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This article examines the users who participated in the #boycottqatar2022 on Twitter and discovers that most of the users advocating are from North America and Western Europe which then raises the question of whether or not this is only an act by the global elite rather than inclusive global initiative. The hastag #boycottqatar2022 was started because of the concerns about Qatar's limited civil and political rights. It was used to protest against Qatar's treatment of migrant construction workers who were exploited during the preparation of the World Cup as 6500 workers died because of the negligence of human rights by Qatar. Furthermore, it was used as a platform to argue that Qatar did not rightfully win the bid, following accusations of bribery and corruption. The protest mainly consisting of the "global elite" is considered to be a concern as it appears to contribute to the Global North-South Divide which describe the grouping of countries from a socioeconomic perspective. The ultimate finding of the study points to how under globalization, the global elite is interested in global action but the audience is exclusively centered in the west causing a "global elite conversation".

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1) How have protests and acts of activism evolved in sports over time?

Wulf, Steve. “Athletes and Activism: The Long, Defiant History of Sports Protests.” Andscape, 30 Jan. 2019, andscape.com/features/athletes-and-activism-the-long-defiant-history-of-sports-protests.

This article talks about the history of protests in sports, starting with the Chariot races protest in Constantinople to Kaepernick's kneel during the national anthem. A timeline is displayed with different protests in sports throughout time. Many topics like the LGBTQ, BLM, cheating, and more are covered throughout the article.

2) How has Kaepernick's protest and BLM changed American football?

Williams, Patti. “Rebranding the NFL: How the League Shifted Its Message on Racial Justice.” Knowledge at Wharton, 11 Sept. 2020, knowledge.wharton.upenn.edu/podcast/knowledge-at-wharton-podcast/shropshire-athlete-activism/.

This article describes the different forms of Black inclusivity and BLM awareness now being introduced in American football. The article talks about how Kaepernick's protest was the kickoff point for the NFL to begin taking action against racial injustice. It also speaks on the BLMs effects on the NFL.

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Football fans who tuned in Thursday night to watch the season opener between the Kansas City Chiefs and Houston Texans saw a very different NFL than a year ago. Inside Arrowhead stadium, the message "End Racism" was imprinted in one endzone, while the other displayed "It Takes All of Us." Although not televised, the song "Lift Every Voice and Sing," known as the Black national anthem, played before the "Star-Spangled Banner." Just before kickoff, players gathered midfield and locked arms to observe a moment of silence for racial equality.

It was a much different scene from 2016, when San Francisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick kneeled during the national anthem to protest racial injustice. His gesture touched off a firestorm of controversy so politically charged that even presidents weighed in. Barack Obama defended Kaepernick, saying the issues deserved to be talked about, while Donald Trump said players who don't stand for the anthem should be fired. NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell said the league believes " very strongly in patriotism" and that he didn't necessarily agree with Kaepernick's actions. Months later, Kaepernick was pushed out of the league.

That white-hot controversy flamed out this summer, eclipsed by a much bigger fire: the deaths of George Floyd in Minnesota and Breonna Taylor in Kentucky, two unarmed black people who were killed by police. Worldwide protests and renewed calls to dismantle structural racism followed, suddenly putting Kaepernick on the right side of history. In June, Goodell released a video condemning racism and said the league was wrong for not listening to players' protests. "I personally protest with you and want to be part of the much-needed change in this country," he said. "Without black players, there would be no National Football League." He reiterated the commitment in September after Jacob Blake, an unarmed black man in Wisconsin, was shot in the back by police and paralyzed. The league has begun an Inspire Change foundation and pledged $250 million over 10 years for social justice causes.

The new messaging shifts the brand for the NFL, which has struggled with how to meet this moment. It's a challenge shared across many businesses and organizations that are re-evaluating what they stand for as consumers demand shared values from the brands they patronize.

"Teams, and brands more generally, are part of culture. This is a culturally significant moment that requires teams and brands, just as it requires all of us who are a part of the culture, to adjust and to consider," said Wharton marketing professor Patti Williams, whose research focuses on how emotions influence consumer behavior.

George Floyd's death coalesced the movement around social justice and Black Lives Matter, and the teams are trying to respond, she said. But it's more than just commercialism. Athletes are outspoken, and their voices are powerful.

"This is a culturally significant moment that requires teams and brands, just as it requires all of us who are a part of the culture, to adjust and to consider." -Patti Williams

"In many ways, the line between an organization's consumer-focused brand and its employer brand has been blurred," Williams said. "Employees want to work for organizations that have values they can believe in and that are in line with their own values. The players, and others within these organizations, are forcing the teams/brands to publicly express these values or to live up to their earlier expressions of them."

Kaepernick's activism set the stage for the current context, which has grown beyond the football field. Williams said the issues of equality, justice and inclusion are resonating across the "broader brand ecosystem."

