A Hearing for Jim Thorpe
AN EXERCISE IN FRUSTRATION
Michael L. Sheaffer
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Michael L. Sheaffer
All Rights Reserved
No Part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author
Original Copyright 2009 Michael L. Sheaffer
First Published by Haynes Bridge Publishing (2009)
Johns Creek, GA USA
Cover design by Ann Clayton of Abundant Creative
Cover photography: Cumberland County Historical Society, Carlisle, PA
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my parents, Milton and Marie Sheaffer, who did not live to see my book completed. I am sure they are with me in spirit.
And also to my wife, Angie, who has inspired and encouraged me to write this book.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are a number of people I would like to thank for their input into this book. First, my best friend, Stephen Mark. He has been by my side from the very start of this book, giving me advice, even when I did not ask for it.
Most of the research came from the years I was chairperson of “Project Jim Thorpe” for the Carlisle Jaycees. I thank you, the Jaycees that helped with “Project Jim Thorpe” and became lifelong friends.
On the technical side, I want to thank Ann Clayton for her graphic design expertise in designing the cover and the book marketing materials. And to Jerry Bush who was the first to read the manuscript and provide me with comments and encouragement.
Last, but definitely not least, I want to thank Richard Tritt, Photo Curator, at the Cumberland County Historical Society. Richard helped with the selection of the cover photography.
Thank You
FOREWORD
It seems that the heroes of our childhood stay reminiscently with us as we grow. It doesn’t matter what they did or who they were, but their legacy lives on in our hearts and can return us to the warm feelings of childhood in an instant. Jim Thorpe was one of those people to me. Growing up in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, home to the Carlisle Indian School where Jim Thorpe spent many of his school years, I was frequently privy to hearing personal and engaging stories about the infamous Jim Thorpe. He was then and still remains a legendary presence for Carlisle. Growing up it was as if his history was part of my own and even as an adult I feel Jim Thorpe is part of my own heritage.
Like many small towns, Carlisle hangs on to the connection it has with Jim Thorpe. Many of his collectibles have been kept on display to ensure that the legacy lives on. The Cumberland County Historical Society, The Hamilton Library in town, and the US Army Military History Research collection all contains fragments from the life and career of Thorpe. Interestingly enough, the Carlisle Barracks is currently a senior army officer’s academy and is located at the exact site where the old Carlisle Indian School used to sit. I imagine that, as time goes on, many more young boys will hear the stories of Jim Thorpe and feel a sense of pride and interest in him. I hope I will be able to gently coerce those feelings in others and with pride, spread his good name.
As fate would have it, I did get to see Jim Thorpe in person just once. To me it was as grand an experience as if John Wayne or the president himself had come and shook my hand. In September of 1951, during the world premiere of the Warner Brother’s movie, Jim Thorpe All American, I caught a brief but memorable glimpse of the man that I truly admired. Unfortunately, it was my first and last time to see him. On January 26, 1969, I volunteered to head up a committee for the Carlisle Jaycees. The goals of this committee were to have Jim Thorpe reinstated as the winner of the 1912 Olympic Pentathlon and Decathlon event. The effort was called “Project Jim Thorpe” and I spent three years gathering research, collecting facts, and finding out the truths behind why Jim Thorpe was removed as the winner of these 1912 Olympic events. During this time, my interest in Jim Thorpe came to an all-time peak, and I was somehow reunited with the boy in my past and learning to respect a childhood hero all over again. Perhaps my favorite boyhood memory is a story I heard about Jim Thorpe. The story unfolds as the coach from the Harrisburg, PA, rival school awaited the Carlisle Indian School bus to arrive for the upcoming track meet. As the bus arrived, the hosting coach expected to greet the whole team, but was surprised to find that only three people exited the bus. The first was the Carlisle coach, “Pop” Warner, the second was Louis Tewanima, and the last was Jim Thorpe. Puzzled, the other coach quickly asked “Pop” where the rest of the team was. Coach Warner smiled coyly and said, “This is the team. Louis does all the running and Jim does everything else.” The perplexed other coach probably thought his team would win the match hands down. It turns out that the Carlisle Indian School swept the meet and legend says that Jim Thorpe ran the eighteen miles back to Carlisle after the track meet had ended!
