Rob grinned brightly before his somber face returned. “And soon thereafter we’ll leave for China. I won’t be there for you. For the Games.”
Eric pressed his lips together. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”
Yes, soon after the Games, Rob and his new bride, Ria, would leave for his birthplace. Everyone—Eric’s entire family—would reside in China. Everyone but him.
And, once again, Eric would be alone.
AFTER ROB’S WEDDING, Eric continued to train for the world’s greatest games.
He ran two races the following month but did not put forth an effort in the 400 meters until the end of May and on his home field at Craiglockhart, the University of Edinburgh. His first report card read:
100 yards—10.2
220 yards—23.0
440 yards—51.5
Only six weeks stood between Eric and the Games in Paris. He and Tom McKerchar both knew they had a lot of work to do, especially concerning his time in the 400.
At the next competition, Eric’s times showed some improvement:
100 yards—10.2
220 yards—22.4
440 yards—51.2
As June wore on, Eric continued to improve. Eric won the 100 yards with a record-breaking (for the meet) 10 seconds flat. He also won the 220 yards with a time of 22.6 and the 440 yards with a sustained time of 51.2.
By Friday, June 20, at Stamford Bridge, London, Eric had dropped his 440-yard time to 49.6, a mark that began to flirt with the best times in the world at that distance. The following day, Eric lost the 220-yard finals to a runner from South Africa, finishing in second place by two and a half yards—devastating for a runner in serious competition.
Yet also on that same day, Eric won the 440 yards in 49.6 seconds. Still, he was not favored to win the 400 at the Olympics. Still, his countrymen looked at him as though he’d betrayed them.
Still, Eric remained on the outside looking in.
Two of the most famous scenes in the 1981 movie Chariots of Fire are those that bookend the film—the British Olympic team running down the beaches of Broadstairs, Kent, in preparation for their departure to Paris.
Would choosing God’s way result in victory?
Would Eric cross the finish line as—or behind—the winner?
Or not at all?
British fans provided great fanfare as their Olympic team embarked from Victoria Station. The elaborate send-off propelled the team into the opening ceremonies, allowing them to establish momentum early. On Sunday, July 6, while Eric worshiped at Scots Kirk, Harold Abrahams qualified for the 100-meter semifinals, which were to be held the following day. On Monday, Abrahams went on to win the gold medal in the 100 meters with a time of 10.6.
Britain breathed a sigh of relief at Abrahams’s triumph, staking claim to the fastest man in the world with a new Olympic record, while no one said a negative word about the fact that Liddell had been exactly where he’d said he’d be—at church—the day before. Abrahams’s achievement relieved Eric of a small amount of pressure, but the reprieve would be short lived when both men dug themselves (and Britain) into a hole.
On Tuesday, July 8, Eric faced his first Olympic challenge: the 200 meters. He took first in his opening heat, posting a time of 22.2. Later that day he dropped his time to 21.9. Eric safely advanced to the Wednesday semifinal heats, as well as into the finals—and Abrahams along with him.
But in the finals, Eric finished a disappointing third, barely nipped by Jackson Scholz and Charley Paddock of the United States, with a time of 21.9. Eric was not the only one who recognized the defeat. The main post in Edinburgh, The Scotsman, seized the opportunity to add more pressure:
Liddell failed to reproduce the strong finish by which so many of his races in this country had been won. He was well placed and had his spurt been forthcoming he would undoubtedly have won.[11]
The paper seemingly forgot to report that Eric did win the bronze. Nor did it state that Harold Abrahams finished dead last.
Eric felt the foreboding weight of reality the night before the opening heats for the 400 meters. The eyes of the world seemed to be on Eric, his faith, and his God, all of which would be unfairly evaluated based on his performance—particularly if he made a poor showing. In retrospect, winning the bronze medal for the 200 meters would be a proud achievement marking a worthy effort against formidable opponents, but Eric knew he had much more to prove. His family was a half a world away, and he recognized that—even with his teammates and coach cheering him on—he was surrounded by people but alone.
Save for God.
Thursday arrived.
Eric started well, winning the opening heat with a slow time of 50.2. With three anticipated races to go, runners typically save energy in hopes of the greatest performance possible in the finals—provided they can make it there. This strategy worked well. Eric ran the fastest time of his life later that day, 49.3.
But Eric knew that while his time ensured him a spot in the Friday semifinals, it only placed him second in the heat. Eric had become the dark horse favorite. He knew it. But more important, so did everyone else.
The next morning, after a muscle-loosening massage, Eric’s masseur handed him a note. Eric looked at the folded piece of paper, then slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll read it when I get to the stadium,” Eric said.
Eric went through his usual warm-ups and stretches, and he gentlemanly shook the hands of all his opponents before the start. Before digging his starting stance in the cinder, he removed the note, and—before one of the biggest moments of his life—read,
In the old book it says, “He that honours me I will honour.” Wishing you the best of success always.
Eric did not disappoint in the semifinals. He delivered an astonishing 48.2 in the second of two
