Sidelined (2 page)

Contemporaneous with these developments was the slow integration of college sports, and several excellent recent studies have explored this
process. Principal among them is Charles Martin's
Benching Jim Crow,
in which he argues that the construction and defense of the color line in southern college sports was complex. Martin tells the stories of the pioneers of athletic integration and those who wished to make sports the final citadel of white supremacy.
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Focusing specifically on college football, Lane Demas has shown in
Integrating the Gridiron
how the convergence of football and race relations transcended the playing field.
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Americans' understandings of larger civil rights struggles were often interpreted through the cultural touchstone of football.

The importance of this cultural reference point has been expertly explained by Kurt Kemper.
College Football and American Culture in the Cold War Era
focuses on controversies over postseason bowl games to show the way in which football was linked to distinctive American values and acted as a cultural barometer in the face of the Soviet Cold War challenge.
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In the case of the white South, football provided a focus for tension between prevailing ideals of segregation and a desire to connect to a wider national culture. Where sport and racial changes intersected in communities across the United States there were significant consequences for athletes, administrators, and fans. There were complex and slowly developing stories of integration and acceptance as black and white began to compete alongside one another. In
Learning to Win: Sports, Education and Social Change in Twentieth-Century North Carolina,
Pamela Grundy tells one of the many stories that are being uncovered as historians reach further and wider into the past to understand the black freedom struggle.
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The recent growth of this avenue of historical enquiry has enriched our understanding of the connection between race relations and American sporting culture. It also offers a challenge to strive to further connect changes in the sporting world with the wider social changes resulting from the black freedom struggle. That is the aim of this book. Specifically, the aim is to trace the links between Tommie Smith and John Carlos's protest at the 1968 Olympics, manifestations of the black athletic revolt on campus, and the myriad consequences of the integration of college sports in an effort to assimilate these developments into historical interpretations of the black freedom struggle. The book does not pretend to incorporate all elements of the American sporting world into the wider story of the civil rights struggle. The main focus is on college athletics and the Olympic competitors who emerged from college campuses. It is on these campuses that we see grassroots activism and get a sense of how communities were
affected as cherished sporting traditions were challenged by the black freedom struggle.

The methods that I utilize throughout this study provide a fresh historical dimension. As well as using extensive archival material, some of which has been untapped in previous studies of the black athletic revolt, I refer to more than fifty oral histories that I collected from international and college athletes involved in that revolt. Consulting secondary sources, contemporary newspaper coverage, archival material, and oral histories offers a triangulated approach. This allows for a rounded and deep interpretation and analysis of events. With much of the history of the freedom struggle focused on large, politically significant events and leading national characters, oral history offers a more local and individual dimension to our historical understanding.
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Additionally, oral history can broaden the traditional chronological and thematic boundaries of civil rights studies.
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This is a particularly important issue in light of the above discussion on different phases of the freedom struggle in the 1960s.

This is not to say that oral histories and their usage do not pose some important methodological problems for historians. The interviewer may inadvertently direct the emphasis and agenda of the dialogues. It is inevitable that the focus of the conversations that I had is in many ways shaped by the preoccupations of my own research. It is also true that individuals tend to remember dramatic and emotive events at the expense of more mundane realities. This inevitably shapes the parameters and emphasis of their recollections. Oral narratives cannot be taken at face value; they require careful scrutiny and analysis in the same way that other historical documents do.
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This is why the interview material I have collected is crossreferenced with other sources of evidence in the triangulated approach mentioned above.

While I acknowledge these problems, the fact that the oral histories were collected some thirty-five or more years after the passage of events also allows for a more nuanced perspective to emerge. Studying athletes' feelings and actions during the 1960s in the context of their more balanced reflections with the benefit of hindsight provides insight into the continued importance of sport in the construction of race relations. The very fact that the actors involved have had thirty-five or more years to consider their actions and have in that time assimilated the influences of several decades of social and cultural change makes their views fascinating. When reflected upon many years later, opinions held during the 1960s speak to
the potency of expressed beliefs and ideals, a potency that continues to reveal the importance of sporting competition to communities across the United States. The challenge these communities faced as the black freedom struggle permeated their locker rooms and playing fields is the focus of what follows.

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My stand was one that everybody could see I was black. I did not need to wear a banner. I did not need anything to identify me or separate me or unique me from that football team, other than to be the best ballplayer that I could be.

—Horace King, University of Georgia football player

We did a lot of kicking ass, so what I can beat you physically, but when it comes to my civil rights I can't say anything?

—Melvin Hamilton, University of Wyoming football player

In the history of the United States, 1968 was no ordinary year. It was as if a decade's worth of turmoil, of social and political upheaval, had been condensed into one tumultuous twelve-month period. Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. were both assassinated. The Tet Offensive seemed to condemn American hopes for victory in Vietnam. Students brought college campuses across the country to a standstill as they protested American involvement in the war. The Democrat National Convention was surrounded by running battles between demonstrators and the police, who traded volleys of tear gas and balloons filled with urine. Many of those who lived through that year felt as though the very fabric of the nation was fraying. As Todd Gitlin has observed, “Nineteen sixty-eight was no year for a catching of the breath.”
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In the aftermath of the 1968 Olympics the president of the U.S. Olympic Committee (USOC), Douglas Roby, wrote a strongly worded letter to the Harvard rowing coach, Harry Parker; many of Harvard's oarsmen were in the U.S. Olympic team. Roby suggested that the Harvard athletes'
poor showing in the Mexico City Games was partly retribution for their poor conduct during the Olympics, conduct that included support for those protesting against racial injustice. Roby asserted, “Civil rights and the promotion of social justice may have their place in various facets of society, but certainly this sort of promotion has no place in the Olympic Games.”
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The letter suggested that Harvard's reputation as an institution of academic excellence was sullied by the actions of its rowers and that Parker should be ashamed of his part in their personal and sporting development.

