It’s difficult to picture the event without invoking Monty Python’s Flying Circus, for Brookes had a fondness for flamboyant costumes and theatrical rituals. The Olympian herald wore a cloak and hat with a plume and announced each competition with a bugle. A key event was the medieval-style “tilting at the ring,” where horseback riders would try to pierce a ring with a lance. Other competitions were a peculiar mix of the highbrow (foot races, cycling, archery, hurdles, the pentathlon) and the indulgent (“races for old women.”) Prizes ranged from silver trophies to a pound of fresh tea. In 1860, the games at Much Wenlock began a tradition of crowning its victors with a wreath, in homage to ancient tradition. The presenter was usually the local vicar’s daughter, outfitted less like an ancient Greek sylph than one of Queen Victoria’s dowdy nieces in a heavy bustle dress.
Brookes’ revived Olympian Games are still held in Shropshire every July. Many relics from the Victorian era, including the herald’s uniforms, are still on view at the Much Wenlock Museum. It is these games that are the seed of our modern Olympics. Not only did imitations of the event spring up around Britain, but Brookes also espoused the notion that the Greeks themselves should revive an international version of the Olympics on their own soil. When he learned of a local Olympics being held in Athens in 1859 funded by a Greek businessman named Evangelos Zappas, he sent a Wenlock Cup to be awarded to the winner of a long foot race, along with encouragement that the festival should be turned into a much grander event. Brookes repeatedly pressed the idea of an international Olympics upon the Greek minister in London, without success—the Greeks felt that the enterprise would be too expensive for their struggling nation.
Yet the fascination with the Greek world continued to grow, as celebrity archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann discovered the sites of Troy and Mycenae. From 1875, German archaeologists also began excavating the site of Olympia. When they revealed the sanctuary complex and unearthed 14,000 objects, including such masterpieces as the Hermes of Praxiteles, the pages of Homer and Pindar sprang to life. The world’s enthusiasm for the heroes of Greek antiquity was reaching fever pitch.
Into this heady milieu stepped the young French aristocrat Baron Pierre de Coubertin, a diminutive, obsessive, and wildly energetic figure who would eventually have himself proclaimed the “father of the modern Olympics.”
Coubertin, who was raised in the shadow of France’s humiliating 1871 defeat in the Franco-Prussian war, became a committed Anglophile (a stance that was then very unfashionable in Paris). He was enchanted as a teenager by the novel Tom Brown’s Schooldays, a paean to the sporting traditions of Rugby School. Coubertin become convinced that the rigorous British athletic culture was the basis for the empire’s success—a marked contrast to France’s evident physical “degeneracy”—and became a fitness advocate. In 1883, at the age of 20, lithe, muscular, and sporting an enormous handlebar moustache, Coubertin made a pilgrimage to the fields of Rugby to study the Britons’ methods. He followed this in 1889 with a journey to the United States, where he discovered new spectator sports such as baseball and met with Teddy Roosevelt, who had taken up outdoor adventure and strenuous exercise as a way to overcome his sickly adolescence. Soon, Coubertin was advertising in European newspapers for assistance in organizing a congress on physical training for the coming Paris Exhibition. He was promptly contacted by that tireless British Olympic advocate, William Penny Brookes—a man who, at the very least, deserves the title of “grandfather of the modern Olympics.”
In 1890, Coubertin accepted Brookes’ invitation to attend the Olympian Games at Much Wenlock. We do not know exactly what transpired between the mutton-chopped 81-year-old country squire and the excitable 27-year-old Frenchman as they wandered the country pubs, enjoyed tea and scones, and witnessed a special session of the athletic extravaganza of Shropshire. But it’s clear that Coubertin was bewitched by the whole event, particularly the florid pomp and ritual.
Historians have no doubt that Brookes espoused his idea that the Olympics should be revived on an international level—and that Coubertin, with his youthful energy, connections, wealth, and deft organizational skills, was the man to do it. On his return to France, Coubertin wrote that Brookes was a true pioneer: “If the Olympic Games that modern Greece has not yet been able to revive still survives today, it is due, not to a Greek, but to Dr. W. P. Brookes.” In another essay, he raved: “It is safe to say that the Wenlock people alone have preserved and followed the true Olympian traditions.”
Coubertin also swallowed some of the British academics’ class-based views of the ancient Games. His acceptance of the theory that the Greeks were “amateurs” would distort the rules of participation in the Games for decades. (In 1912, for example, U.S. athlete Jim Thorpe, a Native American from an impoverished background, was stripped of the medals he earned for his brilliant victories in Stockholm because he had once competed for a few dollars a week in semiprofessional baseball; the medals were only restored by the Olympic Committee in 1983, 30 years after his death.) Coubertin also accepted the romantic belief that the ancient “sacred truce,” which restricted warfare at the time of every Olympic Games, had been a genuine force for peace. (In fact, it was intended as a limited truce between the endlessly feuding Greek city-states to enable athletes and spectators to travel to Olympia in safety.) And Coubertin’s often-voiced Olympic credo—“The important thing in the Olympic Games is not winning but taking part. The essential thing in life is not conquering but fighting well”—would have been incomprehensible to the ancients, for whom victory was everything and anything less worthy of mockery.
Brookes died one year before he could see his dream of an international Olympics realized, in Athens in 1896. Over time, Coubertin, an inveterate self-mythologizer, played down Brookes’ role as a mentor, preferring to cast himself as a heroic rénovateur. He would make two telling pilgrimages to Olympia itself. The first was early, in 1894, just after he had confirmed that the first Athens games would occur two years later. After wandering the ruins, he recognized his own arrogance in reviving the Olympics after a 1,500-year hiatus. (“I became aware in this sacred place of the size of the task which I had undertaken,” he wrote, “and I glimpsed all the hazards which would dog me on the way.”) His second visit was in 1927, after the Olympics had become a fixture. He was invited by the Greek government for the official unveiling of a stele, or stone pillar, in his honor. Now he took a more sober, long-range view of his efforts and meditated more humbly on his achievement. Merit, he said, involves overcoming great obstacles. “Favored by lot in many respects … I count no such victories to my credit.”
Before his death in 1937, he arranged for his body to be buried with the remains of his wife in Lausanne, Switzerland, but his heart to be sent to Olympia, where it remains today inside his commemorative pillar. It was a classic Coubertin flourish, linking himself forever to the ancients who had disported there millennia before. The French baron certainly deserves his place of honor: No one but Coubertin had the passion or the political skill to carry the Olympic plan to fruition, and he spent his family fortune on the Olympic project, dying in virtual poverty. But it also must be remembered that he tapped the unlikely roots of rural Britain. Perhaps there should be another monument to two less continental figures who played essential supporting roles—Robert Dover and William Penny Brookes, with statues of them both raising a glass of sherry to the Greeks.
This piece is adapted from the introduction to Tony Perrottet’s The Naked Olympics: the True Story of the Ancient Games.
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