Competition was the focus of the men’s 100-meter freestyle final at the 1924 Summer Olympics—then, as now, hosted by Paris. A century ago, swimming was the epitome of the Roaring Twenties. It was an era of fast music, fast vehicles—and fast swimmers. But while the competition for bragging rights in the pool was fiercer than ever, it was also taking place on a more equal footing: for the first time, elite swimmers of different races were given starring roles in an Olympic final—a challenge to the popular pseudoscience of eugenics and widespread anti-immigration sentiment in the US. A new book, Three Kings: Race, Class and the Groundbreaking Rivals That Ushered in the Modern Olympic Era by Todd Balf, looks back at the 1924 100-meter freestyle final as the 2024 edition approaches this week.
“I think part of the interest was just these three swimmers of different skin colors who really wanted to be the fastest ever in the signature event, the 100 meters,” Balf says of his motivation for writing the book. “I was looking at these guys. They were being described in the press in almost superhero terms — mermen, flying fish, torpedoes.”
The three kings from the title of the book were the Americans Johnny Weissmuller and Duke Kahanamoku and the Japanese Katsuo Takaishi.
Before he played Tarzan on screen – his first appearance in the role would be in 1932 – Weissmuller was a Chicago-based pool sensation who came from a working-class background and broke record after record. The man whose records he often broke was the legendary Hawaiian Kahanamoku, who encountered racial prejudice in his quest to compete at the highest level of the sport. Takaishi similarly faced disparaging reviews, particularly regarding his physique, which was considered inferior to the contemporary Western ideal.
The book explores the backgrounds of each athlete, with attention to broader historical events that shaped their lives. Weissmuller, originally Johann Weissmuller, was born to German-speaking parents in the Austro-Hungarian Empire – they emigrated to the U.S. due to economic hardship. Kahanamoku came of age during the American takeover of Hawaii – the Hawaiian language was banned in schools in the state in 1896, and whites-only swimming clubs sprang up. Takaishi grew up in a Japan that was debating how to deal with the rest of the world—including whether to abandon swimming strokes developed during the samurai era in favor of Western techniques that offered a better chance of success in the Olympics.
The story caught Balf’s attention because of his renewed interest in swimming. Ten years ago, he was diagnosed with cancer. After complications from surgery, he could no longer walk. Accustomed to an active lifestyle, he sought new ways to exercise while staying in a rehabilitation hospital in Massachusetts. When swimming was suggested, he initially dismissed it: he recounted a failed attempt at an open-water swim for Yankee Magazine in which he had to be rescued. Then he heard about a wetsuit that allowed him to swim in the hospital pool. From there, he became curious about the origins of the strokes he practiced, particularly the crawl, now synonymous with freestyle.
“I read a lot of stuff,” he says. “In the course of that, I basically stumbled upon the story of samurai swimmers, Hawaiian champions, and the person we know today as Tarzan — the three main characters in the book. After being exposed to that, I was hooked and tried to understand who they were and where they came from.”
Kahanamoku came first. How determined was he to compete in swimming? Unable to join separate clubs, he and his friends formed their own club—Hui Nalu, “Club of the Waves.” After a slow start at the 1912 Olympic trials, he competed in the Stockholm Games that year, beginning a streak of three Olympics and five medals. The story of the famous swimmer and surfer made a deep impression on Balf, who spent much of his time in Hawaii researching Kahanamoku and interviewing big-wave surfers. “Duke remains a legend in Hawaii,” Balf says.
As the 1924 Games approached, Kahanamoku found himself up against a challenger nearly half his age: Weissmuller, who had endured a difficult upbringing in Chicago. His father abandoned the family, leaving Johnny, his younger brother Peter, and their mother behind. Weissmuller found refuge at the Illinois Athletic Club, where he caught the attention of coach Bill Bachrach, who also had an eye for the sheer number of records that could be set in swimming and how they could be used for publicity purposes. Weissmuller became Bachrach’s prize pupil.
In Japan, another teacher-student relationship yielded positive results. Takaishi grew up as the heir to ancient swimming strokes once used in warfare. But when Japanese athletes used these blows at the 1920 Olympics in Belgium, they became a laughing stock. It was Osaka-based coach Den Sugimoto who began studying Western techniques and teaching them to his schoolchildren, including Takaishi. Sugimoto even had students build their own swimming pools and fill them with water taken from nearby farmland.
Each of the three contenders entered the 1924 Games with question marks. Japan was reeling from the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquakethat left more than 100,000 people dead and the country wondering whether it would even field a team for Paris. Kahanamoku was at a crossroads in his career, facing disappointing expectations at the U.S. Olympic Trials, which were held in Indianapolis, the same venue as this year. As for Weissmuller, he faced a 1920s version of a “birther” controversy, an investigation into whether he was an American citizen. The question of his citizenship was raised because of his foreign birthplace, but Balf suggests that his family altered his baptismal records to show he was born in America, thus securing a spot on the Olympic team. The secret remained shrouded for years.
“You can imagine how afraid he was that he would be caught and that everything he had won in Paris would be taken away from him,” Balf says.
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The Games themselves were fraught with uncertainty. Were they a serious sporting event, featuring the world’s best athletes every four years, or merely a spectacle? As Balf explains, the lofty vision of their contemporary founder, Pierre de Coubertin, often clashed with embarrassing realities. Athletes had to swim in icy open water at the first modern Games in Greece in 1896, and the 1900 edition in St. Louis featured a racist event mocking the athletic prowess of indigenous culturesand the 1920 Olympics were held in a Belgium still recovering from World War I, not far from battlefields littered with corpses. Yet in 1924, the Olympics approached professional level in Paris. The City of Light had a brand new swimming stadium, the Piscine des Tourelles, which still stands today. The pool had marked lanes and the venue had a capacity of over 10,000. In another first for swimming, the men’s 100-meter freestyle final was televised live.
“Swimming was kind of the unexpected star of the Games,” Balf said. “I don’t think it was really recognized the way it should have been. Swimming really stole the show.”
Weissmuller went on to win the 100m sprint final in an Olympic record time of 59.0 seconds. In total, he won three golds – he also took victories in the 400m freestyle and the 4x200m freestyle relay – and a bronze medal that year. Kahanamoku won silver and his brother Sam won bronze.
Takaishi came in fifth, and it was Duke who had the small Hollywood roles and helped popularize his other major sport, surfing. Takaishi’s Olympic career was just beginning, and he won silver and bronze at the 1928 Amsterdam Games, paving the way for more Japanese swimming success at the Olympics.
“These three men, who had such different cultural upbringings, really stood out,” Balf says. “You wouldn’t think these guys had much in common. The similarities were overwhelming.
“I really wanted to know what the three of them thought about each other. Swimming somehow trumped everything that was different about them.”