexican anthem plays. The next phase will undoubtably involve individuals jumping around, trying to avoid a bird poop barrage from above. Hopefully my raised perch will keep me safe and clean.
Norma Enriqueta Basilio Sotelo was unfortunately eliminated in the heats of the 80-meter hurdles, 400 meters, and the 4 x 100-meter relay in 1968. Despite being just 20 years old, she never qualified for another Olympic competition.
“Queta” participated in the 2004 Athens Olympic torch relay when it came through Mexico City. In 2018, she symbolically relit the cauldron in Estadio Olímpico Universitario to mark the 50th anniversary the 19th Summer Olympiad.
Despite liberal usage of balloons and birds, Mexico 1968 was the last Summer Olympics which didn’t have a formal artistic programme, meant to introduce each city to the world, thus bridging the gap between two key eras. Between 1912 to 1948, actual Olympic medals awarded in 5 aesthetic disciplines: architecture, literature, music, painting, and sculpture. From 1972 onward, increasingly elaborate and culturally specific choregraphed performances became part of the inaugural opening night.
Notably, South Africa was banned from the 1968 Olympics due to ongoing apartheid policies. This situation, with a 20% white minority controlling the majority black populous, was a harbinger for equality challenges occurring throughout the world, spanning from the poorest to richest countries on the globe.
October 16th, 1968
I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have an Olympic medal placed around my neck. I’ve won all manner of races in my budding career as a sprinter, but these quadrennial Summer Games represent the pinnacle of this sport. I’m about to make this dream a reality.
As with any Olympic podium ascension, a little luck has been involved. Despite being healthy and on point throughout the U.S. trials, and preliminary rounds here in Mexico, I strained my groin in the semifinal two days ago.
Even with that muscle tweak, I was able to procure the gold medal in the 200-meter competition tonight, with a world record of 19.83 seconds. This time improved on my own personal best of 20 seconds flat achieved in Sacramento a few years ago.
The race played out perfectly for me. My collegiate teammate and fellow countryman John Carlos got out of the blocks well, as he usually does. With him in Lane 4, just to my right, I used his substantial surge to gauge my own effort. I was eventually able to get even with him halfway down the straightaway.
From there, my elite closing speed, a product of rigorous training, kicked in, allowing me to pull away substantially in the last 30 meters. The trackside clock confirmed my historic time, and the large scoreboard listed out the substantial margin of victory over the other contestants.
While my margin of victory was substantial, final results determination still required usage of the new high-tech camera system. This electronics advancement takes a picture instantaneously when the first runner triggers the finish line tripwire, a figurative, as opposed to literal, mechanism.
The resulting black and white picture sequence can then be used by technicians to position the frontal torso, the official body part which dictates task completion, for all other participants in the frame. Track meets have come a long way from the days of the handgun and hand timer.
My best friend is now standing on the slightly lower pedestal to my left. John Carlos experienced his own good fortune earlier this week, stepping on the lane demarcation line during his initial heat, which he won, but should have been disqualified. Fate, and faith, are in our favor tonight.
The 3rd member of this medal stand trio, winner of the silver, is not American, but Australian. All three of us have run personal bests in the 200-meter final to get here, a testament to the extra motivation associated with an Olympic finals effort. Granted, the track surface, and atmospheric conditions, may be playing a part as well.
This is the first Olympiad to utilize a modern, all-weather, rubber track, rather than traditional cinders, which have been the oval surface of choice for speed since Athens 1896. This bouncy Tarta compound was apparently developed by global materials conglomerate 3M for horse racing.
Understandably, just a few days in, it has not been well received by many human runners. However, us sprinters certainly aren’t complaining.
Last night we watched our female teammate, Wyomia Tyus, become the first person of either sex to defend their Olympic gold title in the 100-meter sprint event. In world record fashion, as is becoming increasingly common for short distance races, here in the light and lofty air of Mexico City.
While the action on the track was smoking hot, the inclement weather quickly quelched the medal ceremony. As Wyomia took her well-earned position on the podium, the heavens opened up, and rain poured down. Considering the substantial heat and humidity, surprising for an evening in October, athletes and fans alike stood stoically, soaking in the refreshing precipitation, and the historic moment.
Meanwhile, participants in the men’s 400-meter hurdles final that night had to participate in the deluge, adding an additional challenging element to one of the most grueling events on the track.
The United States has already captured 4 of the 6 medals awarded in the 100-meter event, including both men’s and women’s golds via world record times. This track is definitely functional, and our American sprint squad strong. With these finals occurring over the past two evenings, confidence in high in our camp. John and I are happy to keep the momentum going, in every sense of the word.
First the 100-meter bests fell, now I’ve smashed the 200-meter mark. While this track might not be traditional, it’s clearly fast, at least over short distances. Plus, us speedy folks could care less about the thin air at this high elevation. Only a few full breaths are needed over our tens of seconds exertion efforts.
In Mexico’s ode to the future, this is the first athletics competition every to rely exclusively on electronic timekeeping equipment. No more skewed stopwatches or twitchy timekeepers. These digital digits are dialed, and absolutely accurate. In theory. Regardless, my world record time is now in the books and official.
While we were all in our standard track garb, tight shorts, a stretch tank top, and most importantly, leather spikes, for the speedy race an hour ago, our attire is now decidedly different.
John and I have donned the navy-blue track suits issued by USATF, the national organization we’re racing for. Trimmed with white and red stripes, the primary soft fabric color is so deep than it could be interpreted as black. Fitting, considering the dark skin color of my teammate and I, which is visible on our arms, as both of us have rolled up the jacket sleeves, considering the warm weather.
Further highlighting this black hue, each of us is wearing a single black glove, mine on the right hand, and John’s on the left. We were only able to come up with one pair of mitts on late notice, as this wardrobe addition wasn’t planned.
In another odd, but strategic clothing decision, we have both taken to the podium wearing just our black socks, and no shoes at all. This shabby presentation is meant as a nod to the rampant poverty experienced by many black Americans, even in an era when general quality of life in our home country is improving substantially. Another example of societal polarity.
Some of the selected embellishments to our nearly matching team outfits are decidedly personal. Around my neck, I’m rocking a knit black scarf to highlight my ethnic roots, while the countryman to my left has donned a metal necklace in protest of the heinous lynching practices which continue to be prevalent in some American states.
While the 3rd member of the 200-meter medal contingent, silver medalist Peter Norman is Australian, and white, he’s still supporting our cause. By wearing the same “Olympic Project for Human Rights” button that John and I have pinned to the breast of our jackets, just above the initials of the divided country that we call home.
It’s been a long and bumpy life journey to this privileged podium position. I grew up in the rural farm country of North Texas, the industry which both my parents were employed in. As the 7th of 12 children in the large family, I worked hard with my siblings to put food on the table. This vigorous daily exertion helped me grow tall and strong in my adolescent years, with the added physique benefit of allowing me to excel in high school sports.
Despite being proficient in many team pursuits, I soon found my passion competing alone, on the oval. This prolific skill set allowed me to escape my harsh Texas upbringing, joining the up-and-coming San Jose State track squad in California on an athletic scholarship. This life choice proved to be a great decision.
As a freshman, during the spring track season of 1966, I set the 200-meter straight line world record of 19.5 seconds on a cinder track. A month later, at the NCAA Championships, I ran 20 seconds flat in the standard 200-meter single turn event for the first time ever. I was in peak form, and arguably the fastest human in history.
This prowess, and that of similarly skilled mates, helped propel the San Jose State men’s track team into a powerhouse in the sport, led by a strong stable of sprinters. However, us black athletes were not appreciated on campus, or within the broader Northern California community.
It was less than a year later that, out of frustration, I became aware of and enlisted in the Olympic Project for Human Rights, in October of 1967. This group is meant to align elite athletes in peaceful protest of ongoing racial segregation and backlash to the civil rights movement throughout America. Joining me in this political pursuit was my SJSU teammate, John Carlos, a passionate lad who grew up in Harlem on the opposite coast, and had recently transferred onto our increasingly successful sprint squad.