It is no accident that I am the one to offer all the facts about Jim Thorpe in this riveting book entitled “A Hearing for Jim Thorpe, an Exercise in Frustration.” It seems that I have spent a lifetime unfolding the story so that the pride and interest I feel in this childhood hero can be shared with the rest of the world.
Michael L. Sheaffer
CHAPTER 1
It is a hot, dry day when I arrive in Carlisle, on the 4:05 PM train from Harrisburg. The dry air is such a contrast to what I’m feeling. After the train ride, I’m far from dry. The telltale signs are my wadded up sopping handkerchief, and, well okay, the darkness under the armpits of my shirtsleeves stretching half way to my waist. I’m feeling conspicuous and guess that I could just put my jacket back on, but temperatures are in the 90s, and with the air so stiflingly still, it feels more like 100 degrees. What do you expect in Pennsylvania in mid-July?
Train 27 is the most direct route, mercifully making only one stop in Mechanicsburg before lumbering into the Cumberland Valley Railroad station on High Street, between Hanover and Pitt Street.
As the locomotive grinds to a halt, I notice the “Cigars, Shines, and Billiards” sign in a shop window across the way and make a quick pit stop to pick up some stogies. I’d smoked my last one during the miserable train ride and want to thoroughly enjoy my next one in style and after I’ve had a chance to freshen up.
I’m anxious to get to the comforts of my hotel room. And I do mean comforts. The company spared no expense putting me up in the prestigious Molly Pitcher Hotel. I’ll tell you, this was a surprise. It might be a surprise for the boss when he sees the bill. In addition to luxury accommodations, the Molly Pitcher has the added benefit of being located conveniently across from the courthouse, my new, albeit temporary, work environment. At least I won’t be dripping with sweat from a long walk under a blazing sun, though the sure-to-be-crowded surroundings I’ll be working in will certainly take care of that.
As eager as I am to get to the finest hotel in town, wash away that train ride in style, and peruse the menu of that famed dining room, I make a stop at the Cumberland County Courthouse, to get the lay of the land. I’m going to need it.
I’m here, by the way, to cover a story, the biggest sports story of the year. It’s not taking place on any ball field, but right here inside this building. More like a battlefield. Actually, one of the sandstone columns of the Cumberland County Courthouse still exhibits the battle wounds of artillery shelling that ultimately preceded the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863. Yeah, I’d say this is an appropriate setting for what’s about to take place.
Beginning tomorrow, the whole world will be reading about why Jim Thorpe, one of the most revered athletes of our time, has been stripped of his Olympic medals and titles. One by one, the facts leading up to these events will be revealed at a media-spectacle courthouse hearing and a judge will decide whether Thorpe’s medals should be returned to him.
As the sports reporter for the Evening News, I’ll be among those media hounds. The name is Bud Murphy, and this could well be the biggest story of my career. Well, maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Much as I hate to say it, maybe the big story’s already been told, broke by the damned Worcester Telegram. What can happen here but a mere recounting of the facts that led to the removal of those medals? The committee sure as hell wouldn’t have done some`thing that drastic, that final, and well, cruel, without cold, hard proof. But something about this whole thing still nags, or maybe that’s gnaws, at me.
I fight my gut instincts and focus on the facts. Isn’t this what a reporter’s supposed to do? The Olympics are for amateur athletes, as in athletes who don’t get paid for what they do. It was uncovered that Thorpe had been paid as an athlete prior to his amazing Olympic performances and medals. Ya gotta admit, the guy is beyond belief. No amateur or professional has ever accomplished what he did, and it’s hard to believe anyone else ever will. But the rules are the rules. That’s the way I see it. And I guess that’s the way the Olympic Committee saw it when they took away his awards.
I’m not so sure that’s the way the residents of Carlisle see it, though. Since Thorpe’s a local boy who’s much loved by the folks here, I am pretty sure that the courtroom will be packed with supporters tomorrow. Ought to be interesting.