"Stakeholders are raising these issues, speaking with passion about them and demanding change," she said. "In many of these organizations, the leaders themselves have been shaken by these events. Perhaps they see the world differently and/or perhaps they see that they have a responsibility to actually lead on these issues."

Corporate leaders are key drivers in this change, according to Kenneth Shropshire, CEO of the Global Sport Institute at Arizona State University and emeritus professor of legal studies and business ethics at Wharton. He said he's spoken recently to many executives outside of the sports industry who have acknowledged that their initial public statements after Floyd's death were inadequate. They want to do more to address injustice.

"Many are trying to get ahead of the curve and do the right thing ... so that there won't be a need to issue a statement about what they're up to. One way to do that is to visibly engage with the athletes who physically engage with the leagues and visibly engage in social justice programs, and let the actions speak for themselves. I think that's a lot of what's going on," Shropshire said during a recent segment of the Wharton Business Daily radio show on SiriusXM. (Listen to the podcast above.)

In the NFL's case, he noted, executives are taking more seriously the influence exerted by players such as Kaepernick, who sacrificed his football career for a cause now embraced by the league. He credited Goodell and others for admitting that they were wrong and changing course.

The highly visible stances of athletes like Kaepernick are "driving leadership of these companies and teams to re-evaluate where they stand - or frankly, in this world of being anti-racist, to be overt about where they stand," Shropshire said.

"Many [leaders] are trying to get ahead of the curve and do the right thing." -Kenneth Shropshire

The Greater Risk of Doing Nothing
Marketers know there is inherent risk in taking a stand on any issue that could alienate a sizable segment of customers. Hobby Lobby, for example, is facing a call for a boycott over a pro-Trump display in one of its stores. But in this era of deep social awareness, it can be riskier to do nothing.

"The most recent data I've seen suggests that a majority of consumers want to see marketers take stands on these issues," Williams said, citing a new Edelman Survey that also found 77% of Americans say it's important for corporations to respond to racial injustice to earn or keep their trust.

"There are always risks in staking out a strong position, and in today's polarized climate, brands that take positions are likely to align themselves with one side, potentially alienating the other side," she said. "But the nature of this moment, and this issue in particular, seems to require brands to step up. There is likely more risk - from consumers, employees and stakeholders - in inaction."

She urged brands to be brave enough to pivot their marketing strategies to reflect the times, pointing to the Washington football team abandoning the Redskins name or Land O'Lakes butter dropping the Native American woman from its logo as examples. Speaking up and speaking out is the norm right now, not the exception.

"This the moment to make those changes. Brands shouldn't be afraid," she said.

But the moment has come too late for Kaepernick, who has not been signed to a team since opting out of his contract in March 2017.

"It's sad for him and his career in the fact that he did not have the chance to get back out there and play," Shropshire said. "But he can look back with some pride to say, 'I was a big trigger in this,' in a longer stream of the heritage of guys and women who have pushed on these issues."

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Rebranding the NFL: How the League Shifted Its Message on Racial Justice

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In a stark turnabout, the NFL is now embracing the same goals of social justice and racial equality that cost quarterback Colin Kaepernick his football career. Experts explain the change and why other brands should follow suit....Read More

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Chiang, Casey. “‘The Kaepernick Effect’: How Taking a Knee Began a Movement (Zirin Interview).” PBS, Public Broadcasting Service, 8 Nov. 2021, www.pbs.org/wnet/amanpour-and-company/video/the-kaepernick-effect-how-taking-a-knee-began-a-movement-u6r/?fbclid=IwAR2vOhuAE5GxuROzJ-im9jSPDFGXW6lnB4WUOI-lCAToE-R8gUsN6i19fqA.

Doehler, Steph. “‘Shut up and Play’: A Brief History of Athlete Activism.” ‘Shut up and Play’: A Brief History of Athlete Activism, www.open.edu/openlearn/health-sports-psychology/shut-and-play-brief-history-athlete-activism.

Layden, Tim. “Fists of Fury.” Sports Illustrated, 3 Oct. 2018, www.si.com/olympics/2018/10/03/john-carlos-tommie-smith-1968-olympics-black-power-salute.

Korver, Kyle. “Privileged: By Kyle Korver.” The Players’ Tribune, The Players’ Tribune, 14 Jan. 2022, www.theplayerstribune.com/articles/kyle-korver-utah-jazz-nba.

UT Martin Webcasting. “Jemele Hill: An Uphill Journey Through Sports, Journalism, Politics, and Pain.” YouTube, 22 Feb. 2023, www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2RL9RBkHX4.

Williams, Patti. “Rebranding the NFL: How the League Shifted Its Message on Racial Justice.” Knowledge at Wharton, 11 Sept. 2020, knowledge.wharton.upenn.edu/podcast/knowledge-at-wharton-podcast/shropshire-athlete-activism/.