The OPHR contemplated a full boycott of the 1968 Olympic Games, but decided the global stage could be a valuable marketing platform. John and I, while simple underlings within the organization, were quite happy with this decision. Both under 25 years of age, still early on in our career, we were hesitant to put our future athletic pursuits on the line with any public protest leading up to the Games.
But now, the circumstances have changed. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And this Olympic medal podium provides a global avenue for messaging never thought possible. Thus, this moment must be seized. Subtly, of course.
The dominance of dark-skinned folk like myself and John Carols has been evident throughout this entire athletics competition. While we hail from throughout the globe, from Kentucky to Kenya, Jamaica the city to Jamaica the country, we all have historical African roots, if the genealogy is traced back far enough. Apparently, growing up in a harsh environment where running was a means of survival promotes strong genetics.
Case and point, the men’s 100-meter final featured all blacks, negros, or various other western world skin color slurs. We simply prefer the term elite athletes. Let the results on the track here in Mexico speak for themselves. I will give Mr. Norman from Australia credit for his 2nd place finish in the 200-meter race. It’s hard to find a white human who excels at sprinting, not to mention one supportive of our civil rights movement. Good on you mate.
Right on queue, each of us standing on the prescribed level, with the appropriate metallic alloy draped around our necks, music fills the air. The simple tune is known to nearly all Americans, regardless of race, creed, or sex. Our national anthem.
The full stadium goes silent in hushed reverence. Now is the time to make a visual statement. In unison, John and I raise our gloved hands high, while dipping our gaze groundward. This act was not fully premeditated or choreographed, but it feels right in the moment.
As the music concludes, I finally raise my head from a solemn prayer for peace, and take in the entire scene. To my surprise, the response to this impromptu protest appears decidedly disparate. While some in the stands are booing with discontent, other fans are cheering wildly in support.
If there is such divergence in opinion regarding our specific actions, and the broader social inequity cause, across the collective in these bleachers, then the global reaction must be even more mixed. I know that most Olympic sports viewers, especially remote-happy Americans, are much more likely to watch the actual events than the medal ceremonies. Still, this podium represents my best opportunity to bring light to the plight of my fellow blacks on the worldwide stage.
It won’t be until tomorrow, when the protest actions of United States sprinters John Carlos and Tommie Smith are picked up and disseminated by the national news media, that the true impact of this impromptu act will be known. Who knows, I may even get the change to do a live interview or two down here in Mexico City.
My hunch is that this spontaneous solidarity statement surrounding the civil rights movement will be received by the same neutral indifference that has plagued the lazy American public over the entire contentious 1960’s.
The divide between blacks and whites in the United States is wide and unwavering. Hopefully, our bold actions elevate this polarized issue in the national, and maybe even global, public consciousness.
Considering the strict policy of the International Olympic Committee shunning political statements by athletes are the Games, there will undoubtably be punishment handed down. Any small fine or suspension is well worth the declaration just made.
Jumping off the podium with a renewed internal vigor, I smile broadly at my friend, who beams back at me. Clearly, he’s equally elated about our public protest. As we walk across the track, for the last time, as it turns out, wearing socks as opposed to shoes, we keep our black gloved hands raised.
Within 2 days of their stunt, both Tommie Smith and John Carlos were kicked out of the Olympic Village by the IOC, and banned from competition for life. As a result of this harsh punishment, other American black athletes in Mexico were hesitant to comment, for fear of additional legislative backlash. Peter Norman was also punished, through omission from the 1972 Australian Olympic team, despite seemingly being qualified based on performance merits.
After his Olympic prospects were unfairly terminated, Tommie Smith played 3 seasons in the NFL as a Cincinnati Bengal, but wasn’t very good at catching the ball, an obvious prerequisite. He ended up in education, working for 3 decades at as a college track coach and sociology professor at Oberlin, then Santa Monica. He continues to fight against racial injustice in society.
John Carlos also had a brief stint in the NFL and CFL before getting injured. Ironically, nearly 2 decades after the incident, he worked for the very organization which ended his professional athletics career, helping the U.S. Olympic Committee plan the 1984 LA Olympics.
October 18th​
The sky looks ominously dark. Either sunset is rolling in early, or a storm is brewing. I suspect the latter, considering the smell of the moist sand I’ve been warming up in. Like a farmer working the dirt, or a fisherman examining the tides, my chosen craft has given me an innate sense of the landscape and climate not obvious to most normies.
Of which there are many. The stands are packed, with nary an empty seat in the stadium for this afternoon athletics session. The schedule is now most of the way through a packed track and field calendar during in the first week of these Olympic Games. With many of the preliminary rounds already complete, several medals will be handed out tonight.
Including the men’s long jump finals, which I’m the favorite in. Understandable, since I’m currently in peak form, having tallied a career best of 27 feet and 4 inches earlier in the season, a campaign during which I’ve won all of the 23 elite competitions entered, aside from one.
Granted, there’s plenty of stiff rivals in the global field here.
Long jumping is an interesting discipline. There are many different techniques, training, and trajectories used. However, the ultimate goal is incredibly well defined. Take off as close to the fault line of the board as possible, and travel the furthest forward before returning to the sandy earth. Pretty straightforward, but by no means simple.
My warm-up has been hit or miss, as it always is. Despite participation in the preliminary round this morning, I’m still trying to dial in my steps. Lunging and leaping at 7,350 feet above sea level is truly a unique experience. At times it feels like I’m floating, my already long legs supplemented by the lack of atmospheric resistance at this high elevation. As a result, I been perpetually moving my normal start line distance back to accommodate an accelerated approach.
I don’t feel completely locked in, but the competition is starting, no matter how much more tweaking my run-up requires. I’ll have to figure it out on the fly.
In fact, I’m lucky to have even qualitied for these finals. After faulting on my first 2 attempts of the prelims, I needed a clean effort on my 3rd and last try. Exceeding the roughly 25-foot distance required to move on into the medal round is child’s play for me, provided I avoid fouling yet again.
On the recommendation of my teammate and coach, who had already extended his own Olympic record in this event during qualifying, we decided I should increase my approach length significantly, ensuring takeoff well before the fault line. While distinctly nervous on the run-up, this conservative tactic proved wise, netting a 26-foot, 10-inch flight, which slotted me in with the 2nd longest jump of the preliminary round.
My colleague and I both have aspirations of breaking the men’s long jump world record. Since the start of the 1960’s, this mark has been reestablished 9 separate times, progressively incrementing the distance up from 26’-11” to 27’-4 ½”.
6 separate times this feat was achieved by my mentor coach. He clearly knows what it takes to be an elite long jumper; I have much to learn from this elder. As such, I listen to any nuggets of wisdom he’s willing to share.
Time to perform. Based on random draw, I’m the 4 of the 16 qualifying participants in the finals to jump.
Finding my mark, I contemplate toeing back an inch, then decide to just go for it. In this medal round, we get 6 tries as opposed to 3, so I can afford a few faults. I’m going for glory today.
Happy with my stance, I rock back and forth a few times, then proceed forward down the runway with purpose. This linear sprinting is a motion which comes naturally, as, like most world-class long jumpers, I have elite sprinter speed, with 100-meter times approaching 10 seconds flat.
I quickly accelerate down the track, stride length and forward speed both concurrently increasing. As the leap line approaches, I focus only on maximizing the last few steps before take-off. There’s no reason to adjust the cadence at this point. Based on momentum, the spot where the tip of my right lead shoe lands relative to the fault zone is already determined.
Leg muscles coil, then explode. Foot flexes, then straightens. Abdomen clenches, then bends. Body aligns, then floats.
The sensation of being airborne is one of my favorite parts about this athletic pursuit. This as close to flying as a human can get, without ancillary equipment. Homo sapiens are not build for flight, like avian, or even ape, members of the animal kingdom.
