FATHER STAN SAYS:

 I first met him – in a way -- Sunday morning after Mass, October 15, 1964.  It was in Pierre, SD, near the City Dump.  Hundreds of men and women from Dakota Reservations had moved into town.  They had come to harness the flow of the Big Muddy and to build the huge Oahe Dam up-river north of Pierre. Billy’s relatives were there, too.  They were on the Staff of the Indian School.

To make into a Church I had found an old dance Hall and had moved it to an empty lot on Park Street.  We were at the end of electricity, running water and the sewer.  Crowds came to church there.  We had three week-end Masses. One Mass was just for children from the Indian School.  They filled the whole space.

That October day it was warm enough to stand outside after church.  Joe and Glesner Brewer, cousins of Billy, waited for me, holding their daughter, Triva, in their arms.  “Father, do you think we could call Tokyo?   Billy is there in the Olympics.  No one of our family could go to be with him.  We’d like to talk to him.  We tried to find the right time for his race to be over.  We think we got it right.  It would be nice to know how he did.”

We called.  Glesner did the talking, but after an instant there was from her only bubbling and laughing and screaming from joy.  “O, Billy, really?   You did it? We just came out of church and Father is here, and everybody else.  We’ll tell everyone.”

Then,  “What?”  And then aside.  “Here Triva,  Billy wants to talk to you.” I faintly heard Billy’s voice.  It was full and exultant.  “Triva, you know you’re my favorite little niece. It was a big crowd, and I wanted to tell you, myself, that I won.” “Yes, I know that, Uncle.”  “Honey, how could you know?  It was over just a little while ago.”

“I knew you won, Uncle, because I prayed for you that you’d win!”  She was embarrassed.  She turned her face against her mother’s cheek.  We stood silent.  We  were sure now.  And we knew why.

I met Billy from time to time, while each of us was speaking at College Conferences or School functions. He had become an outstanding, inspirational speaker.  His Theme: “You never learn from winning.  If you win, you didn’t have to change.  You are satisfied already.  But after losing?  After losing you have to put your mind and body to your task, and you learn. 

“Any time that I lost and, while the winner was slowing down to hear the cheering, I’d catch up to him and reach out to shake his hand.  ‘Congratulations!’  I’d say,  ‘But next time I’ll get you.’

“And I’d change.  I’d change my pace, my equipment, my diet, my system of training, even my trainer. Losing had taught me something, and I’d change.  And next time I’d come closer to winning.”

Watch the movie, RUNNING STRONG, the 10,000 meter run.  No American had ever won the 10,000.  In the movie you feel the miracle.  In the distance, outside the arena, someone has seen the few racers at the head of the pack.

Now the two favorites come shoulder to shoulder, sweeping under the stands to make the last circuit of the track.

But there is a third with the favorites, lean, lithe and long limbed, somehow constant and sure.  Face immobile, clear eyed.  He’s there, and they cannot shake him off. He’s an American.  An Indian.  A Lakota.

The far turn. Three great athletes close in a row.  Knees lifting high.  None faltering.  From the poem, the Hound of Heaven, the words paint the image of the pursuer, the Lakota. “Still with unhurrying chase/ and unperturbed pace/ deliberate speed/ majestic instancy/ come on the following feet/ and a voice above their beat/ ‘Naught shelters thee…….’  Don’t forget me.  I’m here.

The final turn.  The stretch.  The crowd moaning.  Running feet in rhythm.  Far up the track a figure steps out free of the others.  The long, lithe limbs of the Lakota.  He’s the bronze one.  His arms tight against his body.  In control.  But the leader, the favorite.  He’s failing.   His shoulders are straining, working.  His head strained back reaching for energy. This should not be.  He glances to the right.  The Lakota is there, smooth and constant.  A hundred yards now.

There’s a hitch in the champions pace.  Is it over?   The Indian drifts farther out to escape flailing arms and to go around.  He sees the wire, the taught tape stretching across the track.  It’s there.  It’s there, and it flashes and smacks and breaks across his chest.

“Uncle, I knew you’d win, because I prayed.”

When he broke the tape, he recalled the lessons of his Native traditions. “It wasn’t I who won this race,” Billy said.  “I had only the passion.  I pursued it with all the intensity possible to me, but with a vision and a knowledge that I had spiritual helpers lifting me. I held their presence close to me, and the flight was sacred.  This moment for me was God-inspired and God-given.  I didn’t achieve it alone.  I worked at it, but it was God-given.  That’s the most real and humbling experience you can ever have. Working with God.”

The last time I met Billy was in 1998 at Mount Marty College in Yankton.  He had recovered from a painful joint ailment, Valley Fever.  He was again on the road, inspiring young men and women to know how, with the Spirit of God, they can make young dreams come true.

He’s a Hero.  Showing the way for others to be Heroes.  My Hero.

                                        05/15/04

                                        fr. stan

                                        Turtle Mountain Times