Jesse Owens

This is by Bill Murphy, Jr. who I read almost daily.

In Berlin

In the blistering heat of a Berlin summer in 1936, a tall, blond man stood at the edge of a long-jump runway, surrounded by flags and fanfare.

His name was Luz Long, and to most of the spectators packed into the Olympiastadion that week, he was Germany’s golden boy: the perfect embodiment of the Aryan ideal.

He was educated, athletic, and charming. A law student and a national champion. He had trained for this moment with the same meticulous discipline that defined his life.

And yet, by the end of the Games, Luz Long would be remembered not for how far he jumped, but for what he reached for instead.

The 1936 Olympics were more than just sports—they were politics wrapped in medals. Adolf Hitler had turned the Games into a global stage for Nazi propaganda, showcasing Germany’s supposed racial superiority.

For athletes like Long, who had grown up in a world before fascism but now found themselves performing in its spotlight, the situation was complicated.

Compete with pride? Yes. But also with loyalty, under the watchful gaze of the Führer.

Simple advice

The trouble began during the long jump qualifying round -- August 4, 1936, so 89 years ago today.

Jesse Owens, the American sprinter and jumper, had already won gold in the 100 meters and was expected to dominate the long jump as well.

But Owens had fouled on his first two attempts. One more misstep, and he’d be eliminated.

Luz Long, the German hopeful, had already secured his place in the finals with a clean jump.

Luz approached Owens.

They’d barely spoken before. They were competitors, after all, and symbols of nations locked in ideological combat.

But something in the moment—the anxiety on Owens’ face, the tension in the air, Luz supposedly later wrote that it was the fact that Owens kneeled down in prayer, although, as we'll see, that's an apocryphal account, moved Long to act.

He offered a simple suggestion: Owens should move his mark back a few inches to avoid fouling again. There was more than enough room for him to qualify without pushing the edge.

Courage

Owens took the advice. He adjusted his mark, made his third attempt, and qualified easily.

The next day, he jumped 8.06 meters—an Olympic record—and won gold.

Long, who posted a personal best of 7.87 meters, earned silver.

After the medal ceremony, the two men walked around the stadium together, arm in arm, smiling, talking.

In Berlin.

In front of 110,000 spectators.

Under a sky full of swastikas.

Owens later said, “It took a lot of courage for him to befriend me in front of Hitler. I would melt down all the medals and cups I have, and they wouldn’t be a plating on the 24-karat friendship that I felt for Luz Long at that moment.”

1943

Long was still a national hero in Germany, but he was still a pawn in a geopolitical chess game.

Germany invaded Poland, World War II began, and he was reluctantly drafted into the German army.

In 1943, fighting in North Africa, he supposedly wrote a letter to Owens. Widely cited, it's hard to verify, but the sentiment and the result seem valid.

Luz asked Owens to do him a favor, according to this letter: If he didn’t survive, would Jesse someday go to Germany and tell Long’s son what kind of man his father had been?

Luz died July 14, 1943, in a British hospital, having been wounded and captured after the battle for the Biscari-Santo Pietro airfield. He was just 30 years old.

His letter to Owens? Moving, poignant, historical, widely cited -- also, not verifiable.

Remember Luz Long

Still, years later, Jesse Owens did visit Germany.

He met Long’s son, Karl, and told him the story—not of winning, but of kindness.

They became friends; Owens was eventually the best man at Karl's wedding.

Like a lot of history, the details get clouded -- but the message remains clear. In a time when the world was being torn apart by ideologies of division, Luz Long did something quietly radical.

He stepped across the divide.

He helped a rival in need.

He risked the spotlight’s judgment to offer a gesture of respect—and in doing so, forged a legacy far greater than any medal.

He didn’t just leap in Berlin. He reached. And, he gave the world something better to remember than victory: he gave it grace.