The best jumps are the ones which feel effortless on take-off, and endless while aloft. This is one of those instances.
My position and posture while soaring is different than many of my competitors. I tend to focus on elevation off the board, letting my natural speed provide the forward propulsion. Also, I keep my long legs completely horizontal and fully extended, with my torso leaning forward. The entire goal is to keep every element of my anatomy off the ground until the very last moment.
In this instance, a rare occurrence, all parts of my body seemingly return to earth at the same time. My linear momentum is so strong that my feet and butt barely touch the ground before recoiling. I’m soon airborne again, with the next small hop propelling me completely out of the sand onto the grass beyond.
Instantly knowing this is one of the best efforts on my career, I prance along the side of the pit, and back across the runway, trying to shake the residual adrenaline out of my slender body. Is that leap enough to net me an Olympic medal, and maybe even the world record?
My perpetually competitive mind immediately draws my eyes towards two key markers. The green flag is raised, signifying a legal launch from the board. And the displayed wind speed is 2.0 meters per second, right at the legal limit. I’m clean on both fronts.
I know the jumping conditions here in Mexico City are good, based on observing the finals of the men’s triple jump yesterday. Us horizontal jumpers are an odd breed, who tend to stick together, and support each other.
Tellingly, last night, the triple jump world mark was set 5 times by 3 different athletes. 23-year-old Georgian athlete Viktor Saneyev, competing for the U.S.S.R, our current Cold War nemesis, won the event with a pair of record jumps, including the final tally covering over 57 feet.
That’s a longer distance than a standard tractor trailer bed, traversed in just a trio of linked hops. This kid is clearly a jumping prodigy, with a long and successful career ahead of him.
I’ve tried my hand at triple jumping in the past, so know how absurd his feat is. Apparently, there’s something in the air here in Mexico City. Just make sure not to drink the water.
Despite our national differences, Viktor and I have exchanged pleasantries during various events, as much as our disparate language skills allow. As it turns out, we’re roughly the same age, and grew up in difficult parental environments, highlighted by death and abuses, which hardened our spirit. For each of us, athletics became the outlet to forget about the tough life conditions.
While I don’t know the intimate details of Saneyev’s childhood, the particulars of my own upbringing are seared in my memory.
Born in Queens, NY circa 1946, my mother passed away from tuberculosis shortly after bringing me into the world, leaving an innocent babe in the bruising hands of a violent father. As a young adolescent, I was headed towards a downward spiral amongst the local gangs, before finding housing sanctuary with my grandmother, and discovering a passionate escape through high school sports.
Fortuitously, my sketchy street skills on the basketball court could be parlayed into structured track and field pursuits, specifically sprinting and jumping. I set the national high school triple jump mark in 1965, granted it was almost 7 feet short of Victor’s recent medal winning achievement.
This accomplishment earned me a scholarship at the University of Texas El Paso, where continued performance improvements in jumping disciplines allowed me to qualify for these 1968 Olympics in Mexico City. With a few hiccups along the way.
As a Black American with certain political leanings, I decided to organize a protest with a few like-minded and similarly-endowed teammates at the scheduled Brigham Young University meet, an overwhelmingly white and Mormon institution, leading up to the global Games.
As a result of this act, I was immediately suspended by UTEP, separated from my college coach, and had my scholarship revoked. Battling attrition, practicing and training on my own, I made the solo trip to Mexico City, anxious to compete in the Olympics.
My primary motivation became proving to the world I’m the best long jumper in history, regardless of skin color or social status. These finals are my chance to demonstrate my mettle, and earn a medal.
Since the 3 individuals before me on the register all foot faulted, further highlighting the challenge with dialing in the run-up, I’m the first athlete to have a clean jump. Apparently, some kinks still need to be worked out in the optical measurement system.
I, along with the rest of the contestants, watch in an increasing mix on anxiety and amusement as the officials fiddle with their fancy digital devices, then eventually revert back to the archaic tape measure techniques which were used before the recent electronic protocols became implemented. As they check and recheck the distance, it appears this crew is a little rusty with the manual method.
Is it because I’m so close to the current record that they want to double confirm? Are they trying to recalibrate the optical camera for future jumpers? Did I fault on that attempt, but the pressure sensor failed to register? Is there a debatable trailing hand mark well short of my main landing spot?
After an incredibly lengthy delay, with more than 10 minutes having elapsed, the officials finally convey the results to announcer, who belts out the tally over the loudspeakers to the stadium crowd, while the numbers simultaneously flash up on the main scoreboard.
“8.90 meters!”
I’m not very familiar with metric units, having grown up, and done most of my jumping, in America, where the Imperial system of feet and inches is used. However, based on the vigor with which my elder jump teammate, who also serves as my coach, rushes over and embraces me, I’m gathering this is a good result.
There’s a decided irony that the bib number I’ve been assigned for this meet is #254. This represents the conversion ratio from inches to centimeters, when a decimal point is placed after the first digit. Fortunately, my more mathematically inclined pal soon straightens me out.
Breaking away briefly, he stammers “You just jumped over 29 feet!” That’s not possible. This mentor must be confused. The 28-foot barrier is one both of us are aspiring to achieve at these Olympics, considering the optimal atmospheric conditions. But an additional foot of distance covered is simply not possible. There must be an issue with the tape measure.
However, as additional event entrants flock over, providing congratulatory well-wishings, and snarky comments about the competition already being over, reality sets in.
The horizontal distance on this aerial leap is unfathomable, in every sense of the word. Apparently, the delay was because I completely surpassed the newly established electronic measuring equipment for these 1968 Games.
I am in absolute shock. I knew the world record was a possibility, based on my current peak form, but travelling over 29 feet wasn’t even a part of my wildest dreams. Stunned by this revelation, I feel my powerful muscles suddenly becoming weak. Losing all bodily control, my lanky frame crumples to the grassy infield in incredulous joy.
Considering that momentous mark, I shouldn’t need to jump again in this contest. Good thing, since my body and mind are in shock.
The absurd margin of victory (71 cm) and improvement to the existing record (55 cm) with Bob Beamon’s 8.90-meter leap in Mexico 1968 will likely never be repeated. It wasn’t until the 1991 Tokyo World Championships, during an epic dual between Carl Lewis and Mike Powell, that the men’s long jump world record was finally bumped up to 8.95 meters. Beamon’s mark still stands as the Olympic benchmark.
In an ode to his U.S.A. track teammates from a few days earlier, who had recently been kicked out of the Olympic Village, Bob walked to the medal podium wearing only black socks pulled up over his sweatpants.
After the 1968 Olympics, Beamon didn’t compete in another major athletics meet. He was selected in the 15th round of the 1968 NBA draft, but never made it into a professional game. As verification that the Mexico City conditions weren’t a fluke, young Georgian athlete Viktor Saneyev ended up winning triple jump gold in 1972 and 1976, plus silver in 1980, while also extending his world record mark along the way.
October 20th​
Staring skyward, I take in the vivid blue backdrop above. It’s a majestic hue, on this brilliantly sunny afternoon. My body is completely relaxed, neck loose, back arched, and toes extended. This levitating, stoic posture only lasts for a moment in time.
Milliseconds later, my entire body is returning to the natural world. Along with all the constraints of air resistance, variable windage, and, of course, relentless gravity. Flicking my feet up in unison, while simultaneously stabilizing my head, I brace for the inevitable impact.
The crash landing is an abrupt departure from prior effortless soaring. My scrawny frame crumples into the thick mat, knowing concession to this padding is much better for health than resistance. My most recent aerial journey is complete. All good things must come to an end.
Speaking of good things coming to an end, from my lounging post, gazing upwards, I realize the round bar, which I was trying to clear, is no longer delicately resting on the pegs above. I don’t remember dislodging this obstacle. I must has clipped the rod with my heel on the way over. So close.
What makes this realization so odd, is that it’s the first miss I’ve had this entire high jump contest, having gone clean through the preliminary and final rounds until now. My feeling of invincibility has been tinged a bit, but I’m still floating on cloud 9, based on prolific performance already today.