Staring at the shelled column and impressive bell tower of the courthouse, I envision the proud defenders of Carlisle back in 1863, as General Stuart and his army paused briefly here during the Gettysburg campaign of the American Civil War. Though not a significant battle in and of itself, the skirmish here detained Stuart’s troops in their rendezvous with General Lee at Gettysburg. Their arrival well into the second day of battle could well have shaped the course of history and life as we know it today. God knows where this country would be now had Gettysburg been lost.
I wonder if the citizens of Carlisle will rally to the defense of their native son with as much courage and character; and I can’t help but wonder if the events that transpire here will amount to more than restoring some prize. If, like the Battle of Carlisle, there’s more at stake that we may not even comprehend in this moment. History has a way of doing that. Not making its significance immediately known to those who live it, but sending an ever-lasting message for generations to come. What lessons will we not fully grasp at the end of this historic hearing? What lasting impact will the results have on future generations?
“Screw your head back on, Murphy,” I say to myself. At least, I hope I said it to myself. I can get carried away and make something out of nothing like nobody’s business. Maybe that’s why I became a reporter.
In any case, it’s not my job to speculate about the longstanding importance of the Thorpe hearing. My job is to report the facts that will be revealed in this building tomorrow.
I’d like to see the layout before I have to fight my way through the crowd in the morning, so I’m heading to the second floor hearing room for a look around.
The room probably holds two hundred people comfortably, maybe five or six to each white-painted wooden row. The half dozen extralong windows are closed now, since there’s nothing happening here today. The courtroom is almost eerily quiet, populated only by the ghosts of past witnesses, of decisions that tried to serve justice and probably broke many hearts, and of people like me, who depend on the victories and defeats of others to earn their bread and butter.
In truth, though, I am a little out of my element here. The triumphs and trouncings I write about aren’t nearly as solemn and significant as the judgments handed down in this building. But, in the Jim Thorpe case, in the interest of fair play and for the good of the game the findings here could impact sports—both amateur and professional, and possibly even my career, in a major way.
I nudge personal ambition aside and wonder what the judge will be like. Once he enters the courtroom from that side door and takes his place behind the imposing oak bench, he’ll be running the show. It’ll be just the judge at the bench, and his clerk at the small table beside it. The jury seats to the left of the bench will be empty, since this isn’t a trial. Can’t help but wonder whether that’s good or bad for Thorpe—his peers would probably give him back the medals in a minute, which is probably about how much time the Olympic Committee took to strip him of them—but who knows what the judge will decide?
So it looks like this historic old building is about to acquire another piece of history. I’ve already seen the battle scars on the column outside. I wonder what sorts of scars this room will bear once the sides retire. I have no doubt that many will be buried in deep, invisible places, like in the heart and on the soul.
Leaving the courthouse, I walk the half block to the Molly Pitcher on South Hanover Street. The hotel’s reputation precedes it—everyone who heard I’d be staying here envied me my good fortune. As the doorman opens the polished oak door and I step into the lobby, without thinking I find myself letting out a low whistle. From the elegant mahogany front desk to the inlaid marble floor, the place is awash in luxury.
The uniformed clerk looks up as I approach the desk.
“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Molly Pitcher Hotel. My name is Jimmy. How may I help you?”
I tell him I’m checking in and give him my name. When he sees that my room will be paid for by the newspaper, he asks if I’m in town on business.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” I say, intending to merely respond to his question. Truthfully, I am not at all interested in a conversation at the moment. I want to get to my luxury digs, literally peel the clothes off my back and clean up. I can’t wait to grab some dinner. My stomach’s grumbling, especially since I’m about to fill it with fine dining. My plan is to buy the most expensive damned thing on the menu. But I find myself adding, “I’m a sports reporter for the Evening News, and I’ll be covering the Jim Thorpe hearing for the paper. I guess the town’s pretty excited about it.”
“You have no idea, Mr. Murphy,” Jimmy replies. “Most everyone in Carlisle and the nearby towns loves Jim Thorpe and we all think it’s a shame the way his medals were taken away. I say he earned them fair and square, if you don’t mind my opinion.”
I actually do mind, a little. But I’m a good enough reporter to know when an opportunity presents itself, so I satisfy my appetite for information first.
“Not at all, Jimmy,” I say. “I’m as interested in what the folks of Carlisle think as I am in what’s going to happen in that courtroom. I figured most people here would be on Thorpe’s side.”
