Liddell—dubbed “the Flying Scot” on sports pages across his country—received his baton four yards behind in chase.
During the Olympic Games held in Paris the week previous, these same two men had dueled during the heats, quarterfinals, semifinals, and finals of the Olympic 400 meters. Fitch had run in the first semifinal, breaking an Olympic record to come in first place at 47.8 seconds. Eric had run in the second semifinal, coming in first at 48.2 seconds. The odds had been in Fitch’s favor.
But Eric Liddell had something to prove—something beyond the Olympics. His was another race. His, a greater prize.
Much to Fitch’s shock—and the world’s—in 47.6 seconds, Eric Liddell had trounced all competitors and odds, crossing the finish line with a first-place win and in world-record time.
A week later, at Stamford Bridge, Fitch had retaliation in mind. The win should have come easily—Eric Liddell had spent the past week at graduation and banquets, leaving him no time for practice. The man’s muscles would be practically atrophied, surely.
At two hundred yards, Liddell had made up two of the four yards between the men. Then, as they rounded the last turn, Liddell’s head went back, a sure sign. Often it had been said that when the Flying Scotsman’s “heid went back,” he “culdna’ lose.”
Eric Liddell took over in the last straightaway, outrunning Fitch by a commanding four yards. His split time equaled his gold standard from the Olympics, and the hunger of the London crowd had been satisfied once again, but without compromise from Liddell.
With the race over, and in his typical fashion, Liddell shook hands with Fitch and the others, quietly gathered his belongings, waved to the crowd, and left the limelight as swiftly as he could.
No gloating. No interviews.
Since his boyhood, Eric’s nature—to ward off pride and avoid attention when at all possible—had always been contrary to many self-promoting athletes and fame-seeking performers. Aware of his ascent in the public’s eye, he had been careful to not allow success to go to his head. Over the course of the past week, he had realized that winning gold for his nation—in the way he had won—had catapulted him into a new stratosphere of unanticipated celebrity.
Now, as the late-afternoon sun beat down on King’s Cross, Eric caught wind of the reporters awaiting him. The attention did not appear to be ending anytime in the near future. But what he wanted—what he needed—was to retreat into a solitary bed compartment and sleep in peace for his ride home. He hoped to find a way to circumvent the onslaught of questions, which would invariably add volume to his own vanity. And if he didn’t answer correctly, his responses could easily be misconstrued. He looked around for a solution, but all entrances to his train were blocked.
Eric sighed, realizing he had little choice but to endure the questions and the blinding flashes of camera bulbs.
As he accepted his unusual defeat, Eric spied a baggage porter. Head bent under his trademarked hat, the older man nimbly pushed a luggage rack through the sea of travelers. Eric ducked his chin and, weaving through the crowd, made his way to the porter.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I wonder if you might do me a favor.”
The porter listened as Eric explained the situation. “Would you be so kind as to loan me your cap and luggage rack?”
The porter’s eyes scanned the crowd, whose voices had risen in the rush of the usual good-byes. He smiled at the conspiracy, then removed his hat and handed it to Eric. “My pleasure, Mr. Liddell,” he said, smoothing back his disheveled hair. “Just add your bags to the rack here and make your way to that car over there.”
Eric dipped into his pocket and slipped a sizable tip into the porter’s hand. “Thank you, my good man,” he said before shrewdly pushing the luggage rack. As the porter had done, Eric kept his head down, but he cast his eyes to the train cars and walked straight through the unsuspecting media.
After loading the luggage, he boarded the train undetected while the porter watched from the outskirts, a smile curling his lips.
THE PUBLIC AND LOCAL MEDIA could not recognize or appreciate the extraordinary pressures Eric Liddell was under. Questions of when to conclude his running career, when to leave for China, whether or not to enter seminary, how long to be apart from his family, the ever-closing window of opportunity to secure a wife—all were methodical drips increasing a dull pound in his thoughts. No matter which avenue he chose, all ultimately meant what seemed unthinkable to most—he would turn his back on fame.
For good.
And he was not about to open his heart to prying journalists as he mulled over his decisions. Had he indulged their inquiries, they could not have come to terms with the seriousness of the dilemma and the magnitude of the situation. The choice to leave his full life in Britain—to trade it for the obscurity of the Far East—seemed senseless to them.
To everyone. Nearly.
The public knew of Liddell’s missionary lineage and had caught wind that he might possibly join in the efforts of his family eventually. But capitalizing solely on the potential of his success kept their interest. The Flying Scotsman had achieved so much, and so much more lay at his fingertips. Fanning the flame of stardom was a necessary act. They simply would not understand why he—or anyone, for that matter—would willingly walk away from the admiration and celebrity status they continued to lavish upon him.
To sacrifice everything earned and live a life of practical anonymity seemed more drastic than necessary. If he made the choice for China, he would walk into a place and time where no one knew him and where British citizens were despised.
Besides, couldn’t he stay in England and do more for Christ there than in China?