The Olympic record in the men’s high jump has been surpassed several rounds ago. At this point, every time an individual clears, the high water, or bar, level increases incrementally.
There are 3 of us still active in the competition. In addition to my American teammate, a Soviet combatant remains. In an incredibly audacious strategy, this guy actually passed at the opportunity to achieve the previous pinnacle mark of 2.18 meters, instead choosing to save his strength for even loftier goals. A truly bold strategy.
When our trio all cleared 2.20 meters, a feat never before accomplished by any human in the Games, each on the first attempt, it became clear this is truly a unique contest. Apparently, they handed out wings with the participant welcome package here in Mexico City.
While I don’t recall getting any feathered equipment in my goodie bag, I will give the host nation credit for providing some lovely amenities. 29 brand new buildings have been constructed to house the athletes and ambassadors who arrived from around the world. Based on my erratic travels meandering through town, I’m sensing that our accommodations are much nicer than those of the generous local residents.
There are no shortage of things to distract me from training: swimming pool, food court, board games, and art exhibits. Not to mention the well-stocked gym, a critical resource for keeping prolific players from around the world fit and healthy for their selected pursuit. I’m a bit of an outlier with regards to structured practice routines, or standardized protocols.
When I discovered the sport of high jumping, there was no consensus best technique. The scissor, barrel roll, straddle, and western roll were all equally valid approaches for clearing the raised bar.
Analytical by nature, I knew there had to be an optimal way to get one’s body cleanly over a tall obstruction. And that none of the current approaches had landed on this holy grail yet, at least considering my own awkward and gangly physique.
Growing up in Medford, OR, during high school, I experimented with, iterated on, and eventually invented, a new method of high jumping. This exploration was purely out of necessity, as I was so inept at the other options, my spot on the varsity team became in jeopardy. Failure can be a powerful motivator.
I was certainly a troubled adolescent, seeking guidance, purpose, and structure. My upbringing was quite challenged, with my parents divorced, and a younger brother dying, all during my formative teenage years. Athletics, specifically the high jump, were my emotional and physical outlet.
The true evolution, leading to this ongoing revolution, started way back in 1963, during my sophomore year, at just 16 years of age. My selected starting point was the scissor technique, which I’d proven to be the least bad at.
Committed to keeping my hips and backside high, allowing for increased clearance, I gradually started changing my run-up trajectory and in-flight orientation from forward, to sideways, and eventually rearward. The technique evolved over the years, reaching increasingly higher heights in both performance and confidence.
My refined system now involves turning completely backwards upon approach, and arching my back to clear the bar, with my head being the first body part to impact the mat. While this scheme is awkward, it allows me to maintain speed heading towards the obstacle, and keep my center of gravity below the objective, even while passing over it.
It’s helped that the past decade has seen increased padding used for high jump landing zones, transitioning from wood chips to sand pit to foam mats. The accommodating soft cushioning conveniently enables a head-first impact, without incurring permeant bodily harm. But doesn’t help quell the jeers from onlookers.
There were initially some questions from other coaches on our high school circuit about the legality of this technique, but it didn’t appear to violate any of the existing rules. 5 years later, and much more well-traveled on the athletics circuit, I’ve compiled a list of rebuttals for any conceivable complaint that may be logged by a competitor.
It seems some athletes in the track and field realm are very resistant to change. Especially when such advancement results in them losing.
Despite using the same high jump procedure I’ve incorporated for several years, it’s amazing how much attention I’ve gotten here in Mexico City. During preliminary warm-ups, foreign competitors constantly stared at me, some even coming up and making confused comments in broken English.
Meanwhile, the press corps seems both intrigued and offended that there could be any innovation in the stodgy athletics realm, aside from marginal weightlifting routine and footwear improvements, which incrementally improve performance at a slow and predictable rate.
It’s official, the “Fosbury Flop” has now been unveiled on the international stage.
It’s hard to argue with the results of my innovative approach. At just 21 years old, now a sophomore at Oregon State University, I’ve already used this novel leaping strategy to win the NCAA title, then to qualify for this Mexico City meet, via the U.S. Olympic trials, all surprising successes occurring earlier this summer.
Having earned my place here on the global stage, I guess there’s really no way to keep this unique jumping methodology a secret any longer. Viewers worldwide are going to be tuning into this contest. Many will be very surprised with what they see, especially as I approach the bar. Coming from the side, at a very shallow angle, as opposed to taking the obstacle straight on.
As a technology nerd, which explains the civil engineering degree I’m pursuing in college, I know the results of my achievements will be tabulated and transferred worldwide within minutes. The digital age of computers is upon us, strings of numeric data being converted into ticker tape, with the information then transferred over electronic wires around the globe.
Hopefully there aren’t any font gaffs, blurry pictures, or, even worse, power outages. Even with the live television broadcast, I’m sure my separated parents will both still rely on the daily paper for their news, as they have since I was a child. Some things never change.
So far, those who have chosen to tune in to the men’s high jump final coverage are getting quite a show. With the Olympic record in the rearview mirror, this competition continues to provide quality entertainment. Spurred on by the lively crowd, this contest experience at one end of the arena’s infield has surpassed even my own lofty expectations.
As with most jumpers, I like to don a warm-up suit between attempts, as there can be a lot of logistics downtime, between mat shifting, bar replacements, run-up tweaks, and height increases.
Today, I’ve got #262 on my warm-up suit, but #272 pinned to my uniform underneath. I swapped outerwear with a U.S. colleague, since the original offering was very baggy on my scrawny frame, and his issued costume proved too tight to accommodate his muscular body. Sharing is caring.
Currently, the delay in jumping is for a much rarer, but very commendable, reason. The men’s marathon race is culminating with a lap around the stadium track. I guess after over 26 miles of exertion, covering several hours, we can take a few minutes to honor the impressive exertion by these lads.
The lead racer ends up with a 3-minute margin of victory over the competition, but is well off current world record pace. During the course of the next 10 minutes, 15 individuals complete this grueling race. Seeing these guys, including my American teammate, suffering to the finish provides that last dose of extra motivation needed to achieve my own lofty goal in this packed venue.
This Olympics has been a coming out party for African men’s distance runners, who have clearly showed their strength. With the recent Ethiopian victory in the marathon, athletes from this continent have won at least one medal in every running event from 800 meters upwards. Kenya and Ethiopia natives, living and training at high elevations, are apparently perfect suited for the harsh Mexico City conditions.
While numerous sprinting and jumping world records, including hopefully the men’s high jump mark, have been set as a result of surface and elevation here, no such feats are occurring in the long-distance realm. There’s just not enough oxygen to be had.
Marathon delay complete, we’re back to the competition at hand. With everyone else having burned through their allotted 3 attempts, I have a chance to win the gold right now, if I can simply clear 2.24 meters. I’ve achieved this mark in practice, but down to my last try, on the global stage, is an entirely different level of pressure.
My jumping technique isn’t the only odd element of my trackside demeanor. Case and point, I’m wearing different color shoes. Both are the same model and brand, but one is white and the other blue. American patriotic messaging, which also offers a nod at the asymmetric elements of this high jumping pursuit. And my own quirky tendencies.
Disrobing down to my short shorts and tight tank, I carefully make sure everything is tucked in. Being sleek is important for many track events, but especially in the high jump, as a stray piece of fabric can be the difference between clearing or clipping the bar.
In my opinion, pursuit of any goal is just as much mental as it is physical. My adoption of this Zen tenant has helped me get through many tough challenges in my tumultuous life. Now, I need to summon that inner strength one more time.
My pre-jump routine, while unorthodox, is critical to optimizing performance, and getting my body’s charkas aligned. I aggressively blow on my hands, dispelling any evil energy. I clench my fists, summoning the power harnessed within. I stare intently at the bar, visualizing optimal flight. I rock gently, waiting for the aura to feel right.
