And Now There Are Two

O'Hara and the Loyola track team work out on the polo field every afternoon, but in the morning, when O'Hara runs alone, the field is cluttered with ponies being exercised. This forces O'Hara to run what must be the strangest course in track history. John Landy had his pine forest, Herb Elliott his sand dunes; Tom O'Hara has the concrete corridors, alleyways and subterranean passages of the Chicago Avenue Armory. Every morning, starting at 8, he will jog down a flight of stairs to the auditorium, run along an aisle, circle around to the other side and try that aisle. For diversion—"it gets a little boring," he says—he will push open a door, dart up two flights of stairs and jog along the third floor, then the fourth. The hallways are long, straight and usually empty, save for a few workmen, most of whom know him only as "the boy who runs in the halls." They point to their heads when they say it.

When O'Hara has jogged through the armory for half an hour, he subjects himself to a series of wind sprints in the alleyways of the cellar. It is exhausting, lonely work, and he does not pretend to enjoy it. "I could skip a day and it probably wouldn't bother me," he says. "But you become obsessed with the idea of running after a while. I even feel guilty when I stay up too late, because I know I won't run well the next day."

Tom O'Hara was born in Chicago , not far from the armory, in the summer of 1942. He favors his mother, Nora, a slight, redheaded woman who came to this country from Ireland at 17, but he gets his endurance from his father, Tom Sr., a large, dark-haired man who has worked for the city of Chicago for 30 years. The O'Haras had six children, but one daughter died of pneumonia, and a son, one year younger than Tom, was struck and killed by a truck. Tom describes his youth as "wild," including experiments in smoking, brushes with the law and hanging out with gangs, but it is hard to imagine this mild, innocent-looking boy getting himself into trouble.

O'Hara's first running experience was in public park meets. "A man would call up and ask me if I wanted to race in the 100-yard dash," Tom recalls. "He'd give me a pair of shoes before the race and take them back at the finish."

Late in his sophomore year at St. Ignatius High School, without any training, O'Hara entered a three-quarter-mile race in an informal school meet. The St. Ignatius track coach, Dr. Ralph Mailliard, had never seen O'Hara before. "I didn't know who he was, but he was running much too fast," Mailliard recalls. "After a while I yelled at him to stop running. I was scared he'd collapse." O'Hara staggered in third. Mailliard took him aside and told him he could be a great runner if he worked.

The racer's progress

O'Hara went to work. As a high school senior he ran the mile in 4:20. In his freshman year at Loyola he cut the time to 4:08. "I could have let Tom run in some of the big meets right then," Jerry Weiland says, "but I thought he was too young and not strong enough."

Last year Weiland decided O'Hara was ready to run in the major indoor meets. "I know he looks frail even now," says Weiland, "but his legs are like iron." However, Weiland found that gaining entrance to the indoor track circle wasn't easy. He wrote letters to the officials of all the major indoor meets requesting permission to enter O'Hara, but only one man, Ray Lumpp of the New York Athletic Club , answered him. It was in the NYAC mile that O'Hara raced Beatty for the first time and surprised everyone by finishing a close second in 4:02.3. O'Hara has had no trouble getting into meets since.

This year Weiland didn't have to write letters to anyone. O'Hara's splendid showing during the 1962 indoor season plus his victory in the NCAA crosscountry last November—a four-mile race—had made him a name. Now Weiland held the trump card, and when the various meet officials contacted him he wasn't willing to settle for O'Hara alone. Weiland insisted that the Loyola mile relay team be included at the meets—expenses paid, of course. The Boston K of C said that it wanted O'Hara, but not enough to pay for the relay team. Weiland told them no O'Hara. The Millrose Games said they would pay part of the relay team's expenses but not all. Weiland was about to say no again when a second message arrived from the Millrose Officials. DISREGARD FIRST LETTER, it read. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO BRING YOUR RELAY TEAM.

O'Hara himself is taking all of his success calmly and without conceit. At a recent track meet he felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder. "Good luck tonight, Tom," said a voice. "It was Gary Gubner , the shotputter," says O'Hara. "He knew me!"