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WILSON – SEEKER OF CHAMPIONS
The
following episode of Wilson is taken from The
Wizard No. 1119 (Christmas Number) December 21ST 1946.
Two New Champs
Snow
was whirling against the windows of the tiny post office in the village of Axmoor, and
the bleak moors on the borders of Somerset and Devon round
about were blanketed in white, when the door opened. Into the post office
walked a wiry man whose only garment was a pair of shorts. The snow had
plastered his thin hair down over his forehead and where it melted, water
glistened on his bare body. Old John Samson, who had kept the post office for
years, gazed across the counter and shook his head slowly. “It’s pneumonia
weather an’ you walk about like this,” he gasped. “I don’t know how you don’t
catch your death of cold or die from exposure, Mr Wilson.” Wilson, the
world-famous athlete gave a laugh. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he
pointed to the glowing oil stove. “You’re the one who ought to be afraid of
catching cold, John – staying in this stuffy atmosphere,” he chuckled. “Any
letters for me?” Samson glanced at the door which Wilson had
left wide open and gave a shudder. The wind was blowing flakes of snow into the
room. He could not understand how a man could live in the open on Axmoor. “Yes,
there’s a letter for you – been here a couple of days,” he said, fishing in a
drawer for an envelope. “London
postmark. Postman’s been unable to get across the moors to you.” Wilson took
the letter and, avoiding the stove, stood near the doorway to read it. The
letter was from his old friend, Frank Ducker, the enthusiastic amateur athlete
official. “Dear Wilson,” he had written. “You have asked to be kept in touch
with current events in the athletic world, and I think you ought to get to the
Midland Association’s meeting at Leicester on
Saturday. There are two fellows I should like you to see – Rex Myland and Don
Davis. “Rex is a runner. He is a well-built lad and as keen as mustard. His
best distance is the quarter-mile. Don Davis is a promising high-jumper. His
best so far is 6ft. 1inch, but he has it in him to do a lot better. “I shall be
at Leicester myself on
Saturday and hope to see you there. “Have you brought yourself an umbrella yet?
– yours, Frank.” Wilson
grinned at the concluding remark. Then he re-read the letter. Ducker was one of
the few people in his confidence. Wilson was
undertaking a great project, that of finding and training athletes for the
Olympic Games in 1948. Britain’s
chances, largely because of the war, seemed none too bright, but Wilson was
determined to find men worthy of carrying their country’s colours. “Frank
wouldn’t recommend these lads if they weren’t really promising, for he’s a
sound judge of likely material,” Wilson
murmured. He glanced up. “What day is it, John?” “Eh?” gasped the postmaster.
“Why, it’s Thursday, of course.” “Let me see, and how far’s Leicester?”
muttered Wilson.
Samson rubbed his chin. “It’s about a hundred and seventy miles,” he said.
“Well, if I’m to get there by Saturday, I’d better start walking,” remarked Wilson.
“Walk?” gulped Samson. “What’s wrong with using the train?” “And what’s wrong
with using your legs?” chuckled Wilson, and
walked out of the post office. Samson shook his head and came round the corner
of the counter. He stood in the doorway and saw Wilson
striding back through the snow towards the moors. “Walking to Leicester,” he
muttered. “If it were anyone else but Wilson I’d
say he was crazy – but crazy’s the last thing you can call him.” Half an hour
later Samson saw Wilson coming
back. He was still wearing only his shorts, but he now had an oilskin pack on
his back. He gave the postmaster a wave and, walking fast, passed through the
village and struck out along the road to Taunton. The
fall of snow had not been so heavy in the Midlands, and
although it was a cold, frosty afternoon the track was clear for the Midland
Association sports which were held on the Walnut
Street ground. Frank Ducker, an official
badge in his buttonhole waited outside the ground. He scanned the folk who were
queueing up at the turnstiles. He strode forward when he caught sight of a
figure in a familiar, loose-fitting homespun suit. Following his usual custom, Wilson was
lining up to pay his eighteen pence for admission. He never would be bothered
with getting an official badge or pass, but this time Ducker pounced on him.
