His time was 51.2 seconds, almost three full seconds off the world record—and every tenth of a second in a race that short was a major barrier.
Yet the question remained: What could Eric have run had he not fallen?
Both McKerchar and Eric believed there was a possibility—albeit slim—that they could transform Eric—a 100-meter champion—into a world-caliber 400-meter man in time for the Olympics. But they only had six months to do it.
Eric and Tom knew one area to address: Eric’s starting technique. Precious time had been lost there, and there was room for improvement. Years later, Eric remembered the difficulty:
One of the hardest lessons to learn is how to start. Time after time you go to your holes, rise to the “get set” position, and wait for the pistol to go. Someone tries to go off before the pistol, and so we all have to get up and start from the beginning again. Even after I had been at it for four years, the papers now and then reminded me that my weak point was the slowness with which I started.[9]
When the announcement came that Eric Liddell would, in addition to the 200 meters, compete in the 400 meters, more than a few eyes rolled. As if such a goal—one Brits were sure he would fail at—would make up for losing the 100.
And by losing, they meant not running.
By now, all eyes had turned toward Harold Abrahams, an English star sprinter at Cambridge, who had become the de facto favorite after Liddell’s refusal to run in the 100. Eric had sorely beaten Abrahams in the 100-meter head-to-head in July of 1923. Even so, British sports enthusiasts believed Abrahams could give them the gold at the Olympics.
Odds stacked against him. Naysayers lined up. Patriotic pressure mounted.
Eric remained grounded in his faith. He had somehow managed not to get caught up in the pandemonium played out in the press, which had begun to oscillate back ever so gently. The December 1923 edition of The Student offered,
Ninety-nine men, gifted with Eric’s prowess, would now be insufferably swollen-headed, but here we have the hundredth man. Here is a man who hates praise and shuns publicity, yet is deserving of both. Here is a man with a mind of his own, and not afraid to voice his most sacred feeling on a platform if, by so doing, he thinks it will help his fellows. Here is a man who has courage, and delights to accept a challenge, be it for the sake of his School, his ’Varsity, his Country, or his God. And lastly, here is a man who wins because he sets his teeth, quietly but firmly, and always plays the game. Everyone is fond of Eric.[10]
[7] D. P. Thomson, Scotland’s Greatest Athlete: The Eric Liddell Story (Barnoak, Crieff, Perthshire, Scotland: Research Unit, 1970), 53.
[8] Ibid, 50.
[9] Ibid, 29.
[10] Ibid, 42.
CHAPTER 6
INTO BATTLE
Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.
James 1:2-4
April 1924
Eric had only been back home from America for a few hours when he found himself sitting across the dining room table from his brother, enjoying his favorite dinner of sausage and cheese and, of course, haggis.
“So, how’d you find America?” Rob asked him.
“By boat,” Eric teased as he reached for the cup of tea resting to the right of his plate.
“Funny.”
Eric shook his head, setting all banter aside. “It began badly enough. I should have known the Penn Relays would follow suit.”
Rob smiled and rested his fork and knife against the plate. “How’s that?”
“First I left my luggage on the dock and had to run back for it. Then there were the storms. Nearly pitched the ship, they were so ominous.”
“Hyperbole.”
“You think I’m kidding.”
“I do.”
Eric waved his fork in the air as if to dismiss his previous words. “All right, you win. But they were pretty bad.”
“You didn’t get sick like before, did you?” Rob asked with a wink.
Eric studied his plate, trying to decide what to dive into next. “Not quite the same . . . but yes,” he answered quietly, remembering the trip the family had made when he’d first come to England. He’d been sick with dysentery and had lost so much weight, he had barely been able to support himself to walk across the deck. “Remember that woman? She was one—”
“—one of the missionary wives. She said with you unable to walk, you’d never be able to run,” Rob responded. “I guess you showed her.”
Eric chuckled as he bit into a slice of sausage. “Maybe not. My times at the games were quite awful. I came in fourth in the 100 and second in the 200. A lousy performance . . . and against international competition at that. The papers are sure to bring this up.”
“Don’t fret about it,” Rob said, his voice returning to a more serious tone. “Won’t do you a bit of good. How’d the others do?”
“Not a one of us came home with a first.”
“Better for you, I’d say.”
True, but Eric frowned at the thought. What would all this mean to the Olympic team in July? “One bright note,” he said then. “On the trip back I got along quite famously with Arthur Marshall. He’s one of the seven from the Cambridge University Athletics Club.” He grinned. “We went to a masquerade ball one night. Had a smashing time.” Eric chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
Heat rushed to Eric’s cheeks as he replied, “Oh . . . it’s nothing. Just that . . . Arthur and I met two very nice young ladies.”
A twinkle caught in Rob’s eye. “Did you now?”
“They told us they’d be in Paris for the Games and
