The Fields of Friendly Strife

The Fields of Friendly Strife

"Upon the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that, upon other fields, on other days, will bear the fruits of victory."

-- General Douglas MacArthur

  With considerable fanfare, Mrs. Bryant pulled the blank cover sheet from the bulletin board to reveal their latest hero for study – the famous black American athlete Jesse Owens.

  “Does anyone know who this man is?” Mrs. Bryant asked as the children gazed at the colorful poster of Owens, which featured images of him crossing various finish lines and receiving medals.

  “I can’t remember his name” Eric said, rubbing his chin, “But I remember that picture – it’s from the Olympics, a long time ago.”

  “Right you are, Eric” Mrs. Bryant nodded. “This is Jesse Owens, one of the greatest track and field athletes of all time, and the pictures on this poster are all from his record-setting performance at the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin, Germany.”

  “Did Jesse Owens win the Olympics?” one boy asked, then reddened as several children began snickering.

  “Well, there are many events and many competitors from all over the world at the Olympic Games every four years, but yes, Jesse did win several events” Mrs. Bryant explained. “But the most significant thing about his victories in Berlin is not that he won and set new world records, it’s that the German dictator, Adolf Hitler, had determined that the 1936 Berlin Olympics would be the showcase where he demonstrated to the world that the German Aryan race was the dominant race on earth. Then, to have an American outperform all his athletes, and a black American to boot, it was quite a statement. In spite of Hitler’s plans, what the world ended up seeing was that all men, regardless of race, can possess and achieve greatness. And by the way, Jesse Owens was born right here in Alabama.”

  As Mrs. Bryant answered the many excited questions the kids had about Jesse Owens, Eric and his best friend Tom stared at the poster’s images of the man. They were not unique in their rapture, though. Nothing was quite as exciting during your third-grade year at Rosley Jr. High as Mrs. Bryant’s daily observation of famous Alabamians. What did set the two boys apart in those days though, was the fact that they were even friends at all. That was particularly unusual because Tom was white, and Eric was black. 

  Over his lifetime, Tom had heard of many sports legends, as his father Ray was a great sports fan. But not surprisingly, Ray had always denigrated the accomplishments of great African-American sports heroes to the point that Tom knew very little of the facts. He knew the names, though, and they came to him now in his mind with various sports commentators heralding their accomplishments, and Ray’s angry voice rebutting with his traditional responses.

  May 1971 “One day after leading the Milwaukee Bucks to the NBA championship and being named MVP, Lew Alcindor, in keeping with his Muslim faith, has adopted the Arabic name Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, meaning ‘noble, servant of the all-powerful’ But by any name, he is the single most dominant force in basketball today! Leading Power Memorial High, then John Wooden’s UCLA Bruins to championship after championship, now bringing the lowly Milwaukee Bucks back to league prominence, there’s no telling where this young star’s career will lead!”

  Who? Ain’t nobody ever heard of Lew Alcindor, much less this stupid new name! I don’t know about no Power Memorial High, but everybody worth a damn knows Bill Walton was the best player ever played at UCLA! Your Bob Cousys and your Pistol Pete Maraviches – that’s your pro basketball greats. Not these damn upstarts that won’t never amount to nothin’!

  July 1971    “Jim Brown has become the youngest man ever inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame! But considering he rushed for an all-time record 12,312 yards and scored 126 touchdowns in only 9 seasons, nobody should be surprised by that!”

  Jim Brown was nothin’ but a movie star! He quit early ’cause he didn’t have nothin’ left! He ain’t half the runnin’ back Jim Thorpe was!

  May 1972 “Wilt Chamberlain has just been named MVP of the 1972 NBA Finals, leading the Los Angeles Lakers to their first championship title!”

  Wilt Chamberlain ain’t nothin’ but a big overgrown freak! He can’t shoot at all – all he can do is dunk it like some lumberin’ oaf! Bob Cousy and Pistol Pete Maravich – now them boys could truly play the game – all parts of it! Wilt Chamberlain my foot!

  April 1974 “Hank Aaron has just broken the unbreakable record! With his unbelievable 715^th home run, Hammerin’ Hank has eclipsed the all-time mark set by the legendary Babe Ruth! This one will stand forever!”

  Hank Aaron? Ain’t nobody outside of Atlanta ever heard of Hank Aaron. The Babe was and will always be the greatest slugger in history! Back then, pitchin’ was good. Hank Aaron hit all his homers against weak pitchin’!

  Tom had become so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the bell ring. Eric punched him in the shoulder and rousted him from his desk, and they quickly joined up with the crowd of kids already out in the schoolyard waiting for the busses. For the next half-hour, all Eric could talk about was the Muhammad Ali – George Foreman fight coming on TV that night. 

  In those days before cable or satellite TV, televised sporting events were rare, with only the grandest events receiving coverage, and that was usually on weekends. But that Tuesday, October 29^th, was one of the exceptions. According to Eric, Muhammad Ali, former heavyweight boxing champ, would square off against George Foreman, the current and apparently unbeatable champ, in Africa.  

  In order to suit closed-circuit broadcasts in the United States, the fight, dubbed “The Rumble in the Jungle,” would be fought at four in the morning local time, October 30^th, in Kinshasa, Zaire, so it would coincide with prime-time evening viewing in the US. Regardless, Tom knew that it was unlikely Ray had taken their broken television set in for repair, so there would be no heavyweight championship viewing at his house that night. But after supper, as the kids were finishing up their baths and preparing for bed, Tom heard Ray cursing in the living room as he leaned back in his worn recliner, struggling to tune his old Delco AM radio in to the fight. 