“This way in,” chuckled Ducker, grasping Wilson’s arm
and marching him towards the official entrance. “I want to hear your comments
on the events.” Wilson gave a
shrug and went in with Ducker. There was no trace of fatigue on Wilson’s face
at the end of his long walk. “The jumps are coming on first,” said Ducker. “You’ll
see Don Davis.” When Don Davis slung off his coat he revealed a splendid
physique. He was a shade under six feet and finely proportioned. He looked as
if he were glowing with health. His greatest rival was Ken Hope, an experienced
jumper now nearing the veteran stage, and from the five foot ten inches pegs
they were left on their own. Wilson’s
deep-sunk eyes missed nothing as Don Davis went to his mark. He did a couple of
little hops, sprang from his mark, threw out his legs in long strides in a
sideways run, hurled himself up and went over the bar in a stomach roll. It was
a spectacular jump. Hope, leaping soundly went up to six feet, and there was
excitement when the bar was pegged at six feet one inch. Don Davis just got
over, and waved a hand in triumph as he scrambled up to the roar of the crowd.
The height was too much for Hope and he knocked down the bar in each of his
three bids. Ducker looked questioningly at Wilson. “Not
bad?” he said. Wilson
shrugged his shoulders. “He’s got plenty of stamina and really good legs,”
Ducker insisted. “Mebbe, but he’s all wrong,” said Wilson
slowly. “You never have liked the modern stomach roll,” Ducker said. “I can put
up with that at a pinch,” Wilson said.
“But Davis seems
far too stiff altogether. Still, I’ll have a word with him later on.” Some
junior events came next on the programme, and Wilson’s
expression became animated as he watched the schoolboys’ races. “These boys
have been well taught because they’ve not been over-taught,” he remarked to
Ducker. “It’s important to start a boy off along the right track. But I’ve
never believed you can turn out athletes on mass production lines,” Ducker
chuckled, for he was well aware of Wilson’s
dislike of rigid systems and knew that, basically, the great athlete’s methods
were simple – to run, jump and train naturally. It was his amazing knowledge of
what could be achieved by applying natural methods that had made him such a
great athlete himself, and made him so uncannily successful as a coach and
trainer. Excitement increased again when the starters were called for the
quarter-mile. Rex Myland tossed off his duffle cloak and walked to the line.
His brown limbs were as smooth and polished as marble. The muscles rippled
under his skin as he did a little warming-up jog. There were some good men
against him, notably Bert Howkins, the Coventry
runner. Myland adopted a low crouch in his block hole. His muscles tensed. At
the gun he catapulted himself from the mark, brought his foot down with a slap
and thrust away. Howkins held him for three-quarters of the distance, and then
Myland’s fast, fierce stride bore him to the front and he broke the tape an
easy winner in the fast time of forty-nine and one-fifth seconds. Ducker
shouted enthusiastically as he joined in the applause. “You haven’t wasted your
time coming to see him,” he declared. Wilson
planted his hands on his hips. He gave Ducker a challenging stare. “Who’s been
coaching Davis and Myland?” he demanded. Ducker looked surprised. “Oh, they
wouldn’t have the same coach,” he said. “Don Davis is from South
Wales – Cardiff, I
think. Myland’s a Londoner.” Wilson’s gaze
did not waver. “They’ve both had the same coaching – and it’s wrong,” he
declared. “It’s wrong!”
The Gino Finn System
Ducker
shook his head. He was positive that Davis and Myland could not have been
trained by the same coach. But he was only too keen for Wilson to
talk to them and, at the end of the sports, he brought the two men across to a
small café near the ground. Davis and Myland both seemed eager to have an
introduction to Wilson, and
after the handshakes Ducker led them to a table in an alcove. “Wilson’s got
the idea that you’ve both been coached by the same trainer,” Ducker began. “But
we’ve never even seen each other before,” Don Davis said. Myland dropped a
couple of lumps of sugar in his tea. “I’ve trained myself,” he stated. “So have
I,” said Don Davis. Ducker looked triumphantly at Wilson.