Jimmy seems to consider this comment for a moment before he responds. “Well sir, Carlisle is a patriotic place. George Washington has come through this town; Ben Franklin too. And the local Carlisle Indian School Cadets took part in President Teddy Roosevelt's special inauguration parade just ten years ago. That sure was a proud day! And of course there’s Molly herself.” He’s referring to the hotel’s namesake, the legendary Molly Pitcher, the only woman buried here with other veterans of the Revolution who fought right along with the men in the Revolutionary War. “Folklore has it that she came by the name by carrying pitchers of water to soldiers manning their cannons on the battlefield. The water wasn’t even for the soldiers to drink, although I’m sure Molly took care of them too. The water was needed to swab the cannons.”
Jimmy is turning out to be a real historian. He certainly knows his stuff. Just as I’m beginning to wonder where this little history lesson is headed, he continues, “Anyway, what I mean is that Jim Thorpe is an American Indian, and he represented this country in the Olympics and won those races. And it just seems unpatriotic to me and lots of others that anybody can say he didn’t. A fact’s a fact, is what I’m saying.” Naturally, the residents of Carlisle are behind their hometown hero. I want to point out to Jimmy that these aren’t the only facts, but something about his passion for history and ardor for Thorpe gives me pause—that, and the voice that booms behind me.?“Sure is, Son.” I turn to see a powerfully built man in his mid-forties approaching from across the lobby. He puts out his hand. “Glenn Warner,” he says. “Call me Pop.”
Now, you don’t have to be a sports reporter to know who Pop Warner is. But, because I am a sports reporter, I am humbled, honored, and nervous as heck in his presence. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr.
Warner,” I nearly stammer, shaking the hand of this living legend, at least in my book. This is quickly becoming about the luckiest day of my life.
In my dozen or so years on the sports beat, I’ve covered much of the famed coach’s impressive football career. Pop Warner is always news. He began as a player for Cornell University in the early 1890s, and got the nickname “Pop” because he was older than most of his teammates. The name stuck. Although he graduated with a law degree, he went to work for the University of Georgia as its football coach. The place had no athletic facilities, no playing field, no stands for the spectators. No players, either, but somehow after only two years, Pop gave Georgia its first undefeated season. His team at the University of Pittsburgh went undefeated last year, too. What this guy can do for a football team is nothing short of unbelievable.
I knew he coached when Thorpe first arrived at the Carlisle Indian School, so I figured him to be a key player at the hearing. I didn’t figure I’d be meeting him face to face in the lobby of my hotel.
“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re here to cover Jim Thorpe’s hearing,” Pop says, eyeing my bags and briefcase.
I’m wondering if he views me as friend or foe? I would have preferred meeting the guy after one of his victorious, undefeated football seasons, writing glowing accounts of his genius and the talents of his players. Instead, here I am reporting on the fall from grace—I mean impending fall from grace—of one of his former star players. I’m not so sure I would like me, either.
“I’ll be testifying for Jim, of course,” Warner continues. “I have to agree with our man here that a fact’s a fact, alright, and Thorpe deserves to have those medals back. Damn shame what those idiots did to his good name.”
I am suddenly very grateful for the impromptu history lesson from my favorite desk clerk, Jimmy. Without it, what came next simply wouldn’t have happened.
“Listen,” Warner continues, “I’m waiting for my dinner companion. I’m dining with Moses Friedman. He was the superintendent over at the Indian School when Jim was a student. That’s where I coached him. Why don’t you join us and we can tell you a little bit about Jim. I’m sure Moses would be pleased to meet you.”
Well, he doesn’t appear to view me as a foe. This is an incredible stroke of luck. Just a short while ago, I was eyeing prime seating in the courtroom, angling for the best access to key witnesses, hoping to catch an off-the-record comment or ask a perspective-altering question that would set my story apart from the rest. I had that gut feeling again, the one where my reporter’s nose starts to twitch as it senses a scoop. I’ve had it before, though it didn’t work out quite so well. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for. What better background for my story could I find than Thorpe’s coach and friend? And what a coach.
