Mexico City. October 16, 1968. The air was thin at 7,349 feet, but the tension in the Olympic Stadium was even heavier. You’ve seen the photo. Everyone has. Two men in black socks, heads bowed, fists thrust into the sky. It’s arguably the most iconic image in sports history, yet most people don't know the half of why the 1968 Olympics Black Power salute happened or how much it cost the men involved. It wasn't just a spontaneous "angry" outburst. It was a calculated, quiet, and deeply symbolic performance of grief and demand.
Tommie Smith won the 200m gold with a world-record time of 19.83 seconds. John Carlos took the bronze. But the race was almost an afterthought. 1968 was a nightmare year in America. Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in April. Bobby Kennedy was killed in June. The Vietnam War was hemorrhaging lives. Back home, Black athletes were being told to shut up and run while their families faced systemic violence and segregation.
They weren't having it.
The OPHR and the Boycott That Never Was
To understand why those fists went up, you have to look at Harry Edwards. He was a sociology professor and a former athlete who founded the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR). Initially, the goal wasn't a salute. It was a total boycott. They wanted South Africa and Rhodesia uninvited because of apartheid. They wanted Muhammad Ali’s heavyweight title restored. They wanted more Black coaches.
The boycott fell through. Athletes couldn't agree. Some felt this was their only shot at glory, their only way out of poverty. Smith and Carlos decided that if they were going to be there, they were going to make sure nobody could look away. They weren't just running for medals; they were running for a platform.
Honestly, the "Black Power" label was mostly applied by the media later. Smith later described it as a "human rights salute." Every single thing they wore on that podium meant something specific.
- The Black Socks: They wore no shoes to represent Black poverty.
- The Scarf: Smith wore a black scarf to represent Black pride.
- The Beads: Carlos wore a beaded necklace. People asked him if it was jewelry. He told them it was for the people who were lynched or killed, for those thrown overboard in the Middle Passage, for whom no one said a prayer.
- The Unzipped Jacket: Carlos broke Olympic protocol by unzipping his tracksuit to show solidarity with blue-collar workers.
The Man You Didn’t Notice: Peter Norman
Look at the photo again. There’s a white guy. Peter Norman. The Australian who took the silver medal. For decades, people assumed he was just a bystander caught in the crossfire of history.
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Wrong.
Norman was a vocal supporter. When Carlos realized he’d left his gloves at the Olympic Village, it was actually Norman who suggested they share Smith’s pair. That’s why Smith has his right hand up and Carlos has his left. Norman asked them for an OPHR badge so he could show his support on the podium. He wore it proudly.
He knew what would happen. Australia had its own "White Australia" policy back then. When he got home, he was treated like a pariah. He was kept off the 1972 Olympic team despite qualifying multiple times. He was never fully embraced by his country until long after his death. When Norman died in 2006, Tommie Smith and John Carlos were the pallbearers at his funeral. That’s the kind of bond this moment created.
Avery Brundage and the Immediate Fallout
The reaction from the International Olympic Committee (IOC) was swift and brutal. Avery Brundage was the president of the IOC at the time. This is the same guy who, in 1936, had no problem with Nazi salutes during the Berlin Games. He called those "national salutes." But a gesture for human rights? That, he called a "violent" and "politicized" act that violated the Olympic spirit.
He gave the U.S. Olympic Committee an ultimatum: Suspend Smith and Carlos and kick them out of the Olympic Village, or the entire U.S. track team is out.
The U.S. folded.
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Within 48 hours, the fastest men in the world were being escorted out of Mexico. They were persona non grata. The media didn't help. Time magazine replaced the Olympic rings with a drawing of the athletes and the headline "The Angry Black Athletes." Brent Musburger, then a young journalist for the Chicago American, famously called them "black-skinned stormtroopers."
Why the 1968 Olympics Black Power Salute Still Matters
People like to think that history is a straight line toward progress. It’s not. It’s a series of tugs-of-war. The 1968 Olympics Black Power salute wasn't the end of a movement; it was a catalyst that changed how we view the "political athlete."
Before Colin Kaepernick took a knee or the NBA went on strike in the 2020 bubble, there was Mexico City.
The fallout for Smith and Carlos lasted years. They received death threats. Their families were harassed. Carlos’s wife took her own life years later, and he’s been vocal about how the stress of their exile contributed to the crumbling of his personal life. They struggled to find steady work. They were essentially erased from the record books of "American Heroes" for a generation.
But things changed. In 2005, San Jose State University—their alma mater—erected a massive statue of the moment. Interestingly, the silver medal spot on the statue is empty. That was Peter Norman’s request. He wanted people to stand in his place and feel what it was like to support the cause.
The Logistics of the Gesture
A lot of people think they just walked up and did it. In reality, they were terrified. Carlos had a feeling they might get shot on the podium. He actually told Smith to keep his hand down if he heard a gunshot so he could run.
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Think about that. You’ve just reached the pinnacle of human athletic achievement, and you're worried about a sniper because you're wearing a badge and a glove.
They also had to hide the gloves. They smuggled them in. They didn't tell the U.S. coaches. It was a covert operation in the middle of the biggest sporting event on the planet.
Misconceptions and Nuance
Was it "Black Power"? Yes. But was it anti-American? Smith and Carlos didn't think so. They stood for the anthem. They just refused to salute the flag in the traditional way while that flag was being used to justify inequality.
There's a persistent myth that they were stripped of their medals. Technically, they weren't. The IOC can't really do that for a protest; they were suspended and expelled from the games. They kept the physical medals, though the "glory" was stripped away for a long time.
Also, let’s talk about the shoes. PUMA. Smith and Carlos were PUMA athletes. This was one of the first times a brand was caught up in a political firestorm. They left their PUMA Suedes on the podium. It was a tiny detail that sparked a massive shift in how brands handled athlete activism.
Looking Forward: Lessons from 1968
If you're looking to understand the intersection of sports and social justice, you have to start here. The 1968 Olympics Black Power salute proved that the stadium is never just a stadium. It’s a microcosm of the world.
To really grasp the weight of this, here are a few things you can do to get beyond the surface-level history:
- Watch 'The Stand': This is a 2020 documentary that features extensive interviews with Smith and Carlos. It moves past the "icon" status and looks at the human cost.
- Research the OPHR Manifesto: Read the original demands of the Olympic Project for Human Rights. You’ll be surprised how many of those issues—like the representation of Black leadership in sports—are still being debated today.
- Study Peter Norman’s Story: Often ignored in American history books, his story is a masterclass in what "allyship" actually looks like when the stakes are high.
- Analyze the Media Coverage: Look up the original 1968 newspapers. Compare how the New York Times covered it versus the Chicago Defender (a major Black newspaper). The disparity in tone is a lesson in media bias.
The 1968 Olympics weren't just about world records. They were about the moment two men decided that their dignity was worth more than their reputations. They traded their careers for a symbol that has outlived them both. That's not just sports history. That's the blueprint.