“There you are, then!” he exclaimed. “Matter of fact, I’ve used the Gino Finn
system,” added Myland. Don Davis spoke sharply. “Gosh so have I!” he blurted
out. Wilson’s eyes
twinkled as he looked at Ducker, whose mouth had dropped open. “There you are,
then, Frank,” he said. “Well I’m blessed,” gasped Ducker. “Gino Finn, the great
American athlete.” Myland’s voice was full of enthusiasm. “There’s nothing he
doesn’t know about running,” he said. “I’ve myself absolutely on his style –“
“Same here,” declared Don Davis. “I couldn’t jump five ten before I read his book and followed his
teaching.” “Um, yes, I’ve heard about his book, of course,” Ducker remarked.
“It’s had a big sale over here.” “Matter of fact, I’ve got it with me,” Myland
exclaimed. The quarter-miler felt in his raincoat pocket. The book he brought
out and handed to Wilson bore
the title “My System.” On the cover was an action picture of the author, Gino
Finn, racing down a track towards the tape. Beneath was the slogan “Gino Finn’s
Methods Will Gain Many Olympiad Victories.” Wilson opened
the book and began to turn over the pages, studying the diagrams with care and
reading some of the print with close attention. “D’you say this book’s in big
demand here?” he asked. “Oh yes,” Ducker said. “I know it has sold by the
thousand.” Wilson shut
the book. “It’s wrong, all wrong,” he said. Myland bristled. “It can’t be,” he
declared. “It’s done me no end of good. Besides look at Gino Finn’s own career.
No American athlete has ever equaled him – and only last week he broke the four
minute mile again unofficially.” “But he isn’t only a runner,” Don Davis
exclaimed. “He’s a first class jumper, and tops at field sports, too.” Ducker
asked a question. “What’s wrong with the system?” he asked. “I can put in a few
words,” Wilson
retorted. “It’s designed to turn men into machines, I spotted it in an instant
when I was watching you two chaps. Put it like this, you were both wound up as
tightly as a clockwork spring.” “But that’s the system,” declared Myland. “Gino
Finn insists you must regard your muscles as springs. Your body’s an intricate
machine. He says, and you’ve to tune it right up – just as you do the engine of
a racing car.” “Your body must be in tune certainly, but you’re a human being
not a machine,” Wilson said
harshly. “In this book Gino Finn is out to make robots. He’ll only spoil an
athlete.” Myland opened the book and shut it again. “You’ve to remember we’re
not all like you, Mr Wilson,” he said. “We look on you as in a class by
yourself and you must look on us as intelligent fellows who know what suits us.
Gino Finn’s system has – well, enabled me to run the quarter-mile in under
fifty seconds.” “And put my jumping over the six-foot mark,” added Don Davis. Wilson looked
at Myland. “I’d like to take you in hand,” he said. “Come down with me to
Axmoor for a week or two and let me try and remould your style, for I’m sure
you have it in you to run a lot faster.” To Ducker’s surprise, Myland did not
leap at the offer. He sat considering it for what seemed a minute. Then,
slowly, he shook his head. “I’ve confidence in Gino Finn’s system,” he replied.
“I appreciate your offer of course, but I’ll carry on the way I’m going.” Wilson spoke
abruptly to Don Davis. “How about you?” he asked. Don Davis paused. At last he
gave a nod. “I’ll come along,” he said. “There’s a fortnight before the
Southern Championships at Southampton and
I’d like to get hold of the high jump title.” “Fine,” added Ducker. “Wilson will
have you jumping six feet six by the time he’s finished with you.”
A Threat To British Sport
The
Southern Championship meeting drew a very large entry and most of the best athletes
in the country were at Southampton for
the event. Ducker was one of the judges, but before the programme started he
spotted Don Davis in the dressing-room. His face and limbs were deeply tanned
and he looked fitter than ever. “Wilson here?”
Ducker asked. “Yes he’s somewhere about,” said the high jumper. “How did you
get on with him?” Ducker inquired.