Suddenly I’m in motion, accelerating on an arcing path from the left, which will soon bring me up to and parallel with the obstacle of interest.
Achieving these substantial heights requires adjusting my take-off point back, so that the peak of the parabolic trajectory dictating my flight peaks in the correct time and space. I’m sure all these positions, velocities, and accelerations in 3-dimensional space can be calculated, but I haven’t gotten that far in my engineering curriculum yet.
As it turns out, no math is needed, just a little trust in fate. As my head hits the pad, long legs still in the air, I’m already tingling with anticipation. It’s going to be a clean jump. The premonition is confirmed as I roll off the mat, then turn to find the bar still in position, an unfathomably high distance off the rubberized surface. I’ve done it.
15 minutes later, after 3 failed attempts at 2.29 meters, which would have represented a clear world record mark, I’m still ecstatic with my result. Sure, I’ve earned a gold medal in the Olympics, but the real achievement is even more profound. I’ve accomplished an audacious goal set years ago, while young and naïve, then taken the required sequence of steps to make it happen.
While typically a loner, having eschewed the bustling opening ceremony held in the same stadium last week to visit some ancient ruins in the Mexican countryside alone, at this moment I want to celebrate together. Fortunately, there are nearly 100k energetic fans in the stands looking to rejoice with me.
2 weeks into these Games, an odd crowd party activity has spawned and taken off. Waving and throwing of straw hats. This phenomenon combines the propensity of locals to wear this iconic headwear, the raucous cheering associated with encouraging amazing sports pursuits, and the intrigue of athletes from foreign lands to connect with their supporters.
Which makes for many an odd scene, as medal winners take their victory laps around the oval, with a cowboy hat plopped atop their head. This may as well be a rodeo, track suits aside. A rural activity that I’m happy to participate in, considering my recently feat, and propensity for the outdoors.
It’s been over a decade since an American man earned the Olympic gold in the men’s high jump event. I’m happy to bring this title back to the United States, and my teammate earning the silver is further confirmation of our country’s reemergence in this sport.
Still, since all of the participants in this competition, and across the track and field collective, are amateurs, there’s not really a clear path to any viable monetary career. As such, despite this successful Olympic outcome, I’m resolved to return to OSU for my junior year, and eventually earn my civil engineering degree. I’ve already missed a week of coursework while travelling to Mexico City, so have a lot of catching up to do.
On the medal podium, Dick Fosbury was very conscious of his achievements, and the ongoing political divides, thus felt motivated to demonstrate his commitment to the cause. After the American national anthem played, he raised his hand and flashed the peace sign with two fingers, then closed his fist to demonstrate solidarity with the Olympic Movement for Human Rights.
This new high jump technique invented by “Foz” changed the sport forever, inspiring kids to leap backwards over their couches while watching his amazing Olympic feat on television. Fosbury’s success on the global stage took his random strategy, and made it mainstream.
There were initial concerns about head and neck safety, even with improved landing pads. However, over half the participants used the “Fosbury Flop” in Munich 1972, and by the end of the 1970’s, all successful high jump athletes had adopted his approach. The event never looked back.
In 2018, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of his record-breaking performance, Dick traveled back to Mexico City. At this point in his life, he had started a successful engineering consulting firm, battled and beaten cancer, and championed world peace through sport.
October 25th​
I feel so old.
This is an interesting sentiment, for a woman who just turned 26 years old. However, life is harder for some than others. And my selected athletic career feels like it’s been ongoing for decades.
At 5’3” tall, and 125 pounds, in any normal societal context, I would be described as petite. However, it this field, I’m one of the largest ladies participating. Hopefully I can use such physical and mental development to my advantage, as opposed to my detriment.
I’m quite familiar with winning Olympic hardware. My first Games, 1960 in Rome, at 18 years old, I helped earn our team silver. Next came a quartet of medals, 3 of which were gold, including the all-around title, in Tokyo 1964. Now, in my 3rd Olympic go-round, I’m trying to further increase my tally.
Despite my elite pedigree, I almost didn’t make it to this championship. Not for lack of appropriate qualifications, but because of geopolitical issues.
My homeland has been in and out of conflict throughout my life, but recent developments have forced a transition to the next level of outright war. A group of hostile surrounding nations, the People’s Republics of Bulgaria, Hungary, Poland, and the Soviet Union, aligned under the Warsaw Pact, invaded our lands.
While still physically young, I’m wise beyond my years, and understand how my position as a famous athlete, one of the most well-known in Czechoslovakia, offers an important political platform.
I’ve always advocated for liberation and democracy within my native country, a governance format that offers up the best opportunities for the next generation of Czech citizens, of which I’m one. As a result, I signed the controversial “2,000 Words” manifesto in June of this year. Thus, my partisan leanings were cemented, and my personage put at risk on the public stage.
After the hostile August imposition of my hometown, our nation’s capital, I was forced to flee into the mountains, and train in secret leading up to these Olympics. Obviously, this remote location didn’t have as many amenities as my normal gymnasium.
Potato sacks were used for weight training. A felled and debarked log served as the balance beam. Hill climb hikes substituted for track jogs. Packed dirt and soft grass replaced rubber runways and padded mats. Shoveling coal to maintain upper body strength, with no bars, uneven, parallel, or other, to be found. It was an interesting couple of months, but at least I remained reasonably health and well fed.
The last few weeks in hiding leading up to the Games brought the tensest moments. Does the Soviet incursion know where I am? Will I be able to make the journey from Eastern Europe to Central America? How were my teammates doing with their own disrupted training regimens? Do I have the correct paperwork to enter Mexico, and what amenities would be available there?
Ironically, the liberal sentiments of free expression and open travel espoused by the fledgling Czech leadership are the exact rights that are now being suppressed. Which highlights why this movement is so important.
Fortunately, God willing, I was able to safely make the journey here to Mexico City, and have been allowed to compete. In fact, the local people, along with the diverse influx of fans, having discovered the challenging circumstances of my travails, have embraced me wholeheartedly. As such, I plan to reward these supporters with incredible gymnastics performance.
There’s no doubt who the favorite is at these 1968 Olympics. Me. While I haven’t earned any perfect 10 scores yet in this competition, I’m familiar with what it means to achieve this flawless mark.
At the European Championships last year, the elite gathering in odd numbered years, I swept all 5 individual gold medals, earning a pair of “10’s” in the process. I attained this same podium domination in 1965, becoming the first female gymnast to achieve this feat.
I did receive a 9.90 during my voluntary uneven bars and compulsory vault routines, the latter of which happens to be my favorite apparatus. As such, I’ve already earned gold in both these events.
A gymnastic contest is a grueling affair. 4 separate disciplines, each requiring both a compulsory and voluntary exercises. For the top 6 athletes on each apparatus, an additional novel voluntary performance is required to determine the final medal order.
With 101 ladies competing, including 14 full national squads of 6, along with additional participants from 12 other countries, there’s a lot of logistics to keep track of. We move through the various apparatus in groups, traveling with a few other teams.
As a veteran of these dynamic events, I’m tasked with wrangling the younger girls, keeping them focused on the task at hand, and making sure they move smoothly from station to station. At this point in my career, I’m as much a coach as a competitor. But I’m still at the top of my game, at the pinnacle of the sport. Time to close out this competition.
The final discipline is the floor exercise. I consider gymnastics to be the perfect balance of art and skill, dance and athletics. In no event is this concept truer than the voluntary floor routine, with combines elements of ballet, acrobatics, acting, and tumbling.
I don’t know who designed our uniforms for this competition, but these are about as mundane and non-descript as any I’ve ever donned. They don’t call this pursuit artistic gymnastics because it’s dull and plain.
Granted, I understand the concept of avoiding bright colors and flashy blocking, in an endeavor where the goal is to present a clean silhouette with minimal visual distractions to the judges. Still, a midnight blue unitard, covering nothing below my groin region, and every element of my upper body except for hands and head, is an odd look.
