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Page 21 text:
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A T 11 1. E r I C S 17 Paddock By Bob Ridgvvav SllK levies OF THE WORLD feast with thrilled wonder upon the 100 nu ' tt-r dash. ( f all the splendid contests upon track and field it is the most brilliant, most spectacular. It is the piece de resistance of the Olympic Games, one cyclonic burst of human effort, man straining every fiber of his being to hurl himself against a thin, white tape a fraction of a second before a fellow runner. America has not triumphed again and again in this classic as America has done in field events, but the United States, from their wealth of manhood, have given the world a line of the greatest sprinters ever known. Out of our own Southern California have come three who have dominated American races for over a decade — Paddock, Borah, and Wykoff. Each has ruled the collegiate world, each should have been an Olympic champion. Frank W ' ykoft , ace of American sprinters, has three times surpassed the records of all the runners of history in the 100 yard dash. Upon him rest America ' s hopes for a Yankee victory in the classic century. Yet, champion though he may be, Imck of this youth whose running spikes have borne him over the rugged road to fame there gleams a star whose lofty heights are yet untouched by the ascending planets of another generation. That star wanes, wanes after scintillating so brightly that years after its most radiant glow was shed it is still dazzling to the eye. The star wanes, but its life-story, the life-story of Charles Paddock, will live beyond the generation. Figures crouch upon a white line across a running track, they grow tense, the gun cracks and the runners flash out of their pits. One leads, goes hurtling down the straightaway in a blinding burst of speed to hit the tape with a spas- modic leap at the finish, and another Paddock victory goes down upon the records. The stocky, powerfully-built sprinter swept through national competition and entered the Olympic Games of 1920. He led the cream of the world ' s sprinters to the tape and shattered a world record. Back he came four years later to run in the Olympic Games at Paris, and to fight a losing battle. Still he swept on to victory after victory against America ' s best, and at last entered his third Olympiad. A clean-limbed boy from his own locale, who had beaten him in the American trials, accompanied him to Amsterdam as a member of the team. The boy was Frank Wykoff, destined to uncrown him as the World ' s Fastest Human. Paddock entered the games, fought a courageous fight against younger men. fresher men, and went down in defeat in the second round. Yet four years later he was out on a California track, testing his legs for the springy stride that had made his name glorious. A new Olympiad loomed, a new chamjjion was preparing to defend his honors. Twelve years is a long time for a sprinter to last. A Paddock victory would be a miracle, but his training is a glorious gesture. Men thrill to the sight of that stocky figure upon the track; Youth, idolizing Wykoff, gazes with interest.
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Page 22 text:
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18 THEARTISANS ' 32 Paddock is a symbol; his career is the oriflamme of conquering youth. How many have cast their eyes upwards and aspired to his greatness? How many have heard him voice his creed, the creed of clean Hving, clean playing, and the indomi- table determination to achieve the highest? Even Wykoff, the champion, hails Paddock as the greatest. Let us hope that these pages do honor to Charles Paddock, a fine American, a splendid sportsman, an inspirational Ijeacon in the realm of athletics. To Be Alone By Arthur Eslick To be alone ! A terrifying thought, indeed. But not to all. To the scholar? Xo. To him The silence is a friend, stimulating. And soothing to his active mind. Companionship to him extends beyond the human realm ; His friends are often Thoughts, Fanned by his loving care. To burst at last and gladden him. The quiet .soul needs not Earth ' s transient regard, But finds growth in being left alone. Not so with me, for I am not a scholar. Tu me the silence is an awful thing. The solitude a curse. 1 hunger for the lights, the Common sounds of human kind. My lonely senses revel in a crowd. My heart is gay, not often, but (July when it ' s near to other hearts. Warm and throbbing. My only horror is To be alone.
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