“Well, from the point of view of getting one fit, he’s succeeded a
hundred times over,” said Don Davis. “I’ve been living in the open with him and
doing all his exercises, but ---“ Ducker lifted his eyebrows at the pause. “I’m
not so sure about my jumping, to be honest,” Don Davis went on. “You know Wilson’s way
of jumping?” “Yes, a short straight run up and up and over,” Ducker exclaimed.
“Feet tucked up and no stomach-roll.” “That’s right, but it’s not my style,”
Don Davis said. “I’ll be trying it to-day, though, and perhaps it’ll come off.”
The sports were starting and Ducker had to hurry away to take up his position.
There were various heats to be run off and it was an hour before the
quarter-milers were called to the starting line. It was a day favouring fast
times – dry and not too cold. Rex Myland lined up with stocky Alf Mills and
Fred Langton on either side. At the gun they were away from their block-holes
together, gaining an immediate advantage on the rest of the field. From the
point of view of the spectators it was a thrilling race as the three leaders
kept together. But, as he glanced across the track, Ducker caught sight of Wilson. He
was leaning over the fencing of the sixpenny enclosure with a glum expression
on his face. The runners had reached the hundred and twenty yards mark when
Myland was able to turn in and take the inside of the track. Mills was at his
shoulder during the next fifty yards, with langton going strongly in his
shadow. Coming round to the tape, Langton made a strong challenge and, passing
Mills, looked like drawing away. Myland sprinted and they raced neck and neck
for the last thirty yards. It was in the last few strides that Myland just
grabbed the lead and broke the tape with Mills coming up to dead-heat with
langton for second place. Myland’s time was given as forty-nine and one-fifth
seconds which was the same as at Leicester.
Ducker strode across the barrier to speak to Wilson. “Now,
then, you old croaker, that was a good effort,” he said. Wilson shook
his head. “Everything was in Myland’s favour – a dry day and a real challenge,”
he said. “But, he doesn’t better his Leicester time,
and it’s evident that forty-nine and a fifth is about his limit. It won’t get
him through the Olympic heats, Frank.” He frowned. “He has championship stuff
in him, but it isn’t coming out – and won’t come out the way he’s running.
There’s another thing. Both Mills and Langton must have been reading that Gino
Finn book, too, for their style was cast in exactly the same method –“ Ducker
had to dash away to judge the hurdles, and this kept him busy till the high
jump was reached. Les Lascelles, of London, went
over five feet ten inches to start the ball rolling. There was surprise among
the critics when Don Davis stood in front of the frame instead of coming in
from the side. He jogged forward and, suddenly letting go with every ounce in
the take-off, soared high over the cross-bar, Ducker chuckled. Don Davis had
made that jump in the perfect, natural style that Wilson
taught. By six feet-one inch other competitors had been eliminated and the
title lay between Lascelles and Wilson’s
pupil. The bar shivered, but stayed on the pegs as Lascelles went over. Ducker,
watching Don Davis’s run-up, saw him stiffen as he jumped, and his toe caught
the bar and kicked it off hard. With an anxious frown on his face, Don Davis
returned for his second attempt. The same thing happened. If anything he was
lower, for his toe got right under the bar and lifted it off. His third and
last chance was called. With a gesture of defiance Don Davis strode out to the
side. He was going to use his old style in an endeavour to get over. He hopped,
ran in fast, threw himself up and just managed to roll over the bar in a
successful jump. Lascelles failed when the bar was lifted another inch. At his
third try, using the stomach roll, Don Davis did it again, and thus won the
title with six feet two inches to his credit. It was at the end of the meeting
that Don Davis sought out Wilson, whose
face was clouded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it your way,” he said. “It was a
darned fine jump anyway,” declared Ducker, coming up with the evening paper he
had just bought. “It was Don’s limit – jumping that way,” snapped Wilson. “And,
you know that six feet two won’t be enough to win the Olympic Games. It seems
to me I got hold of him too late. The other system has got into his bones.”