I will give the apparel designer credit in one regard. If they are trying to highlight the precision of contortive moves my flexible frame is making during the various disciplines, the contrast between my very light skin legs, with dark covering on torso and arms, makes for quite a stark juxtaposition of limbs.
This monochromatic costume is trimmed with a thin ribbon of continuous white cord, attached just below the neckline on both front and back, with a looping button feature following my sternum. The only other embellishment, a patch on my left forearm, at least provides a pop of color, and hints at the country I’m competing for.
An upright silver lion caricature, with a double tail, and a golden crown, presented on a background of bright crimson. The official coat of arms for Bohemia, and adopted by the Czechoslovakia nation that I’m a resident of. This patriotic symbolism is a nice touch, especially considering the challenging, war-torn landscape of Eastern Europe currently.
While I was initially depressed by this casual look, as I surveyed my competitors during our first group practice session a few days back, my mood improved substantially. Compared to them, this attire is downright flamboyant. Such is the status of women’s gymnastics uniforms these days.
At least I get to wear much classier, comfortable, and cooler clothing when not participating. Opportunities to get dressed up, and present myself as a refined lady, especially a new urban destination like Mexico City, are much appreciated. It’s not hard to get more civilized than my several months of rural woods seclusion leading up to this important contest.
Not allowed to wear jewelry, or even socks, there’s only one element of my appearance which I’m able to customize. My hair. Fortunately, I have plenty of it to work with.
Blonde in color, typical of my genetic heritage, this resource is long and versatile. I often wear it down in daily life, but this mop must be fully secured atop my dome during competition, for stability and visibility purposes, as opposed to mandated by any official rules.
This mass of golden strands, oscillating between straight and wavy depending on the humidity, is currently twisted in an incredibly tidy bun, secured by multiple bobby pins, then covered with a protective fabric headband. Navy blue in color of course. Some aesthetic style can’t hurt my scores.
I’ve competed in all sorts of different gymnastics facilities, from tiny underground caves, to expansive sports arenas. Not to mention, the recent practice sessions outside, literally in the wild.
Across the wide range of the places I’ve performed in, this Mexico City venue falls squarely middling in nearly all regards. Standard layout of apparatus throughout the accommodating, but somewhat cramped, footprint. Seating capacity between 5k and 10k viewers, with many positions that offer limited visibility. Tall ceilings and variable sight lines for spotting landing points on acrobatic maneuvers. Makeshift locker rooms, characteristic of a non-athletics operation which has been repurposed.
What is novel is the outside of the building. Dubbed the National Auditorium, this is much more of a musical theatre, as opposed to the sporting site. This structure was built in 1952 by a pair of well-known Mexican architects, according to the plaques displayed upon entry. With a combination of cut structural stone and faceted glass ceiling outside, combined with natural wood rafters and red felt seating inside, the juxtaposition of ancient and modern is obvious.
But I’m not here to revel at the unique structures which host each competition. I’m here to demonstrate my ability to dominate the apparatus placed in the assigned space. I was put on this earth to do a specific job. Now is my time to prove my worth one last time.
Gymnastics has occupied my entire life, starting early in childhood. As with many young girls, I began my athletic career as a figure skater. An activity facilitated by the cold winter weather in my homeland; I quickly moved on to a year-round, indoor, exercise pursuit.
It finally feels like I have transitioned from a girl to a woman. At over a quarter century in age, I’m essentially a senior citizen in competitive gymnastics parlance. I’ve always wanted to go out on top, and can’t think of a better way than winning one final Olympic prize.
It’s been a grueling 4 days of competition. Which has cemented my dominance of this sport, earning clear gold medal victories in the vault and uneven bars, along with the individual all-around gymnastics title. This trio of feats which would be a career result for almost anyone else in the field. But my standards are incredibly exacting.
Granted, I was also scammed out of another first place finish already today, losing to my arch nemesis on the balance beam, due to some sketchy scoring. At least in my opinion, but there is an element of subjectivity in this sport. That recent loss has made me angry, and therefore motivated, for the final pending floor exercise performance.
I’m not shy about expressing my political views, despite the risks to livelihood that such bold sentiments might engender. I consider my privileged position as an elite gymnast a platform to reach the masses, which I must use in good conscience. In various interviews leading up to these Games, I referred to the Soviet Union athletes as “invader’s representatives”. Harsh, but true, from a Czech patriot’s perspective.
These personal feelings shouldn’t influence a group of impartial, professional judges. But there’s something quite odd about what happened with the balance beam tallies, well after the fact.
There’s no telling what ploy these biased scoring arbiters will come up with next to elevate one of the Soviet tramps. I’ll just have to set myself so far apart in the final voluntary floor routine that there’s no doubt about the fair result.
This last event of the meet offers up the most opportunity for freedom, creativity, and expression. Which allows me to separate from the pack, leveraging my childhood figure skating exploration, regimented adolescent gymnastics training, and even some new moves recently refined in the Bohemian wilderness.
With 4 different apparatus, occupied by over a dozen full teams, plus a variety of other random participants, there’s always multiple gymnasts competing simultaneously. Considering the small confines of the space, there’s only one event that can personally be crafted to music. The floor exercise, which I’m about to partake in.
Lots of people listen to tunes when they practice. But my last few months of remote training substantially limited the options. Initially, I struggled to pick my song for this important final act; with the only rule limitation being that there can’t be any lyrics, the available melodic options are quite broad.
Knowing the Mexico City setting for these 1968 Games, I’ve savvily selected a few popular pieces commonly performed by mariachi string bands. I love engaging the crowd, and know these lively tunes will spice up the locals.
Standing a few meters in from my usual starting corner, I wait for my soundtrack to come on. I don’t plan to get anywhere near the boundary line during my entire jaunt, as this incurs a substantial penalty. The catchy beat pipes in over the loudspeakers, and I’m instinctively in motion.
Having practiced this routine countless times, I know every hop, twist, step, and roll, by heart. Starting in the correct position is critical, as my erratic, but calculated, journey around the 12-meter square flat space all tracks from the origin point.
The installed floor surface here, rubberized foam over a plywood base, is quite springy. Perfect for achieving lift on jumps, and cushioning impact on dives. I’m constantly in motion, arms, legs, torso, and head, all with curated motions to perform on each skill. It’s a delicate, detailed, defined dance, towards destiny.
Halfway through my act, with everything going perfectly, I’m confident enough to pause a beat, and “throw smiles” to the crowd, touching my fingers to my beaming lips, then extending my arm in a broad sweeping gesture. This little showy trick gets the audience even more engaged.
The maximum allowable time for the floor exercise is 90 seconds. With the maneuvers precisely choreographed to the music playing, I don’t need to worry about rushing to complete my act in the allotted window.
For the vast majority of my performance, when not airborne, I’m standing on my toes. These extreme appendages of the legs are key to balance, and one of my superpowers as a gymnast, as evidenced by the developed calluses. But even with all my rigorous training, they are starting to fatigue.
As the song speeds up into a crescendo, so do my movements on the mat. A linked sequence, twirling lunges, rolling splits, and extended hops, executed along a sweeping arc, sets me up for a final straight tumbling pass. The key element is a back full flip, with single foot landing, directly into a back bridge, which positions me on my knees, arms raised high, just as the music finishes. The crowd roars in delight, and I soak in every shriek of admiration with pride.
This routine felt almost flawlessly in execution. Maybe a perfect 10 is in the cards.
I’ve have done the best I could, exhausting my muscles, lungs, and most importantly, heart, throughout this competition. Any unbiased observer would agree I have dominated the meet, as evidenced by the raucous cheers from fans as I stuck my last landing.
I stand stoically, holding the final pose, smiling even more broadly than ever. While those in attendance may mistake this smirk as part of my act, this beaming display of pearly white teeth is entirely wholesome. I’ve just executed the last performance on the mat of my life, leaping, twirling, and jumping into the history books.
As confirmation of this life change, in 3 days I’m marrying a Czech middle-distance runner who I’ve been courting for years. It will be great to not have the obligation of relentless workouts and training, which has defined my daily routing for nearly 2 decades.