The immediate cause of such an extraordinary correspondence can be found in the most iconic image of the 1968 Games. When looking at the photograph of the moment when the U.S. national anthem rang out as part of the medal ceremony for the 200-meter sprint, our eyes are drawn to the raised, gloved, and clenched fists of Tommie Smith and John Carlos. Their heads were bowed as they stood in solemn defiance throughout the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” They did not stand alone, however. A white athlete looked straight ahead on the silver medal rostrum. Hands by his side and medal around his neck, he was wearing a button on his track suit above the Australian team badge, just as his competitors wore the same badge above the U.S. team logo. The badge carried the letters “OPHR,” which stood for the Olympic Project for Human Rights. The Australian silver medalist was Peter Norman, and he was given the badge by Paul Hoffman, coxswain of the Harvard rowing crew.

Hoffman had leaned over the barriers in the stadium as the three sprinters walked out for the medal ceremony and obliged Norman's request for a badge. The Australian took it and pinned it to his track suit as an act of solidarity with Smith and Carlos. The two African Americans were part of the OPHR, an organization that had originally sought to boycott the Olympics and then resolved to make a protest during the games themselves. Theirs was a stand against racism. It was a stand for human dignity and equality made on the most visible of international stages. In that symbolic moment on an October day in 1968 sport was forever tied to the black freedom struggle. If we analyze this one moment carefully we see an encapsulation of that struggle in the late 1960s, we see the limits of sporting competition as a vehicle through which to advance civil rights, and we uncover a fascinating story of human interest.

Roby's letter to Hoffman's coach is a clear example of the backlash against the actions of Smith and Carlos. Their raised black fists captured a Black Power symbolism that dominated the racial landscape in the late 1960s. The fact that Norman stood alongside them and was helped in making
his gesture of support by an Ivy League student athlete revealed the complexity of the OPHR and the wider black athletic revolt it represented. The way in which sport intersected with civil rights protest clearly displays the extent to which the lines between the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements were blurred. Black and white athletes struggled hard to negotiate the impact of wider societal changes on the sporting world. Smith, Carlos, Hoffman, and Norman were among many who tried to use sport as a forum in which racial changes could be both embraced and challenged. Theirs is a story of hope, frustration, courage, and confusion and one that illuminates our understanding of the black freedom struggle.

When Hoffman passed the badge to Peter Norman he was enabling him to support Smith and Carlos's symbolic assertion that they were not immune from the racism that permeated American society. Just because they were successful sportsmen who competed on an equal footing with their white counterparts did not mean that they had transcended racial prejudice. There was, and indeed still is, a popular ideal that sport ran ahead of the rest of society in progress toward racial equality. The emergence of this idealized view can be explained by the developing place of the African American athlete in U.S. sports. Black athletes reached a position by the middle of the twentieth century that gave support to the ideal that sport acted as a positive racial force within society.

In antebellum America and before, however, the image of black athletes was largely defined by the institution of slavery. Free blacks engaged in recreational sporting pursuits but there is little evidence of their involvement in organized athletics.
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Physical competition and sporting endeavors were crucial elements in the lives of many slaves. In the limited leisure time they were permitted they enjoyed challenging other bondsmen to horse and boat races and feats of strength and stamina. Little of this time was spent in actual combative activities, as it was believed to be anathema for one slave to inflict physical punishment on another. References to wrestling and fighting in slave narratives are examples of contests arranged by white masters.
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This exploitation of blacks to entertain white audiences was continued in the “battle royals” and other boxing contests of the Jim Crow era.

In the late nineteenth century there was an undercurrent of fear that black athletes might be physically superior to their Caucasian counterparts.
Commentators on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line worried about the growth of the black population, fearing that African Americans' greater fecundity and physical strength would bring racial cataclysm unless the races were separated.
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In the 1890s boxing champion John Sullivan refused to fight the black Australian fighter Peter Jackson. Described as a “human fighting animal,” Jackson embodied a pugilistic spirit born of a precivilized era. Jackson was, however, also thought to be predisposed to racially defined weaknesses such as a frailty against blows to the ribs and stomach. Of course, it was argued, blacks lacked the intellect and were not capable of the same organization, leadership, and discipline as whites. There was, nevertheless, an anxiety in white America concerning the power and brutality exhibited by many African American athletes. This anxiety slowly faded in the first two decades of the twentieth century as the legal codification of Jim Crow in the South largely limited interracial contests to Olympic competition, intercollegiate sport at predominantly white northern universities, and professional boxing.
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The black athletes who appeared on white northern university campuses in the late nineteenth century were socially isolated and often were exploited for their athletic prowess at the expense of a quality education. Although prestigious universities like Notre Dame and many of the military academies did not allow blacks on their sports teams until the mid-twentieth century, black student athletes like George Poage, Theodore Cable, and Paul Robeson were among a small number of African Americans who competed for integrated northern universities. This was significant at a time when Jim Crow maintained a tight hold on the black experience. Nevertheless, there was considerable racial discrimination on campus, and white teammates often refused to share the same locker room or transportation. On Paul Robeson's first day of scrimmages at Rutgers his fellow players made clear their views concerning his presence on the team when he was roughed up so badly he spent the next ten days in the hospital.
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