Jack. “The Impact of Athlete Activism on Sports Fans.” Marketcast, 8 Sept. 2022, marketcast.com/insights/the-impact-of-athlete-activism-on-sports-fans/.

Wulf, Steve. “Athletes and Activism: The Long, Defiant History of Sports Protests.” Andscape, 30 Jan. 2019, andscape.com/features/athletes-and-activism-the-long-defiant-history-of-sports-protests.

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Sports Fans are Supportive of Athlete Activism

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This data suggests a general shift in public opinion, becoming more supportive of athletes using their platforms for activism. This is especially important in the context of how protests and acts of activism have evolved in sports over time. It marks a change from eras like the 1968 Olympics, where acts of activism were less universally supported. This trend reflects the evolving role that athletes play in driving social change.

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This visual relates to Source 1 and is the exact moment that Tommie Smith and John Carlos decided to raise their fists in protest. The brave act committed by these men inspired generations to come and reflected the emotions of millions of African Americans. In the coming decades, several more athletes protested in a similar manner and they were all inspired by these two. In the realm of Olympic sports, this may be the most famous picture of them all.

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Topic: Under the influence of Cal's activism.
In this podcast we discuss Cal's background of activism and it's current implications on campus.
Questions:
1. How did you learn about Cal's activism?
2. What do you think is unique about Cal's activism?
3. Can you feel Cal's activism today?
4. Has it influenced/changed any of your actions?

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The NBA player Kyle Korver in The Player’s Tribune serves as a compelling reflection on the intricate relationship between privilege and racism. Korver starts by recounting a disturbing incident in which his teammate was unjustly arrested and injured by the police, serving as a wake-up call for him: "When the police break your teammate’s leg, you’d think it would wake you up a little"(Korver, 2019). He admits to his shortcomings and pledges to do better, acknowledging that his privilege as a white man allows him to ignore racial issues, a luxury not afforded to his teammates of color. For instance, he mentions that Thabo Sefolosha, his teammate, brought perspectives on politics, religion, and culture that were not typical of an NBA player (Korver, 2019). He also reflects on an incident involving Russell Westbrook and a fan, implying the importance of athletes' roles in cultural discourse. Additionally, Korver acknowledges the significance of the Black Lives Matter movement and its relevance to the sports community (Korver, 2019).  He emphasizes the importance of empathy, active listening, and education in dismantling these profoundly ingrained prejudices.  Korver's article does more than just recount a personal journey; it poses a challenge to those in similar positions of privilege. Acknowledging privilege is only the first step; the more challenging work lies in leveraging that privilege to enact real, meaningful change.

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There’s an elephant in the room that I’ve been thinking about a lot over these last few weeks.

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Source 4: Jemele Hill: An Uphill Journey through Sports, Journalism, Politics and Pain

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Source 4: Jemele Hill: An Uphill Journey through Sports, Journalism, Politics and Pain

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Jemele Hill's casual conversation at the Civil Rights Conference at UT Martin unravels the struggles of a Black woman in sports journalism and current-day issues of the media. Hills commences her discussion by describing her career journey, how she never imagined herself as a significant television journalist, and how her dream was to be a printer journalist. She speaks about the predominately men-run sports media and how many people tried to make her feel inferior, but she never let it affect her goals. Hill goes on to talk about the importance of media and the major rise of misinformation in the past few years. The media is the one to blame, claiming that they don’t write the truth anymore and only focus on what will get them high ratings. Hill explains, “I fear that this is why our democracy feels like we’re, it’s hanging on by the thinnest of threads because the media has not done its job appropriately” (Hill 24:02). Another topic discussed in the video was the topic of racism in high position jobs in the NFL. Hill writes, “But that mentality that black men are not suited to be leaders is still very pervasive in the NFL” (Hill 46:06). Overall, Hill summarizes the current struggles African Americans face in higher NFL positions and as journalists.

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Jemele Hill: An Uphill Journey through Sports ,Journalism, Politics, and Pain

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Source 2: "The Kaepernick Effect": How Taking a Knee Began a Movement (Zirin Interview)

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Source 2: "The Kaepernick Effect": How Taking a Knee Began a Movement (Zirin Interview)

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This interview covers the protests that Colin Kaepernick held “against police violence and against racial inequity” (Zirin 0:55) under the national spotlight of the NFL. His protests inspired millions across the country from elementary school football players to his fellow colleagues playing in the National Football League. However, his actions also triggered many, especially because he “brought it to the National Anthem space” (Zirin 1:05) which upset people who didn't understand the struggles African Americans across the US face everyday. An example of a negative public response can be seen in the example of Garfield High School, where the entire football team took a knee during the anthem as a team decision (Zirin 3:50). After this decision was made by their team, the head coach was eventually fired and death threats started coming into the school (Zirin 3:50). In a city such as Seattle, which is very liberal, many people wouldn’t expect such a response, but that is the reality of what this protest brings out in people. The protest itself has also had an adverse effect on Colin Kaepernick’s football career. He’s been out of the league the past few years alongside some other star players who are now used by the league to show what happens when players “step out of line” (Zirin 15:30).