“I can’t think of a more enjoyable way to spend my first night in Carlisle. I’d love to join you, Mr. Warner,” I reply with more expression than I mean to. But I can’t help it. Dinner at the Molly Pitcher with Pop Warner was about as close to rubbing elbows with high-society as I have ever or will ever come. It looks like my sports story might end up with that human interest spin I’ve been thinking about, and this really just might be the story of my career.
“I’m just going to run up to my room and clean up if you don’t mind.” I gesture to my rumpled clothing. “Been traveling in these for hours.” As anxious as I had been to get to my room, I am now reluctant to leave the company of Pop Warner. “We’ll wait on you, son. Take your time. Moses and I have plenty to catch up on,” he says amicably. “What’s your name anyway, bud?”
I look at him, startled at first. How the heck does he know my name? And then, my brain starts working again. “Actually, Mr. Warner, the name is Bud. Bud Murphy.”
He laughs, a genuine one right from the gut. “Call me Pop, Bud.”
As Jimmy rings for the bellhop to carry my bags to my room, I slip a couple of slightly rumpled and damp bills into his unsuspecting hand.
CHAPTER 2
After accepting Glenn Warner’s dinner invitation, I follow the bellhop into room 310, at the front of the building overlooking Hanover Street. The pale yellow walls are warmed by the sun filtering through the sheer white curtains that gently blow in the warm breeze. A green chenille spread covers the double bed, which looks welcoming and soft. I didn’t realize that I was so tired but that comfortable bed is going to have to wait.
I quickly wash up at the basin then change my shirt and tie, put on a fresh jacket, and leave the rest of the unpacking for later. I wipe the dust from my shoes, brush my damp hair, take a quick glance in the mirror to make sure I’m reasonably presentable, and then head downstairs.
Not seeing Warner in the lobby, I figure that he has already been seated in the dining room. As I enter the dining room through the oak-mullioned glass doors, the sumptuous aromas of roasting beef and fresh baked goods remind me that I’d had a very light lunch when the train stopped in Mechanicsburg earlier today. I kept it light anticipating what the Molly Pitcher would offer. The meal I have long awaited beckons, as I ask the maitre d’ for Mr. Warner’s table and am escorted to a comfortable corner where Warner and another man are seated at a table for four.
Warner rises and shakes my hand, saying, “Glad you could join us. Meet Moses Friedman, superintendent of the Carlisle Indian School. Moses, meet Bud Murphy, sports reporter for the Evening News.”
The other man rises as well and extends his hand. He appears to be about fifty, thin in comparison to Warner’s athletic build, with a quick smile and warm brown eyes.
“Glenn’s told me about your assignment,” Friedman says. “I’m sure between us we can give you plenty of background for your story. I think it’s just as important to know the facts behind the man as it is to report the facts about his case, don’t you?” he asks. I would have nodded yes, whether I agreed with him or not. But, the truth is, I did agree.
We settle on first names all around, and proceed to each order an Iron City lager from our waiter. Our drinks soon arrive in frosted mugs and we all fall silent as we take the first refreshing sips. I can’t remember the last time something tasted so good. This evening can’t get much better.
Looking around the room, I realize that everything I’ve heard about the Molly Pitcher’s reputation has to be true. The dining room is beautifully appointed. Oak panels rise midway up the walls, which are painted a warm hunter green that lends the room a masculine yet comforting feel. The pine tables are formally set with fine china and heavy silver on crisply ironed white cloths. The dark oak floor is intermittently decorated with fine oriental rugs, and several sparkling crystal chandeliers hang throughout the room. The patrons are elegantly dressed in formal dinner attire and most of the women wear exquisite jewels.
As we study our menus, I’m having a hard time focusing. I still can’t believe that I am having dinner with the great “Pop” Warner. What I want almost more than anything is to interview him but think I’d better wait until after dinner when we’re having coffee before I ask about his career. Anyway, Pop wants to talk about Thorpe and this is what I need for the story I’m reporting on right now. Even though I know most of the stories about Pop, I’d love to hear him tell them personally. Who knows, with this lucky cloud that I’ve managed to walk under, I may get the chance to do both. I order a Delmonico steak and baked potato, Warner selects double-cut pork chops, and Friedman settles on roasted chicken. Once we’ve placed our orders, we begin to relax a bit and our conversation turns to talk about Jim Thorpe.