    Hours later, as he lay in the stifling heat of his darkened bedroom, Tom could hear the crackling broadcast from half a world away filling the living room. Ray didn’t believe in running the air conditioner in the fall, regardless of the fact that what passed for “fall” in Alabama was barely any cooler than mid-summer. But with his rickety old fan keeping him cool in his recliner, Ray comfortably settled in with a toddy to listen to the fight. 

    Even before the bell, Ray was already cussing Muhammad Ali for a variety of offenses and pulling for George Foreman. Ray had never liked the flamboyant, trash-talking Ali, even when he was still Cassius Clay. But after Clay had converted to Islam and changed his name, Ray’s hatred for him had ratcheted up a level. Reminding everyone of his own two years of heroic service in the Army after being drafted in 1956, Ray would assail Ali as a draft-dodging coward for his refusal to serve in Vietnam. Ray didn’t believe in anything called conscientious objector status, especially for Ali. Citing his “mouthiness” and “arrogance,” Ray would denigrate Ali as an unpatriotic sham, and extol George Foreman and other black athletes who he felt “knew their place.” In truth, Ray had no respect for any black athlete, firmly convinced as he was that it had been a tragic mistake to integrate professional sports. But his hatred for Ali was such that he would pull even for a black man, so long as Ali lost. Just then, Tom was jolted by Ray’s latest outburst. 

  “Muhammand Ali? His name is Cassius Clay, and there ain’t no way he’s gonna beat ol’ George Foreman…unless the whole damn fight is rigged! That’s probably why Ali made ‘em fight the damn thing in Africa!”

  As the opening bell sounded, Ray kicked off the bout with one more particularly energetic obscenity against Ali, and the fight was on.

    Of all Ali’s spectacular bouts, perhaps none could match “The Rumble in the Jungle” for sheer drama and hype. Ali had been on a stunning comeback, having defeated all the top heavyweights, to include Ken Norten and Joe Frazier, and now stood as the top-ranked contender for the title. George Foreman, the young, strong, and seemingly unstoppable champion had destroyed his last eight opponents in the early rounds, and appeared ready to do the same to the older Ali. As Tom lay in his room, straining to hear the broadcast drifting in from the living room, he heard Ray curse loudly as the announcer informed the world that the throng of African spectators were frenetically chanting “Ali – boma ye!” which translated to “Ali – Kill him!”

    In the first round, Ali landed some crisp combinations, leading many with his right hand, which was an unusual strategy so early in the fight, according to the radio commentator. Ray of course saw it as yet another of Ali’s arrogant, devious ploys to steal the title from Foreman. In the second round, Foreman tried to assert himself and did a good job of pursuing the dancing Ali, chasing him into the ropes and pounding away on his body. But what Ray saw briefly as a sign of Foreman’s mastery, the announcer soon began to identify as yet another strategic masterstroke by Ali. 

    As the fight wore on, Ali was content to cover up and absorb Foreman’s punishing body blows, all the while tiring the younger fighter to a dangerously vulnerable point. As the bell sounded to begin the eighth round, Tom could tell it might be the last. As Ray cursed at Foreman to come alive, the announcer told the real story. In the last minute of the eighth, Ali gathered his strength and launched his final offensive, hitting Foreman with a vicious right that caused the champ to drop his hands. Ali followed up with two more thunderous rights, then brought the decisive combination heard around the world. Foreman’s arms flew out to his sides as his massive body smashed to the canvas. He would not rise to beat the count, and as the crowd went wild and Ali was named champion once again, Ray smashed his toddy glass against the wall and let loose a violent stream of curse words that would’ve made a drunken sailor blush.

    Tom lay in the darkness of his bedroom, surprisingly torn by a mix of emotions. Though he’d been learning for the last two years that Ray’s traditional teachings about race were seriously flawed, he had, nevertheless, been raised to hate Muhammad Ali. As a result, he was disappointed in Ali’s win. Further, regardless of anyone’s feelings about Ali, George Foreman had been a proud, patriotic champion. He was the flag-waving hero of the 1968 Mexico City Olympics, and sudden favorite son of all those who hated how the two black sprinters, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, had bowed their heads and raised their black-gloved fists in protest from the medal stand during the playing of the national anthem. As a result, he was disappointed by Foreman’s loss. 

    Still, though he didn’t fully understand it, he felt something different that night as well. At that moment, something greater than sports and championships and grudges began to form in his mind. It would take years to mature, but it began that night in his sweltering bedroom, with the faint cheers of thousands of Africans and the crackling, breathless commentary from a fight fought halfway around the world. 

  Indeed, Mrs. Bryant had been wise to appeal to the children’s sense of accomplishment and fair play as she introduced famous Alabamians in class each day. But her true genius lay in her judicious focus on heroes of all races. She had known that these little ones, freed from the shadow of the prejudices and ingrained biases of both black and white adults, would eventually recognize and respect achievement. They simply wouldn’t care about race if they weren’t taught to. 

  And so it was, that on those fertile fields of youthful imagination, she sowed her own unique seeds of victory, seeds that would come to full fruition a generation later.