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CHRISTIANE AMANPOUR: And now, we continue our look at the intersection of sport and politics with the kneel, as I've said, that ignite ad movement. Earlier, we talked about football star, Colin Kaepernick, who made waves back in 2016 for taking a knee during the national anthem. A silent protest against police brutality and racial inequality in America. Now. sports writer, Dave Zirin, examines the lasting impact of this moment in his new book called "The Kaepernick Effect." And here he is talking to Hari Sreenivasan about it.

(BEGIN VIDEO CLIP)

HARI SREENIVASAN: Christiane, thanks. Dave Zirin, thanks so much for joining us.

DAVE ZIRIN, AUTHOR, "THE KAEPERNICK EFFECT": Thanks. It's great to be here.

SREENIVASAN: So "The Kaepernick Effect," for perhaps our overseas audience, the book really talks about the effect of Colin Kaepernick had. But for people who might not have been paying attention over these years, what did Colin Kaepernick do in 2016 that started this all?

ZIRIN: What Colin Kaepernick did was he took the protest that was taking place throughout the United States against police violence and against racial inequity and he brought it to the National Football League. Particularly, he brought it to the National Anthem space, where he would take a knee during the National Anthem as a way to highlight the gap between the promises of the anthem and the promises of the United States and the lived reality of far too many black Americans. That's "The Kaepernick Effect." The replication of that protest in small towns and big cities around the United States.

SREENIVASAN: It was a controversial response when Colin Kaepernick did it. And what's fascinating about your book is you find these teams and these individuals, these athletes that weren't just kind of band wagoning when it was safe to do so. They were thinking about it and they were deciding to do this as well. Let's start with the story that you have of Garfield High School. I grew up in Seattle and know Garfield High School pretty well. Had to compete against them. But what happened there?

ZIRIN: Well, at Garfield High School something very interesting happened. And this goes with the broader theme of the book that what Colin Kaepernick provided for student likes the football and soccer players and softball players at Garfield was not so much an inspiration as in, let's do this for Colin Kaepernick or let's do this because Colin Kaepernick did it. What Colin Kaepernick provided was a language, was a lexicon, was a method of struggle by which athletes who were feeling in their hearts that there was something very wrong with this country. And he gave them a language by which to put those ideas and those concerns into practice. Namely by taking a knee during the national anthem. And it started with the football team at Garfield because they had a coach there named Joey Thomas who heard that a couple of the players were talking about it, and he turned it into a team issue. He said to them, wait a minute, you know, if you are going to take a knee during this anthem, if you are going to protest racial inequity, you need to know what you are talking about. And so, we're going to have a discussion about that. And then after the discussion, we're either going to do it as a team or we're not going to do it at all. And so, they spoke as a team about Trayvon Martin, the young man who was killed by George Zimmerman about 10 years ago. They spoke about a woman named Charleena Lyles who was killed by Seattle Police. And made the decision that they were going take this knee together. And they did so and it had an effect on the school where other students said, I want to do that too because I'm also upset about the balance of things in Seattle which has, you know, this reputation of a very liberal city. But they were seeing some of the contradictions with that liberalism in terms of how the small black population in the city was being treated. And when that took place, they expected to be embraced because it is Seattle. And on some level, they were embraced by a lot of people in the community for taking that step. But they also were subject to a terrible backlash. Coach Thomas found himself pushed out of his job. The tires on his car were slashed. Death threats were reported into the school. But when I spoke to the students who had taken part in it, they had absolutely no regrets whatsoever. If anything, what they felt was a tremendous amount of pride and a tremendous amount of vindication for standing up when so many people were not doing so.

SREENIVASAN: It is always harder when you are standing up and let's say, this is an impressionable age. You are 15, you are 16 years old and when you don't have the support of your peers, when you see this kind of criticism, that is a different kind of, well, guts and intestinal fortitude for teenagers to have.