Warner begins by filling me in on the facts of Thorpe’s early life. Jim had a twin brother named Charlie and they were born in Oklahoma in 1887, to parents who were both of mixed descent. He was raised as a Sac and Fox and attended the Sac and Fox Indian Agency School in Stroud, Oklahoma. When the boys were eight years old, Charlie died of pneumonia. This was an event that Jim could not handle well. Jim struggled with dealing with Charlie’s death, and he ran away from school several times until his father sent him to the Haskell Indian National University in Lawrence, Kansas, to keep him from running away again. Just as Jim was starting to adjust and cope with Charlie’s death, two years later his mother died. Thorpe became very depressed and eventually ran away from home to work on a horse ranch.
In 1904, at age 17, Jim returned to his father and decided to join the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Carlisle. It was here that he met Glenn Warner. When Jim’s father died later that year, the boy again left school and resumed farm work, but returned to Carlisle three years later, which is when his athletic achievements began.
“Hard to lose as much as that young man did at such an early age,” Warner shakes his head sadly. “Without the Indian School, who knows what might have become of him?”
Before continuing the story about Jim, both Friedman and Warner agree that understanding the Indian School is an important step in understanding Jim Thorpe and that Friedman is a wealth of knowledge on this subject. Friedman explains that the school was founded in 1879 by Richard Henry Pratt, an army field officer whose military experiences led him to believe that Indians must be taught to reject tribal culture and adapt to white society to save them from extinction.
Pratt chose the town of Carlisle as the site for his school for a number of reasons. The town was far enough west that the students would not be confused by city life. It was also far enough away from the reservations that the boys wouldn’t be able to run away back to their homes. Vacant army barracks in town would serve well as student dormitories and the dorms were only two miles from Dickinson College, a well-established school.
As I listen to the history, I keep trying to picture those Indian boys, taken away from their families, scared out of their minds, not knowing what would happen to them. Friedman tells me that when the first group of students arrived in Carlisle, they were wearing their tribal outfits and singing Indian songs. Townspeople lined up at the train station to see them and had a grand time watching the show, not even thinking about how frightened the kids might be.
But the people of Carlisle meant no harm to the boys, and came to love the Indian School students. They quickly learned that these Indian boys were just like the town boys who would rather tease each other and have a good game of ball than dance to drums and cymbals. Funny how that’s how it usually works out. Pratt’s ultimate goal to turn the Indian youth into productive Americans appeared to work well for everyone. Students were taught the English language and prohibited from speaking any other within the school environment. Pratt kept close contact with his staff and students and held regular sessions about topics that included religious and moral themes. He employed dedicated teachers and followed the lives of his students even after they departed the school.
The people of Carlisle became particularly enamored of the Indian students’ athletic prowess, especially the football team. Games between the school’s Carlisle Indians and Dickinson College’s Red and White drew huge crowds. At times, more than ten thousand fans filled the stands, which was a frequent occurrence when Jim Thorpe played. During one of these games, they beat Dickinson 34-0, with Thorpe running a bad punt snap for 105 yards and the score. Although the crowds cheered for both teams, the Indians were usually the favorites when they traveled to other cities. In fact, in 1912, they were the highest scoring team in the nation.
The Indian students and their football team became so popular that they even received special treatment from the Carlisle police. Although the Indian School had banned the use of alcohol, players sometimes received some from fans.
At this point in the story, Warner grins impishly. “Sometimes I was their biggest fan,” he says.
“You gave them booze?” I ask, surprised.
Warner laughs. “Yeah, on occasion. Those fellows worked hard and deserved a little fun every now and then. A few times, a boy would go a little overboard and get in some trouble with the cops. But the police would always call me and I’d bail the kid out. Nobody ever got hurt.”
The team was such a huge draw that powerhouse schools like Yale and Harvard paid the Carlisle Indian School purses as high as $15,000 for a single game. The school used this money to provide perks for the team and to enhance other aspects of the school. Eventually, the Carlisle Indians became the first big business team in college football history.