Ducker held the newspaper out to Wilson. “Read
that paragraph on the sports page,” he said, pointing to an item :- “After
competing in the forthcoming Decathlon at Philadelphia, which
he is expected to win, Gino Finn, the great American athlete, is to visit Britain. He is
to give a series of lectures on the system to which he attributes his own
success and on which an ever-increasing number of British athletes are basing
their style.” Wilson barely
seemed to glance at the second paragraph, which was as follows:- “The Decathlon
is the greatest test of stamina in athletics. It consists of ten events decided
in two days. For each event points are awarded, and the winner, of course,
compiles the biggest aggregate. America’s
greatest athletes will compete in this tremendous endurance test, which also
requires a great measure of all-round skill.” Ducker folded up the newspaper as
Wilson thrust
it back in his grasp. “So Gino Finn’s coming over here,” Ducker remarked. He
joked lamely, “I don’t suppose you’ll be on the landing stage to meet him.” Wilson made
no reply. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode away.
Wilson Takes The Field
It
was nearly a fortnight later that, on a Monday morning, Ducker lay in bed in
his London flat,
sipping a morning cup of tea and listening to the seven o’clock new on the radio before getting up. He
was not paying a great deal of attention, and was raising the cup to his lips
when the announcer paused and then went on. “Sports –“ Ducker cocked up an ear.
“Wilson, the British athlete, has arrived in Philadelphia to
take part in the Decathlon starting tomorrow –“ Ducker’s cup of tea splashed
all over the bed. He flung the clothes aside and in his pyjamas, dashed to the
phone. He dialed hastily and eventually got through. “Is that the
Trans-Atlantic Airways?” he roared. “Listen, I want to go to America today.
What’s that? My only chance is to be at the airport in case anyone cancels a
reservation at the last minute?” Ducker was fortunate. Two hours after hearing
the radio announcement he was airborne. Twenty-four hours after leaving London,
Ducker sat in a taxi-cab that was whirling him along a concrete highway towards
the vast stadium at Philadelphia. A
newspaper lay across his knees. His gaze scanned the big headline : “Wilson
Here As Gino Finn Challenger.” The article stated that the ten events in the
Decathlon, were, on the first day, the Hundred Metres Sprint, High Jump, Long
Jump, Putting the Shot, and the Four Hundred Metres : on the second day,
Throwing the Discus, Pole Jump, Throwing the Javelin, Hurdles, and Fifteen
Hundred Metres. Points were awarded for each event as follows :- First, one
thousand; second, nine hundred; third; eight hundred; down to the sixth
position. The writer, who struck Frank as knowing what he was talking about,
held the opinion that the winner would total between five and six thousand
points. He recalled that the winner of the 1944 Decathlon, the last held, won
three events outright, was second in two events, and third in another. Gino
Finn, the critic stated, would at least equal this record by his terrific
running and jumping. The Kansas giant,
Pete Purdo, was reckoned as unbeatable in putting the shot and throwing the
discus. The pole vault was apparently a certainty for Joe Legunne, a Red Indian
by ancestry, and Cal Lee, the Flying Yank, would take the thousand points for
the hurdles. Wilson, the
critic thought, would prove to be a back number against “this shining
constellation of American stars.” Frank put on a pair of sun-glasses as he paid
off the taxi and entered the stadium. His long journey had ended in the nick of
time. The twenty athletes, who were competing for what was virtually the
championship of America., were just marching out into the arena in single file
to the blare of brass band music. The crowd were rooting for their favourites,
bur loudest of all was the cry of “Gino! Gino!” In glistening white, except for
the golden eagle on the front of his singlet, Gino Finn looked like a lord of
the sun with his fair hair, piercing blue eyes and magnificent bronzed body.
