By:Andrew Lawrence
Lot number 11 in Christie’s “Exceptional Sale” earlier this year lived up to its billing. Th is was the holy grail for the well-heeled sports fan or history buff – Olympic glory in the palm of your hand. In an auction that included a Louis XIV tapestry and what was believed to be the only painting by all four of the Beatles, the long-jump gold medal from the 1968 Summer Olympics fetched £351,000. What made its owner give it up? “I had just gotten past the idea of storing it in a bank vault,” says Bob Beamon. “I also thought, with the flags all over the world about to go up for the Paris Games, it was time to cash in on my reputation and inspire the public again.”
As rare collectibles go, Beamon’s gold still dazzles. Th e clear favourite in 1968, Beamon’s 8.9-metre jump obliterated the world record. Welshman Lynn Davies, the de-fending Olympic champion, who finished eight spots behind Beamon on that extraordinary day at Estadio Olímpico Universitario told Beamon afterwards: “You have destroyed this event.”
Th e American weekly magazine Sports Illustrated pronounced Beamon’s jump one of the five greatest sports moments of the 20th century, above Bannister’s four-minute mile. “They never really showed videos of his jump until years later,” says John Carlos, the 200m bronze medalist in 1968. “What they showed was a still picture of him up in the air.”
It was dubbed “the leap of the century” and inspired a new superlative: Beamonesque. “I got a call from Webster’s saying, ‘We put your name in the dictionary, and it means outstanding, unbelievable,’” Beamon recalls.
“I never even had a library card. To be an athlete and have your name in the dictionary describing the things you’ve done: it’s just as great as winning a gold medal.” His golden leap endured in the record books for nearly 23 years, until the American Mike Powell beat it by 5cm at the 1991 world championships. Beamon’s long jump is still the longest ever at the Olympics.
Just as improbably, Beamon captured the American imagination as popular attention was divided between the civil rights movement and the Vietnam war – battles that Carlos and 200m champion Tommie Smith called further attention to on the podium. At his own medal ceremony, Beamon wore black socks in solidarity with their gloved-fist protest. Aft er getting kicked out of college for protesting about racism, Beamon had intended to play it safe. But that turned out to be harder than he had realised.
Being so far in front made Beamon’s a lonely trail. He didn’t have family or friends to cheer him on at the Olympics. He had to accept that he had reached his athletic peak at the age of 22. What’s more, like many Black American luminaries of the day, Beamon was forced to reconcile racism at home with respect abroad – which also had its limits. “They’d whistle and yell and even boo,” Carlos recalled of the meets when Beamon didn’t jump over the sand pit. “It was difficult for Bob. Here’s a guy that was just thrust into fame. Everybody coming at him – you’d be a little guarded, too.”
On a video call from his home in the South Carolina resort town of Myrtle Beach, Beamon, 77, looks fit and focused. At first he seems re-served – before Beamon was a byword for athletic excellence, Carlos called him by a different name: the Aristocrat. “He’s a fun-loving guy, just kinda withdrawn. Not one to jump out there if he doesn’t know you. Th at type of energy.”
Aft er about an hour or so, he lets his guard down just enough to lob out the odd wry barb. “I don’t feel like I missed anything,” he says when I ask him if there’s such a thing as being too reserved. “I mean, I missed a couple parties. I’m not a party guy, so it wasn’t a big deal for me.”
This comes from a guy who carved out a successful post-jump career as a jazz drummer, playing alongside a slew of Grammy award-winning artists. Earlier this year, he released an album with Brooklyn-based producer Stix Bones called Olimpik Soul.
“The first time I met Max was at a downtown studio in Manhattan,” he says, casually referencing his chance meeting with renowned drummer Max Roach back in the day. “He was playing with some other greats: Roy Brooks, Joe Chambers, Freddie Waits. Together, they were called the M’Boom ensemble group. It had an incredible effect on me.” Beamon started out in South Jamaica, in the New York borough of Queens, as a beatnik, filling his school note-books with freehand sketches and playing the drums for a local dance school. (“I had to give it up because of sports,” )
