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Reprint of Frederick
Graham column dated Wednesday 7-1-36
1936 Final Olympic
Trials
The "Big Gyp"
FREDERICK GRAHAM
News-Press Sports Editor
____________________
FOND FAREWELLS and final words
of encouragement will be lost in the rumble of grinding
wheels as the Los Angeles limited groans out of the
Central station in Los Angeles tonight bearing
Glendale's Frank Wykoff to another great test in his
amazing career.
In less than forty-eight hours
after revelation of the "big gyp" enough money was
voluntarily subscribed to assure the appearance of the
Glendale Flash on the starting line at Randall field,
New York, July 10 for the final Olympic tryouts.
* * * * * *
TO THE READERS of this column,
many thanks, and as friends of Frank let me say that win
or lose you have had at least the satisfaction of
snatching justice out of the fire and filling a young
man's heart with new hope and greater determination.
Men in all walks of life have
come to this office in these two days. Young and
old. Former athletes and just plain guys.
All have wanted a share in this adventure.
* * * * * *
ONLY WISH we could remember all
of the remarks which accompanied the donations. It
would do your heart good to hear them. Also wish
you could have enjoyed the spirit of the young men of
the 20-30 club last night at their farewell dinner to
Frank. Adam would have been proud of his progeny.
Fishermen, as a rule, are not
interested in track, but on my desk this morning was a
note and a check from Sam Robinson. If Sam were
any more obsessed on the subject of fishing he'd be
breathing through gills. Sam said:
"MY DEAR FREDERICK -- Having
seen Frank Wykoff in a few races, would like to do my
part. Also my kid brother, Bob, was in school with
Frank and I know he would want to help.
Too bad we can't send a fly
caster back, too,
Yours, SAM ROBINSON"
* * * * * *
WHENEVER WE compliment a
professional wrestler in this column you can be darn
sure we're not only bending backwards but loopin-the-loop.
But in this emotional disturbance we find ourselves with
a strange bedfellow. Ed Strangler Lewis, and we
would be pretty chintzy, if we didn't acknowledge Ed's
unsolicited generosity.
He called me yesterday on the
phone.
"Say
Frederick," (he always calls me Frederick and
has a dirty way of saying it that sounds a mite on the
nasty side. That's his way of returning the digs.)
"I want to do something for
Frank. I'll tell you what. I'll have a Frank
Wykoff night down at the Broiler and the first 300 bucks
that comes in we'll give to Frank."
"No, Edward,
that's too much. Mail a check for $1 and we'll
call it square."
He was insulted and in order to
appease his wrath we ended up by accepting $25.00.
Just to show you what a mother hen this guy is, we found
him worrying himself sick because about two years ago
Frank was in his restaurant and ate some fried potatoes.
Ed was afraid they would affect him the 1936 Berlin
Olympics.
* * * * * *
WELL, THIS IS THE END and
thanks again. Tomorrow we return to the sordid
world, picking the faults of athletic mankind and
perhaps reproducing a program from one of the western
Olympic preludes showing where, in clear type, it
said that the money raised at the meet would go toward
sending western athletes to the New York Olympic finals.
In any event, we shall never
forget our three delightful days in Utopia.
* * * * * *
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