ZIRIN: And I think teenagers get such a rep - a bad rep, I'm sorry, in this country where they are derided for being apathetic, but then, when they do something, they are derided for doing something. It's like the only thing worse than apathy for a teenager in eyes of many adults is actually doing something. And I think what these students learned was that they were going to get criticism but they were also going to start conversations, and that is what they so desperately wanted to do. And what I also learned by talking to people - it didn't matter if I was talking to people in Seattle, Washington or people in Beaumont, Texas or in Upstate New York or in Florida, one of the things that they all had in common is that they were all very young, nine, 10, 11 years old when Trayvon Martin was killed. And we spoke about earlier, and when that young man was killed, it had this scarring effect on them. It had a traumatic effect on them, where they just never forgot what it felt like to be in a country where not only could you be killed as a young black kid but also the person who killed you would not face justice when it was all said and done. For these young people, it reminded me a lot of stories I read about the Civil Rights Movement and how young civil rights activists were affected by the death of Emmett Till in the mid-1950s and the pictures of his mistaken distorted body in "Jet" magazine. It was so similar, it echoed, this idea that they saw this when they were young and it just scarred them, it made them feel like they had to do something throughout their loves. And what Colin Kaepernick provided was a way, was a method by which they could express their dissatisfaction.

SREENIVASAN: You know, tell me a little bit about what was the story in Beaumont, Texas?

ZIRIN: I mean, Beaumont, Texas involved an entire youth football team that decided that they were going to kneel because - and these are like kids. And like, young kids, like 11, 12, 13 years old. And they felt like - the Beaumont Bulls felt like they wanted to kneel, I mean, partially because of the what Colin Kaepernick did felt like it was emboldening partly because their coach was willing to support them for doing it, partly because there were some parents who very supportive in them doing it. What they didn't expect was the backlash. And the backlash was so intense that not only the team but the league was canceled because of what they did. They completely kicked - I mean, it was just like OK. Rather than having anyone kneel, there will actually be no football. And this was in Texas for goodness sakes.

SREENIVASAN: Right. Where Friday night life is a religion.

ZIRIN: Yes. I mean, this would be like banning soccer in Brazil or banning pizza in New York. And this is what they did. And - but when I spoke to one of the young people and when I spoke to mother of one of the young people, I mean, again, that sense of pride. And actually, in the Beaumont Bulls' case, there were several NFL players who then donated money and equipment so they could start a new team. And so, that's a story that is really interesting because it is about solidarity and it's about the connection between the pros and what happens at the most basic level of youth sports.

SREENIVASAN: You also dived into several - the phrase is usually student athletes, but people who are performing at a very high level in college. And you picked, one of the athletes was interesting to me, was a cheerleader who decided to take steps and how she was perceived and the challenges that she faced.

ZIRIN: Yes. Sydney Stallworth at Howard University. I thought that story was really interesting because there is a lot of discussion these days about historically black colleges and universities and what they can, in fact, provide. And what Sydney Stallworth found, both at Howard and both in the broader D.C. community was a tremendous amount of support. And I thought it was interesting that they took these actions when the football team didn't take these actions. Because a lot of college athletes would not take this step not because they didn't agree with the movement, but because they really did feel like if they stepped out of line, they could get in trouble with their coach, they might get kicked off the team, college athletes in this country, their scholarships are renewed on an annual basis. So, there is a huge fear factor. And the cheerleaders didn't show that fear factor. Sydney was one of only - - with many cheerleaders that I spoke to who took part in this. And I just found that really interesting because cheerleading is often, first of all, derided as not being a real sport. And second of all, seen as ancillary to what's happening on the field. And these cheerleaders felt the send that they needed to take leadership precisely because the football team would not.

SREENIVASAN: The idea the student athlete should be compensated, that has been debated for quite some time but it seemed like it picked up more traction post Kaepernick, post George Floyd, and it's almost like if you start to write the history of that, these other events kind of had to happen for them to get a seat at the table.

ZIRIN: Absolutely. Similarly, the Washington football team, and I live in the D.C. area, they decided to change their name from what was perceived as a racial slur against native Americans post Kaepernick as well. And I've talked to a lot of indigenous activists and they all say the same thing, they said, it was the intervention of the Black Lives Matter movement that made having that name untenable for the Washington football team. And it's similarly with athletes getting paid. And it reminded me of something that 1968 Olympian John Carlos said to me. Where he said to me, you know the reason why athletic salaries went up in the 1970s with the growth of free agency? It was because I raised that fist at the Olympics and Tommy Smith raised that fist at the '68 Olympics, because it made them realize that there would be a larger revolt on their hands if they didn't loosen the purse strings. I think there's been a similar dynamic over the last five years where it just gave a lot of people in power that they felt like they were looking at a canary in the coal mine, so to speak, and realized there needed to be some kind of reform or else the whole system could implode.

SREENIVASAN: I don't think people, at least of younger generations will recognize that activism and athletics went together decades ago. But if you grew up, say, in the '80s or the '90s, you didn't really see athletes stepping out and expressing their opinion. You saw them make a lot of money. And that was the sort of end all. Wow, I want to be like Michael Jordan because look at him, he's not only a great athlete, but he's so wealthy because look at all the endorsement deals. And so - you know. But you didn't say, wow, I want to be Michael Jordan because listen to his position on apartheid.

