When Seabiscuit Won the Match of the Century

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Perhaps you saw the movie about Seabiscuit that was in the theaters a few years back.

It was an inspiring movie. It pushed all the right buttons, and it landed on the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 inspirational movies of all time. Smack dab in the middle, in fact, at #50.

I'm not sure if it was that inspirational, though. I'm not sure that there weren't exaggerations if not downright falsehoods told in that movie. I guess that's true of most movies, even the ones that supposedly are telling true stories. You've got to exaggerate some things to maintain that level of drama.

You can't tell the truth all the time, can you?

Sometimes, though, it strikes me that the truth is dramatic enough, and so it is with the real story of Seabiscuit.

I realize that Seabiscuit was a horse (of course, of course), but his was really the story of Everyman, the ordinary individual, the underdog facing extraordinary circumstances.

That was Seabiscuit's story. He was a small horse, undersized and underestimated by many, even though he was the grandson of the great Man O' War (who might have won the 1920 Triple Crown if his owner had permitted him to run in the Kentucky Derby).

War Admiral — Seabiscuit's uncle even though he was a year younger — did win the Triple Crown. War Admiral was taller and looked like a race horse whereas Seabiscuit looked like more of a plow horse with his stubby legs.

Seabiscuit's career got off to a shaky start, most likely because his original owner put him through a punishing racing schedule in his early years. He was eventually sold to businessman Charles Howard, who put him in the hands of trainer Tom Smith. Smith put jockey Red Pollard on board the horse, and a winning combination was formed.

Seabiscuit didn't win the Triple Crown because his first owner, feeling the horse was too lazy, pushed a different horse instead. But Seabiscuit's reputation grew with each triumph under Howard, Smith and Pollard, and, by 1938, a debate was raging in the racing world. Which horse was better — Seabiscuit, who raced primarily in the West, or Triple Crown winner War Admiral, who raced primarily in the East?

In 1937, Seabiscuit had been the leading money winner, but War Admiral, having won the Triple Crown, was voted Horse of the Year.

It was decided that the matter would be settled on Nov. 1, 1938, at Pimlico in Baltimore.

In true Everyman fashion, Seabiscuit endured setbacks along the way. His successful relationship with Pollard was derailed in early 1938 when Pollard was injured racing another horse. Another jockey, George Woolf, stepped in for him and enjoyed mixed results before Pollard was able to return to action.

Pollard's return was short lived, though. While working a young colt, Pollard was thrown and his leg was shattered. His career appeared to be over; it would be up to Woolf to ride Seabiscuit in what is remembered as the match of the century — Seabiscuit's match race with War Admiral 75 years ago today.

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Conventional wisdom in horse racing holds that, in a head–to–head race, the advantage is with the horse that has the fastest start, and Seabiscuit was notorious for habitually hanging back at the start and then springing to the lead at the end. To a great extent, that was how he had earned a reputation for being lazy.

War Admiral, on the other hand, was known to be a front runner; consequently, War Admiral was a 1–to–4 favorite.

But what most people didn't know was that Smith had adjusted his training methods specifically for the race with War Admiral. He conditioned Seabiscuit to have a Pavlovian response to the sound of the starting bell (through the use of the whip), and Seabiscuit practically exploded from the gate.

It was a dramatic race. War Admiral closed the gap between the two near the midway point, and most observers probably thought he would win as expected. But Seabiscuit seemed to find something within himself — the equine equivalent of another gear, I suppose — and pulled away again.

The result was that Seabiscuit won the race by four lengths and, not long after, was voted the Horse of the Year for 1938 — with War Admiral finishing second again.

The stubby grandson of Man O' War had become an unlikely hero for a Depression–weary nation.

Happy 75th Birthday to Razorback Stadium

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Today is the 75th anniversary of the opening of the football stadium on the campus of my alma mater, and a season–long celebration is planned.

I am speaking of Razorback Stadium at the University of Arkansas. Actually, since 2001, it has been known as Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium. (Reynolds was a philanthropist who studied journalism at the University of Missouri and went on to own newspapers in Oklahoma and Arkansas. Reynolds' newspapers launched the Donrey Media Group, which was active in both journalism scholarships and internships when I was in school.)

The Razorbacks only won twice in 1938, but one of those victories came in Razorback Stadium's opener. The victory came against Oklahoma State, 27–7.

