12 Sports Aces, January 1943 — page 101: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Cinder-Path Time By Clift Howe Winning cinder laurels does not always depend on the champ who dons the spikes. For sometimes Fate steps in—and takes an unexpected turn areund the track! ON, why don’t S you try middie- distance rua- ning? You’re wasting your time trying to be a miler.” Old man Nicholson was coach- ing another Notre Dame track team, as he had for twenty long years. The stub- by-legged youngster he gave this advice to was Greg Rice. Greg had set his heart on being a miler, but the old coach pointed out: “Son, nature molded you for a distance man. Why, you’ve got the stuff to trim the Finns at their own game. You might be the first American to win an Olympic. §000-meter title. Just you listen to me.” The youngster did listen, and the two went to work. Old man Nicholson be-— came the kid’s coach, trainer and foster father. The kid would run his legs off for the old man. Things weren’t too easy for him, he had to work his way through college. In the afternoons he’d practice running and at night he’d sell newspa- pers. And then Greg Rice blossomed forth as a middle-distance runner. His per- fermances were sensational. After each race old man Nichelson would smile and say: “That boy will really be good in about two mere years.” ‘When Paave Nurmi, the famous Flying Finn, brought his protége Taisto Maki to this country a special feature race was staged between the littl Notre Dame bundle of flying dynamite, Greg Rice, and Taisto Maki, whom many regard ag even greater than Master Nurmi was in his prime. ' The gun barked and the two great run- ners were off! Perhaps Greg Rice was thinking of what old man Nicholson had said to him back in the dressing root. “Son, this is the night we’ve waited for! Show all the speed you’ve get, and if I never see another race in my life I’ still be happy if you run well tonight!” The eid ren'a rate Mke uence ever be- fore seen on the indoor boards. Some idea of the burning pace of that race is given by the fact that the first three runners to finish all cracked world’s records, but topping them all was the mighty atom Greg Rice, who flashed across the finish line twenty yards ahead of his nearest opponent. Thousands roared acclaim. Even Paavo Nurmi opened incredulous eyes and mur- mured: “That boy is the greatest ranner in the world! I’ve never seen a runner like that American!’ Old man Nicholson stood there at the fmish line, just nodding his head and smiling, for his boy had come home in the fastest time ever. A boy who might have been just another run-of-the-mill miler if the wise old coach hadn’t changed the youngster’s plans. The old coach never did see his boy run again, for the next day he collapsed with a heart attack and died, happy in the knowledge that he had lived to see one of his pupils acclaimed as the greatest middle-distance runner of all time. Though John Nicholson has gone off to the land of Vaihalla. Greg Rice re- — mains a living monument to the old coach, for as long as Greg runs the cinder path, there old man Nicholson will stand, stop- watch in hand, smiling his gentle smile 99 COMME DOOLKS (e(o)