ZIRIN: Right. That was never said about Michael Jordan. But I think we've seen such a sea change over the last 10 years. And the reasons for it to me are threefold why you have seen this huge political change in sports. The first is just the existence of the Black Lives Matter movement. Like the 1960s, having a movement off the field is critical to see political confidence ricochet on the field. The second reason is social media. Athletes being able to speak directly to their audience and feel like they can have a political influence on what happens around them. Social media has been empowering for these athletes. And the last reason, honestly is Lebron James. Because he - the basketball superstar has decided that he is going to be a political person. It started for him after the killing of Trayvon Martin. Like for these young athletes I talk about, when he posed for a photo with his Miami Heat teammates with his hood over his head, that became like the first viral sports politics photo of the Twitter age. And what Lebron James has done is basically bent the NBA and it's had a ripple effect throughout the WNBA, throughout the NFL, of course. And he bent it to say, we have the right to be political. We don't sign away our beliefs just because we can putt a ball in a hoop.

SREENIVASAN: One thing I wonder is, right now, we're also in a conversation about what does an employer have a right to ask of an employee, for example, in the case of vaccinations? So, if there is some sort of mandate that comes down from a boss that says, in this case, you are not allowed to take a knee, what happens? I mean, aren't technically employees responsible for the wins of their bosses and their organizations they work for?

ZIRIN: Well, there are a couple of very good arguments that NFL players have made and could make if they are faced with that situation. The first argument is that the place they are taking a knee is effectively public square more than a private entity. Given the amount of public funds that go into building stadiums and given the amount of public interaction. I mean, most of us don't work in front of 70,000 people. You know, that is public kind of presentation more than it is a private business. The second thing is that the National Anthem really has nothing to do with what they do on the field of play. I mean, if a player decided to take a knee on the 50-yard line in middle of a third down and six situation, then by all means fire them. But if a player does it during the anthem,something that, by the way, the NFL players didn't even have to come out for until 2007, I believe it was, as part of a connection that was made between the Pentagon and the National Football League, a financial partnership called Tribute to the Troops. If that wasn't the, sort of, surrounding politics of the event itself, then one might have a case to say that players are risking their jobs. But what they are doing is a public act of speech I would argue.

SREENIVASAN: The majority of the league are people of color. And yet, the ownership is almost all white, correct me if I'm wrong. But it was such a tougher climb to try to change the NFL, especially when you had the president at the time calling players who were kneeling names.

ZIRIN: Yes. I mean this was a very difficult dynamic for players in the National Football League. First and foremost, the average NFL career is only three years and the contracts are not guaranteed. So, if you lose your place on a roster, I mean, you are probably not going to find your way back on to one. So, there is a tremendous amount of risk involved, particularly given the sums of money at play. And NFL owners, and I chart this on the basis of political donations, tend to be extremely right wing in their politics. Yet, they can't just come down on players and say, we're going to kick you all out of the league for doing this, because then they wouldn't have players in and of themselves. So, I would argue that the NFL ownership structure has undergone a very carrot and stick approach to these protests. You know, the carrot has been they put slogans on the field like end racism. Players can put Black Lives Matter decals on their helmets. That is something new. They've started social justice coalitions of players in the league. All of that is the carrot. But the stick is that Colin Kaepernick, never able to find his way back onto a team. His two cohorts, both of whom I interview in the book, Eric Reid and Kenny Stills, are free agents right now. They don't have a place on NFL roster. And these players are used as ghost stories by management as a way to say to young players, don't step out of line or you could end up on the outside looking in. So, it's been a very carrot and stick approach by the National Football League.

SREENIVASAN: Has there been any measurable impacts on the revenue and viewership of sports? Because one of the critiques from the right and from Former President Trump has been, oh, look. Look at the ratings, they are so horrible now because of all these athletes taking a knee.

ZIRIN: I'm so glad you asked that question because that's been one of the biggest canards over the last five years that fans would be driven away by athletes protesting. It is true that sports ratings dropped dramatically during the first year of the pandemic. And a lot of folks rushed to that conclusion, oh, it must be the politics that is pushing people away. And yet, Marist College did a very helpful and very in-depth poll. And what they found was people weren't watching sports because of the pandemic. I mean, sports are about fun and play. Like Sports Writer Jane McManus said, sports are the reward for having a functioning society. And without society functioning, there was just far less of a thirst to actually know, particularly an election year, to actually know who was, you know, winning the A.L. East. It just - it was far lower than people's priority lists. So, it was less politics and more this once in a century pandemic.

SREENIVASAN: Is it safe now to protest? Is it safe now to take a knee?