Seemingly winning the floor contest based on the merit of Vera ÄŒáslavská final routine effort, the judges deliberated and decided to declare a tie for gold. There have been many conspiracy theories about mysteriously adjusting preliminary scores of the Soviet competitors at this 1968 meet, but the score tally confusion was simply a paperwork error.
While Vera still won the overall women’s gymnastics title, and 6 total medals in this 19th Summer Olympiad, she was clearly upset by the perceived judging favoritism with regards to the U.S.S.R competitors. During the medal ceremony for the floor exercise, where she stood sharing podium position with her opponent, Vera turned her head away from the Soviet Union flag, representing the country which invaded her homeland, during their national anthem.
This visible protest made Ms. ÄŒáslavská one of the most popular participants in the 1968 Mexico Games, especially amongst the western world, who were no fans of the Soviet Republic, in an increasingly polarized world. However, her public display destroyed her athletic career, and hindered work and travel opportunities for decades, leading to eventual domestic violence and divorce later in life.
October 28th​
From my raised perch, I survey the landscape. There’s no shortage of obstacles to avoid. Fortunately, my vantage point is mobile as opposed to stationary. A majestic brown horse, fit with a saddle and stirrups, that keep me stable and secure atop this sizeable steed.
Right now, we’re only traveling at a gentle gait, feeling out the ground, and checking out the terrain. The assemblage of barriers will come up very quick at full speed, so it’s important to get the lay of the land before going all out.
The grass on the infield of this athletics facility is a simple rectangle, with the hemispherical shapes inside the turn at each end covered with the same synthetic rubber material as the track itself, albeit in a more muted color to provide differentiation from the primary oval route. This natural turf looks lush and green now, but will be completely torn up after our equestrian team jumping competition is complete.
Horse and rider can do a real number of any outdoor plot. When every combo is following essentially the same defined route, racing against the clock, some substantial earthen troughs can develop. Hopefully, the maintenance crew has time to do some raking and shoveling before the real crowds arrive for the closing ceremony at these Mexico 1968 Olympic Games.
It's only taken me a few minutes of visual inspection to make one key observation. Constrained by the orthogonal area of the infield at this track stadium, the planners have laid-out an incredibly tight course, with circuitous loops, narrow gaps, and short jump approaches.
The traditionally favored teams, including us Germans, along with the U.S. and U.K. contingents, rely on large and powerful mounts, who can reach high speeds on straightaways, and hurtle effortlessly over tall obstacles. Our squads may struggle in this highly technical challenge. This unique course design will certainly shift the probabilities of success.
Equestrian is the only Olympic sport where men and women compete together as equals. It’s also the only event where other mammals are involved. The addition of a horse partner, requiring perfect mental and physical chemistry, makes triumph a product of the partnership, rather than simply assessing the prowess each individual component.
While our German crew consists of 3 men, the French, Swiss, British, and Brazilian squads all have one lady, with the Americans fielding two female riders.
This competition is the only sporting activity being conducted on this, the final day of the 1968 Games. The trio of medals to be handed out in a few hours will be the last of the 527 total awarded. This number should be divisible by 3, but one award has already been stripped from its owner.
As part of the newly enacted and enforced anti-doping policy, a lad on the bronze medal winning Swedish modern pentathlon team was recently disqualified for drug use. In this case, drinking alcohol, apparently to calm his nerves before the pistol shooting portion of the competition. Getting hammered, then wielding a gun, probably isn’t the safest strategy, regardless of the official rules.
Us Germans like our beer as much as the next nation, but we can hold off until after the riding is over to indulge in a few tall steins of ale. If all goes well, there will be plenty to celebrate later tonight.
The equestrian events here in Mexico City have been a bit of a debacle. A combination of horse health, weather woes, altitude adjustments, and rider risks have conspired to make for some tumultuous times.
The issues started well before the commencement of this XIX Olympiad. Due to high elevation, participating horses needed to show up several weeks early, so they could acclimate. The 30% reduction in oxygen is equally difficult for both humans and animals. Our German steeds were some of the last to arrive on-site, on September 28th, a full 3 weeks before the scheduled start of the showjumping.
The individual eventing competition, held over consecutive days last weekend, highlights all these challenges. This equestrian collective represents the ultimate test for a mount and rider pair. Combining 3 key segments, dressage, cross country, and show jumping, being open to both male and female participants, this is the pinnacle of the sport for any elite equestrian participant.
However, at some point, when course conditions are too adverse, skill and luck become impossible to ascertain. As occurred during the cross-country portion of this contest.
The venue for this lengthy overland jaunt, which requires the most acreage, was changed several times leading up to the Games. The powers that be eventually settled on a golf course in the city of Valle de Bravo, 100 miles southwest of Mexico City. This site included lots of streams which could be incorporated into the layout, as jumping elements, a common occurrence.
However, planners failed to account for the afternoon rains which often materialize, in this specific region at this time of year. The river, already higher and faster flowing than projected, was amplified by torrential rain on the day of the race.
Due to this deluge, the entire meandering outdoor track turned into a mud pit. Conditions were incredibly treacherous, with countless riders going down, and two horses dying. Not a good look from a humanitarian standpoint.
Fortunately, as a savvy veteran at this point in my career, I avoided this entire cross-country debacle, by not participating in the grueling eventing discipline on this go-round. Still, my own Olympics haven’t been going well from a medal podium standpoint.
Jumping is my specialty, and thus far in the 1968 Games I’ve come up empty. A situation I’m not used to, having secured team jumping gold in the 3 subsequent Olympiads. There’s no debating that us Germans have been the dominant squad in the sport for a few decades now.
My first podium on this ultimate global stage, secured in 1956, was understandably the most memorable. A young lad, especially in equestrian parlance, I was still a month shy of my 30th birthday when I earned that original individual jumping gold.
That contest was held in Stockholm, Sweden, a little-known fact, as the main Summer Olympics that cycle took place in Melbourne, Australia. However, this southern hemisphere country’s animal quarantine restrictions made horse transportation a non-starter. While all other official events occurred nearly 6 months later, I was still awarded the same cast disc of valuable yellow metal as the other successful athletes in that campaign down under.
It’s interesting how my equestrian memories are intimately tied to the trusty steed I rode for various completions.
My first love was Halla, who I started courting way back in 1951, and led me to victory in Stockholm. Over the next 4 years, Halla and I continued to build our bond, making a formidable duo in Rome 1960. With my main mare fatiguing, I switched to Fidelitas in Tokyo 1964. Now, Enigk is my ride here in 1968 at Mexico City. Enigk is a traditional German surname, fitting for the smart and strong workhouse I’m currently riding.
I appreciate all my mounts, but the amazing lady Halla holds a special place in my heart. Halla was originally bred to be used for cross-disciplinary eventing. It took many hours of diligent training for me to groom this animal into a pure jumper, with man and beast developing a very close connection. This linkage was evident on my last jumping route in Stockholm; with a pulled groin, I was forced to rely on this magic horse to cleanly navigate the course essentially on her own. Which she gracefully did.
My podium snub this far in 1968 hasn’t been for lack of effort.
The collection of tracks assembled here in Mexico City for the individual jumping contest has been the largest and most challenging in history. In an effort to test the breadth of skills for each entrant combo, there was a longer course with lower features, al-la a cross country trek, and a shorter loop with higher obstacles, built in the puissance style.
My preferred riding technique, which favors difficult obstacles, but not raw speed, makes the length factor a detriment, but the height factor an advantage. I was able to hold my own, ending up in a 4-way tie after both jumping rounds, during which each of pair of participants incurred just 3 total faults.
Impressively, all of us went clean through the jump-off, performed on yet another different course format, causing the final result to come down to time. My clock tally, 2.2 seconds behind the leading rider from the Great Britain, netted me a 5th place finish, as opposed to the bronze medal I desired.