Pete Purdo, dark and grim had a torso like the trunk of a tree. Joe Legume
walked lightly with the inturned toes of his race. Cal Lee, the Flying Yank,
moved with a long loping stride. Wilson,
hardly heeded in the excitement, appeared last, shuffling along in his old
black costume and canvas shoes that he had not bothered to lace up. There were
to be three heats for the hundred metres (one hundred and nine yards 1 foot 1
inch) sprint, the first two in each heat to run in the final. Wilson kicked
off his shoes and walked bare-footed to the line when his name was called. The
crowd first seemed to notice him for his bare feet – and then when he beat Joe
Legume into first place in eleven-seconds. The cheers thundered when Gino Finn
won the second heat in ten and three-tenth seconds, equaling the existing U.S.
record. Cal Lee took the third heat in a tenth of a second slower time. The six
finalists were called. Five crouched low on their marks, tensing themselves for
the sprint into action. Wilson,
despite a puzzled stare from the starter, just stood waiting with his arms
hanging loosely. Ducker held his breath in excitement and anxiety. The gun
cracked and Wilson flowed
into movement. Before the crouchers had hit their fast stride he was in front
of the lot of them. It was astonishing to see the heads of the spectators
turning to follow his course. So tearaway was his speed, so big a lead did he
gain that he could have finished walking, but he crossed the line like a flash
and was carried on by his impetus for another ten yards. The voice that announced
that Wilson had
run one hundred metres in nine seconds was harsh with amazement. Gino Finn, in
second place, had taken a second and a half longer, and one thousand points
appeared against Wilson’s name
on the scoreboard. The high jump was held without delay. The bar was pegged at
six feet, and, as he watched Gino Finn take his run, Ducker could have imagined
it was Don Davis, so closely had the young Britisher modeled himself on the
American’s style. Gino Finn went over easily. Wilson was
standing just in front of the frame as his turn came round. Just as the
spectators expected him to go back for his run he swung his arms, ducked, and
then shot up high over the bar with a tremendous spring, landed lightly on his
feet, and then sat on the grass to watch the others. Ducker grinned. He enjoyed
the looks of consternation on the faces around him. The bar was up to six feet
five inches with only Gino Finn and Wilson left
in. The American paused, measuring his distance before starting his run. With a
desperate heave he rose, slanted over horizontally, and rolled over. Wilson
sauntered forward and stood with his back to the frame. His arms started to
swing, he sank on to his haunches, and then shot up like an arrow fired
vertically before going cleanly over the bar in a backward somersault. Gino
Finn cast a queer look at Wilson before making a tremendous effort that scraped
him over six feet six inches. A minute later two thousand points appeared
against Wilson’s
name, for Gino Finn failed at six feet seven inches while the Britisher went
over with a normal jump. The crowd was in a fever of excitement. Attention
fixed on the long jump pit. Gino Finn had equaled Jesse Owens’ record jump of
twenty-six feet eight and a quarter inches in practice, and it was believed that
he would better it in the Decathlon. Wilson was
called, however, to jump first. His run was no more than ten paces, but the
speed he gained was so terrific that he took off and seemed to fly. On and on,
holding his jump, feet tucked up beneath him, arms supple as they balanced him,
he skimmed through the air till he landed, not in the pit at all, but on the
grass beyond it. A tape measure had to be fetched and then a spluttering
announcer stated that Wilson had
jumped twenty-eight feet. Wilson sat
down again and chewed at a blade of grass, while the other places were decided.
Gino Finn actually jumped twenty-six feet nine inches, but the crowd were too
busy discussing Wilson to
take much heed.
Piling Up Points
Pete
Purdo strode into the ring for putting the shot. His supporters yelled for him
as he picked up the sixteen-pound weight. He crouched and the veins in his neck
stood out as he crossed the circle in a great spring and pushed the shot away
with a tremendous thrust of his muscular arm. The shot soared and dropped with
a heavy thud fifty-two feet away, and the loudspeakers jubilantly proclaimed a
specially good putt. Wilson stood
in the middle of the circle with the shot palmed. He took no spring across the
ring. His arm was drawn slowly back and then came forward smoothly. Heads
turned up as the heavy shot rose thirty feet at the apex of its flight and
dropped sixty feet away from the circle. The four hundred metres at the end of
the day’s programme provided another sensation. At last it seemed as if Wilson great
efforts had had their effect for, instead of his being away first at the gun,
the field burst away from him and he was seen cantering slowly until he was
twenty yards behind the other stragglers. Gino Finn’s rooters came to life and
yelled and howled for their favourite as they saw him well in front with the
chance of winning his first victory. He was one hundred metres from the tape
when the shouts ceased abruptly. Wilson had
worked up speed. His legs were moving in fast, tremendous strides as he sped
past the stragglers, overtook Legume, flashed by Cal Lee, cut ahead in front of
Gino Finn, and went through the tape in forty-six seconds. If Wilson, with
five thousand points up on the scoreboard, had astonished America, he
got his surprise when Frank Ducker collared him as he walked from the arena.