ZIRIN: It depends on the situation. I mean, I would say no. And the fact that it is not safe is precisely what gives it its power. I mean, ironically, in some places, particularly in English soccer, you see a lot of players taking a knee and it is kind of a team activity. And that, I would argue, is less effective precisely because it is safe. So, it's when you are willing to rebel, it's when you are willing to make people uncomfortable that it actually has use value for a movement.

SREENIVASAN: The book is called "The Kaepernick Effect." Dave Zirin, thanks so much for joining us.

ZIRIN: Well, thank you so much.

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"The Kaepernick Effect:" How Taking a Knee Began a Movement

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CHRISTIANE AMANPOUR: And now, we continue our look at the intersection of sport and politics with the kneel, as I've said, that ignite ad movement. Earlier, we talked about football star, Colin Kaepernick, who made waves back in 2016 for taking a knee during the national anthem.

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Tim Layden writes on John Carlos and Tommie Smith's legacy and a touching interview with John Carlos and Tommie Smith on their activism 50 years ago at the Olympics and their views of racism in current-day America. Layden describes the day of the event beyond the fist and gloves. He shows their athleticism as well as their courage. He writes of the encouraging words by their teammate Evan after Smith tweaked his groin muscle: "We picked cotton, we cut grapes. You gonna let this stop you? You better get out there and win that race.” Smith continued to break a world record with 19.78 seconds. As Layden writes “They were heroes to some, pariahs to others, lauded and threatened and belittled." After being kicked off the Olympic team, they found ways to integrate into society and influence the younger generation through both becoming teachers. Layden writes that Carlos “spent 24 years at the school and became revered for his ability to connect with some of the most at-risk students in the community.” When asked about their thoughts about current-day America, they say that nothing has changed and are angry about former president Donald Trump and his words towards NFL players. They have not yet regretted their decision to protest and will continue to fight for the equal rights and opportunities of fellow African Americans.

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This story appears in the Oct. 8, 2018, issue of Sports Illustrated. For more great storytelling and in-depth analysis, subscribe to the magazine-and get up to 94% off the cover price. Click here for more.
Start with the image, a still life of protest. It captures a vital moment in history, yet its meaning evolves, as time measures what has-and has not-been learned.

It tells the story of a battle fought, in a war neither won nor lost, but ongoing. Of a place and a time, not so different from here and now. Of sports and division, it was fifty years ago this month. "Fifty years! Can you believe that?" says Tommie Smith, a man of 24 in the image, a much older man of 74 today. Fifty years.

In the scene, Smith stands on the top of the Olympic podium, the number 1 painted beneath his feet, which are purposefully sheathed only in black socks, with a single black Puma sneaker also perched on the platform. He is a black man wearing a black scarf beneath his red, white and blue USA sweats, and a black glove on his right hand, which is thrust skyward, his arm so straight, it looks as if he is trying to reach into the grey overcast and bring rain. This was on the evening of Oct. 16, 1968, in Mexico City. A Wednesday.

Many Americans saw this scene on square black-and-white televisions while eating dinner. Smith had won the gold medal in the 200 meters. It hangs from his neck as "The Star-Spangled Banner" plays. His head is bowed, his face intense. Behind him, facing the medalists' flags, is bronze medalist John Carlos of the U.S., then 23. The two men were training partners of a kind in California, but not close friends. Carlos is also shoeless in black socks, a sneaker on the platform. Beads hang from his neck, behind his medal. He has a black glove on his left hand, which is raised. His arm is slightly bent, his pose more casual than Smith's, but no less forceful and eloquent.

There is a third man in the image, silver medalist Peter Norman, a 26-year-old Australian. He is wearing the green uniform of his country and, like Smith and Carlos, a white button pinned to his chest. Norman is looking up at the flags, smiling. Fifty years.

That is the singular moment, one of the most iconic-and important and controversial-in sports history. This is a story about that moment, but just as much about the moments that followed, laid end-to-end, repeated, until they span months and years and decades, and encompass lives and legacies. Smith and Carlos were young black men protesting racial inequality, using the platform of the ceremonial playing of their national anthem at a sports event. Where they raised their fists, a half century later Colin Kaepernick would take a knee. "We're trying to recapture terrain that we thought was once conquered," says Harry Edwards, the septuagenarian sports sociologist who as a 25-year-old instructor in 1968 organized the movement that led to Smith's and Carlos's protest.

The moment defines Smith and Carlos, as Kaepernick's defines him, and always will. It extracted a cost-opportunity lost, money never earned, families tested and broken. They were heroes to some, pariahs to others, lauded and threatened and belittled. Smith, as sweet a mover as ever set foot on a track (Lord, to have seen him race Usain Bolt), ran a few races after the Olympic final. Carlos ran until 1970, ranking first in the world in both the 100 and 200 meters.