It's been expanded twice since I was in school there. They've added all sorts of bells and whistles — as well as seats — since the last time I was there. When I was a student, the only lights in the stadium were designed to allow players to practice, not to illuminate a night game for television. But Razorback Stadium has lights now — along with one of those huge screens at one end of the field.

Even so, I'm sure it would feel much the same to be there — even after all these years.

There have been lots of changes starting with the conference affiliation. When I was growing up, the Hogs competed in the Southwest Conference, but they've been in the Southeastern Conference since 1992. And today, the Hogs are 3–1 to start a season for the eighth time in the last 25 years (they started 4–0 four other times).

This Saturday, they will come home to face Texas A&M, an old Southwest Conference nemesis.

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Back in the summer, I saw an online contest to pick the most significant game ever played in Razorback Stadium. I didn't participate in the contest — I meant to, but I was short of time when I saw it, and I told myself I would go back and cast a vote, but I never did — but I've been thinking a lot about the question it posed.

If the question had been asked about War Memorial Stadium, the Hogs' home in central Arkansas (and much closer to the town — now small city — where I grew up), I think it would be pretty easy. In 1975, Texas A&M was ranked second in the nation when the Aggies came to Little Rock to face the Razorbacks in the season finale.

Teddy Barnes' TD reception just before halftime sparked Arkansas to a 31–6 victory over the previously unbeaten Aggies and a berth in the Cotton Bowl against Georgia.

But the question was not asked about War Memorial Stadium. It was asked about Razorback Stadium.

I went to some significant games at Razorback Stadium when I was a student there, and I know of some significant games that have been played there since I graduated, but only one game came to mind when I read that question. It was played long before I went to a game in Fayetteville.

It's "The Great Shootout" between top–ranked Texas and second–ranked Arkansas in 1969.

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I have written of that game before. The Texas game was always the most important game on the schedule when I was growing up, no matter what the records were. The fans in Arkansas would have worked themselves into a frenzy even if both teams came into the game winless.

But the 1969 game was unique.

It was a rare meeting between the top two teams in the nation, and network folks were so certain that Arkansas and Texas would beat all of their other opponents that year — and be #1 and #2 in the polls — that they persuaded the schools to move their game from its traditional slot in mid–October to the first weekend in December, when no one else was scheduled to be in action, and the Hogs and the Longhorns could have the spotlight all to themselves.

In the days before conference championship games — and even national championship games — it was a fitting capper for college football's 100th season.

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It may have been the greatest disappointment of my then–brief life when Texas edged Arkansas, 15–14, and was given a plaque proclaiming the Longhorns the national champions by President Nixon, who was, I believe, the first sitting president ever to visit Fayetteville. Texas coach Darrell Royal accepted the plaque from the president — even though he knew the Longhorns still had to overcome Notre Dame in the Cotton Bowl on New Year's Day.

And I watched it all on my parents' black–and–white TV. I don't remember how old I was when I first saw a Razorback game in color. All my early memories are in black and white.

Most of my memories of Razorback Stadium also involve Frank Broyles because he was Arkansas' coach when I was growing up. He was always there, always on the sideline, always doing his weekly TV show on Sundays (which, in those pre–cable days when teams were limited to one or two in–season telecasts per year, was usually the only way I could see footage of the Razorbacks in action).

Once, when I was a student at the University of Arkansas, I did a brief phone interview with Broyles. I must confess, I was a bit starstruck. I mean, here I was talking to the man I had watched roam sidelines since I was a child. I can't really say I idolized him. But he was a familiar figure to everyone in Arkansas, and I felt like one might if speaking to a movie star.

Broyles was no longer the coach by the time I interviewed him. He was the full–time athletic director, but he patiently answered my questions (which I realized, at the time, could have been more professional — but what the heck? I was a student), and I wrote up a story for the school newspaper.

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Interestingly, while the stadium is known, officially, as Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium, the playing surface is known as Frank Broyles Field. That is something I have encountered at other schools, too — including the University of Oklahoma, where I taught journalism for four years. I never attended a football game at OU, but I was well aware of the fact that the football facility was known as Memorial Stadium at Owen Field.

It isn't new to me. It just seems kind of unnecessary, like hyphenated surnames.

But I guess both serve a purpose.