“What! You here?” he exclaimed. “Think I could stop away?” snorted Ducker.
“Gosh, I wouldn’t have missed it!” Wilson
shrugged. “I had to come,” he muttered. “I had to stop Gino Finn from arriving
in England as a
conquering hero.” “Well, you’re going the best way about deflating his
much-vaunted system,” said Ducker. “Your feats to-day will get world-wide
publicity.” “I’ve made rather an exhibition of myself, I’m afraid,” said Wilson. “Just
the same, I felt it had to be done. Gino Finn’s system was becoming dangerous
and I had to try and stop it.” “The Americans themselves have a word for it –
debunking,” chuckled Ducker. The second day was a repetition of the triumphs of
the first. Joe Legume cleared fourteen feet six inches with the pole. Wilson swung
himself over fifteen feet six inches. Purdo hurled the discus one hundred and
sixty-five feet. Wilson put it
one hundred and seventy feet. Legume threw the javelin two hundred and fifty
feet. Wilson, using
his left hand for a change, slung it ten feet farther. In the hurdles he was
through the tape before the Flying Yank was over the last hurdle. The punishing
fifteen hundred metres ended in his winning in the amazing time of three
minutes forty-five seconds. The fact that Wilson had
scored ten thousand points in the Decathlon, seven thousand more than Gino Finn
managed to scrape together with seconds and thirds, had the effect he desired.
In the first place, Gino Finn decided to cancel his lecture tour in Britain. In
the second place…. Three weeks later, when rain was lashing against the window
of Axmoor post office, the door opened. Water glistened on Wilson’s bare
body as he walked in. “Two letters for you, Mr Wilson – and would you oblige by
closing the door,” said Samson. Wilson
grinned and shut the door. The first envelope he opened had a Cardiff
postmark. He tore it open and read :- Dear Mr Wilson, - I’d like to have
another try at jumping the proper way since I feel I’ll make no progress
following the Gino Finn system. – Yours, Don Davis. Wilson
chuckled and opened the second letter, from London. It
was as follows :- Dear Mr Wilson, - After reading about what you did in America I
reckon the Gino Finn system is all wrong and if you’d take me on I’d like to
have a spell of training with you on Axmoor. – Yours truly, Rex Myland.
The
Truth about Wilson 16 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1029 -
1044
The
Further Truth about Wilson 25 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1049 -
1073
Has Wilson come Back? 19 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1081 - 1099
The
Great Wilson – The Champion of Champions 11 episodes appeared in The
Wizard issues 1102 - 1113
Wilson –
Seeker of Champions 32 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1114 - 1145
It’s
Wilson Again 12 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1146 - 1157
The
Black Olympic Games 17 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1169 - 1185
The
Truth about The Ship of Shivers – Revealed by Wilson 11 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1314 - 1324
Wilson –
The 1952 Exploits of the Ageless Super Athlete 9 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1373 - 1381
The Year
of the Shattered Stumps 15 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1421 - 1435
I Met
the Barefoot Stranger 2 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1459 - 1460
The
Barefoot Stranger was Wilson 7 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1461 - 1467
Wilson
did It 17 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1491 - 1517
The Man
from Camp 90 19 episodes (Reprint of
‘Has Wilson Come Back?’) appeared in The Wizard issues 1565 - 1583
Wilson –
Trainer of Champions 29 episodes
appeared in The Wizard issues 1625 – 1653
There were other reprints which are not listed.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2003