The individual jumping competition was held 4 days ago at Camp Marte, a large grass field within a government military base on the western edge of Mexico City. To increase viewership, from both a live fans and network TV perspective, the team jumping event today has been set up in the official Olympic stadium.
Since the closing ceremonies are being held later today at this same location, all media equipment and personnel are already in place. This equestrian show is simply an appetizer for the crowd before the main meal. At least our contest, like the closing ceremony, will be broadcast to the television world in full color for the first time ever. I plan to give all the folks tuning in a show worthy of this vibrant format.
While team uniforms in equestrian aren’t nearly as flashy or explicit as track unitards or football sweaters, I’m still conflicted about the nationality I’m representing. East and West Germany are competing as separate countries for the first time ever in an Olympic Games.
At 42 years old, I’m currently in the prime of my career, and a very popular athlete across Germany. A region which is being redefined, and a nation which is now divided. I’m still struggling between my place of origin and my political leanings.
First, I was born in North Rhine, located in the Westphalia region of Germany. Currently, I split my time between the bustling city of Dusseldorf, and the beautiful farming countryside to the north. Plus, I’m a connoisseur of alt beers, the maltier the better. Score a trio of tallies for the Western portion of my homeland.
Meanwhile, my father died at the end of World War II, age and attitude conspiring in his demise. I was recruited as a Flakhelfer, part of the German Luftwaffe, during this same global conflict, despite still being a teenager. War sentiments and economic austerity land me on the Eastern portion of the ledger.
Regardless of geopolitical factors, riding has always been infused into the Winkler blood. My dad’s chosen profession was a riding teacher, informing several generations of German youth. Following in his footsteps, I’ve worked as a stable manager and horse trainer throughout my career. Equine and human connections are based on close mammalian synergies.
The course assembled here inside the Estadio Olímpico Universitario stadium has 14 discrete obstacles, some of which must be traversed in both directions, resulting in 17 total jump efforts along the 631-meter-long route. Pretty pedestrian for an equestrian jumping competition.
However, in the 1st round, only 2 of the 15 horse and rider combinations were able to come in below the 96 second cutoff to avoid a time penalty. As such, there have been many murmurs around the stables that the length was mis-measured, and is actually pushing 700 meters. Regardless, we all have the navigate the same terrain.
I’ve been paired with both of my current teammates on gold medal winning jumping squads in the past, one in 1960, and the other in 1964. Thus, our trio knows what it takes to win, and have aspirations of adding some more hardware to our trophy cases.
We’re off to a great start. Our lead rider has already tallied the best combined score of the entire team competition thus far; fast, skillful, and impressive, navigating the tight course twice. While riding slower than many competitors, on my first run I went fairly clean on the jumps, with just two obstacle penalties.
At this point, all we need to take home the title is a menial tally from our 3rd partner. Which clearly isn’t happening, as I take in the on-course debacle from the sidelines. My colleague, usually steady, on a stable mount, usually reliable, even with the pressure on, is having a bad session.
Pipes become dislodged. Water features splashed. Wooden rails chipped. This effort turns out to be like watching a car crash in slow motion. There’s nothing I can do at the moment, but will get my final chance for redemption soon.
In a painful display, his 2nd ride is finally complete, sustaining 9 obstacle penalties of 4 points each, which is one barrier worse than his 1st round effort. At least this recent run was one of the fastest thus far, so won’t incur much of a time penalty. It’s easy to go fast when you go through, rather than over, the features.
This pair of rough rides by my teammate has put us in a tough spot for any medal contention, let alone to gold we aspired to achieve at the start of the contest. I’m the last rider for our crew, and must now go essentially clean through the very challenging course, if we’re going to have any chance to reach the podium.
Equestrian jumping is a delicate balance of speed and precision. Astride my trusty steed, as we enter the arena through a sloping ramp, I feel the seething rise and fall of his substantial haunches against my legs, which matches the beat of my own pounding heart. There’s something about performing in front of an engaged crowd which really gets the blood flowing.
Enigk is brown in color, a gelding, birthed in 1957. While seemingly mundane, this beast is powerful and proficient. We have trained together to the point where we instinctually know each other’s movements. He’s acutely aware of what to do when, requiring minimal guidance from me.
We canter across the track surface, then down the center of the course, across much softer and more pleasant grass. Wheeling around at the far end, we nearly come to a full stop, the reaccelerate through the timing gates to start the clock. And we’re off.
The best jumping runs are those where I’m just along for the ride. We progress through the course: galloping directly from feature to feature, flying cleanly over even the tallest rails, turning incredibly sharply for such a large animal and man collective. I sense this is one of those magical rides.
Crossing the final feature, I reign in Enigk, and he obligingly slows up. It’s now the lungs, his neck glistening with sweat, and my breaths, short and halting, which are working on overdrive. We clipped only 3 barriers, all by a very slim margin. That result may just be sufficient to get us onto the podium. If we rode fast enough.
With bated breath, our German team huddles together, waiting for the final results to be calculated. Knowing how many obstacle penalties, 4 points per impact, that were incurred, it’s clear the matchup between us and the Americans is close.
The lengthy delay in reporting suggests the official outcome is tied to the accumulated race times. Which could be a problem, based on my cautious navigation of this course, steering a huge beast through a narrow, windy gauntlet.
I already had to go through one stressful time-based decision. Now, it appears that the team jumping result will also come down to stopwatch values. Wouldn’t it be ironic that in this equestrian event, the tiebreaker goes in Germany’s favor?
Finally, the total tally is posted, via individual bright yellow pixels of light on the vast black scoreboard. It takes a few seconds to process the results.
“West Germany = 117.25”
“United States = 117.50”
In a sport where lower numbers are better, we’ve secured the last available medal by just 0.25 points, the smallest possible increment of differentiation in this pursuit. Apparently, my slow pass, adding a near maximum 4.75-point time accumulation, was offset our erratic teammate’s speed, incurring just a 0.5-point time penalty. Granted, this guy rode directly into every obstacle, as opposed to gracefully jumping over them. Hey, that’s what teamwork is all about.
While being awarded the bronze is a minor consolation for us Germans, the trio of favored nations in all things equestrian have just handed the title to a duo of underdogs, the Canadian and French riders, who earned gold and silver respectively.
The Canada result is most instructive, and fitting. As we chat with our counterparts, leading the line of horses back to the stables, word spreads that this is their country’s only gold medal earned in these 1968 Games. Fittingly, this honor goes to a team participating on the final day of completion, and to a nation entering their first ever Olympic team show jumping challenge.
Only in the Olympic Games do these amazing stories materialize in real time. I’ve had my fair share of fairytale finishes throughout my lengthy and successful career. I guess I can cede the stage to some newbies for a little while. Enjoy your moment in the Mexican sun Canada. We’ll see you in 4 years.
Hans Günter Winkler went on to successfully compete for the West Germany squad in the 1972 and 1976 Olympics, adding more hardware to his resume. His lifetime tally of 7 Olympic medals, spanning 6 separate global quadrennial gatherings, makes him the 3rd most decorated rider in German equestrian history, along with his extensive World and European Championship success.​​
After retiring from professional jumping in 1986, Hans continued to participate in his lifelong love as a coach and trainer, leading the West Germans to team jumping gold in Seoul 1988. The remainder of Mr. Winkler’s life was dedicated to equestrian: organizing events, training youth, and writing books. He passed away not far from where he was born in Westphalia, at the ripe old age of 91.
At the conclusion of the 1968 Summer Games, the United States tallied the most medals, with 107, surpassing the Soviet Union’s count of 91. Third place in the rankings was Hungary, with just 32 podiums. This bipolar dominance mirrored the geopolitical powerhouses of this era. The host nation Mexico achieved three medals of each type, with the golds predicably coming in boxing, and less predicably, in swimming.
The closing ceremony went off without a hitch. The flame was extinguished as the sun set, then a massive fireworks display lit up the night sky. With Mexico City ’68 complete, the global sporting cohort shifted focus to Munich ’72.