Anyway, it's been 75 years since Razorback Stadium opened its doors. I'm proud to have played my modest role in its development. I witnessed some great moments in Razorback history — and I saw a few Southwest Conference greats from other schools play there. Most of the people who read or hear of those games and players will not know I was there, but I was. I cherish the memories.

Happy birthday, Razorback Stadium — and many more.

Joe Louis' Redemption

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"Joe Louis is the hardest puncher that I've ever seen. ... He's a good man. Anyone who plans on beating him had better know what they're doing."

Max Schmeling

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Sometimes a sport needs a shot in the arm from an individual or a team to restore its lost luster.

So it was with heavyweight boxing in the 1930s. The legendary Jack Dempsey had been its champion through the mid–1920s, but he had been succeeded by a string of relatively nondescript fighters, one of whom was Max Schmeling, a German fighter.

(Schmeling was the first to win the heavyweight title by disqualification — his opponent floored him with a low blow. He resented the fact that this was what he was remembered for in the record books.)

But Schmeling played an important role in the development of one of boxing's most beloved figures, Joe Louis.

Schmeling didn't hold the title long. In fact, he lost it a couple of years after he won it — to the same fighter whose disqualification gave it to him in the first place. After that, his career followed a downward trajectory, but he was still considered a contender (albeit one who was past his prime) when he fought Louis for the first time in 1936.

In the tensions of the pre–World War II world, Schmeling and Louis were (unfairly) treated as symbols of their countries. And Nazi Germany celebrated when Schmeling knocked out Louis, then the #1 contender, in June 1936. The victory was heralded in Germany as proof of the validity of the Nazi belief in Aryan superiority.

The result undoubtedly shocked many casual boxing fans, but, from what I have read, the fight was much like the plot of the original "Rocky" movie. Schmeling, like Rocky, trained intently for the fight while Louis, assuming he would win, spent more time on the golf course than he did in the gym.

After the 1936 bout, Schmeling apparently felt entitled to a shot at the championship, having defeated the top contender, but global politics interfered. Fight organizers were reluctant to give a German fighter a shot at the title (and the propaganda opportunities that would come with it).

Germany kept on cheering as Schmeling won his next three fights, but then, 75 years ago today, Schmeling met Louis in a rematch in New York's Yankee Stadium. The Ring magazine would call it the "Fight of the Decade."

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Since they had met the first time, Louis had won 11 straight fights, including an eighth–round knockout of then–champion James Braddock to claim the title a year after his loss to Schmeling. But even though Louis had won the title in the ring, he said he would not consider himself the champion until he avenged that loss.

It was a boxing match, but it was more than that, as Nigel Collins wrote for ESPN. That second Louis–Schmeling fight "just might have been boxing's finest hour," he wrote.

It was also a symbolic battle between democracy and fascism, just like the first bout had been. "It was," wrote Collins, "the fight's cultural, racial and political ramifications that set it apart and led historian Bert Sugar to label it 'The greatest sporting event of the 20th century.' "

It wasn't just a fight in black America. Like it or not, as Avis Thomas–Lester wrote in the New Pittsburgh Courier, Louis carried black pride into the ring with him, but it really went beyond that. It was, wrote Thomas–Lester, a "a grudge match — Black against White, African American versus Aryan, the so–called 'Land of the Free' battling Nazi Germany."

Louis was the unofficial representative of the black community in America. There had been a black champion before — Jack Johnson — but his reign had been tainted in the public's perception, and Louis was the new hero of the black community.

It wasn't symbolic for Louis. It was the rematch with Schmeling, the only man to defeat him in three dozen professional fights, for which he had been waiting. It was his chance to redeem himself, and he did so with a vengeance.

The fight was scheduled for 15 rounds, but Louis, who took nothing for granted this time, kept his focus, and he knocked out Schmeling before the first round was over. Symbolically, it was an important moment in the histories of both nations. I know from the accounts I have read that there was a lot of rejoicing in Harlem when Louis beat Schmeling — and probably in black neighborhoods all across the country. My guess is that, in the domino–like way of history, Louis' triumph paved the way for public acceptance and support of black athletes like Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan and so many others.

Louis didn't lose again until Ezzard Charles defeated him in a unanimous decision in that same Yankee Stadium in 1950. His tenure as heavyweight champion was longer than anyone else's.

It might have been that way, anyway — but, for Louis, it all really began on this night 75 years ago.