Both men only found footing in society many years after Mexico City and, ever so gradually, gained acceptance as leaders. In 2005, a 22-foot statue depicting the scene on the medal stand was dedicated at San Jose State, where both had been students and competed. Three years later ESPN awarded Smith and Carlos the Arthur Ashe Courage Award, and in September 2016 they were recognized at the White House by President Obama with members of the '16 U.S. Olympic team. Yet now they grapple with the state of race relations in their country, which some days makes them wonder what they accomplished 50 years ago. "Many struggles are not final victories," Edwards says.

And each wonders alone. Both men have family and friends and the hard-earned respect of millions, but they do not have each other. Smith is a sharecropper's son, raised picking cotton in California's San Joaquin Valley, serious and dutiful. Carlos was born and raised in Harlem, with the soul of a hustler. They have never been close. "Oil and water," says Smith's wife, Delois. The protest and all that followed did not bring them closer.

Smith and Carlos see each other on occasion-at various reunions of the 1968 Olympic team, or for paid speaking gigs. They are a set of two, keen to experiences that no other human-except perhaps Kaepernick, who has met with both men-can understand. Yet they are not a pair. They are one, and one.

It is no simple matter to gain access to Smith or Carlos to talk to them about their story. They know how its meaning has evolved, and how it is acutely relevant. But their reticence is understandable. Both are weary. Carlos is as game as ever to take on the system (you'll see); Smith, as ever, is more cautious (you'll see).

I started asking in late February, with emails and calls that went unanswered. I asked mutual friends to help. Nothing. Smith and Carlos speak in public regularly and sometimes together, but rarely these days sit for media interviews.

In late May, I received a reply from Delois, who handles most of Tommie's affairs. (She is his third wife; they have been together for 21 years.) The email: "Call me tomorrow," and a phone number. When I called, Delois talked about the many times her husband had signed the cover of the May 22, 1967, issue of Sports Illustrated, which featured the 22-year-old Smith uncoiling from starting blocks in gold sweats, next to the headline: blazing quarter-miler. (He did not enter the 400 in Mexico City.) She also asked, "Is this a paid interview?" I told her that it was not. "I am going to grant you this interview with Dr. Smith," Delois then said, cheerfully.

Tommie Smith has lived in a modest, two-story brick house in Stone Mountain, Ga., since 2005, when he retired after 27 years as a teacher and coach at Santa Monica (Calif.) College. We talked in his basement, which is a staggering monument to not just the evening of Oct. 16, 1968, but also to his remarkable (and remarkably short) track career, to his life, to a vital era in track and field, to the Olympics and to activism. The room is alive with memories. An Olympic flag, swiped by Smith from the Mexico City Olympic Stadium before the protest, decorated with the signatures of U.S. teammates Jim Hines, Al Oerter, Jim Ryun and others. A framed Newsweek cover from '68 with the headline, the angry black athlete. A picture of his childhood home in rural Lemoore, Calif. Another of his junior high basketball team, with Smith towering over his teammates as a 6' 2" eighth-grader. Dozens of black-and-white action photos of Smith setting some of his 11 world records between '66 and '68. And several shots of the medal stand protest, some signed by Carlos and Norman.

Smith settles into a lounge chair and leans forward, engaged. "I don't talk to everybody," he says, "because I don't want to fight what's going on now in the country. I only want to talk about my belief in what I was doing." When, in the course of a two-hour interview, the subject turns to today's racial climate, Smith speaks slowly and carefully. He knows who he is and understands the power of his name. "I have to make all my words count," he says. "Have things changed in fifty years? Not as much as I hoped they would. At times it's as bad or worse than it was in the '60s because there are more things to become agitated about. And the people to fight those negatives are fewer because black folks don't have that leadership, black or white, like Dr. King or the Kennedys."

Minutes later he resets, seeking an uplifting turn: "It's moving in a positive direction."

When I ask him if he approves of President Trump (and his policies), Smith says, "His tenacity, but not where it's going. Nobody thought he would be here, so you have to admire. . . ." Smith stops and points his finger at me. "Now don't you say Tommie Smith likes Trump. Any leader needs to be strong, but not to the point where he becomes a tyrant. Like Putin. Putin is a tyrant."

Carlos lives 20 minutes south of Smith. Fifty years after sharing the podium, they could shop at the same Kroger and both fly out of Hartsfield. That has not brought them closer. "People said we would be joined at the hip," says Smith. "That has not been the case. We're totally different people. I'm quiet and reclusive; he says what's on his mind. I'm an introvert; he's an extrovert. I count to 10 before I throw a rock and then maybe I throw a Wiffle ball instead. He throws the rock."

Between February and late June, I called Carlos half a dozen times and sent an equal number of text messages. Colleagues who know Carlos told me that he was finished doing interviews. Forever. After leaving Smith's house, I made one last call, and Carlos answered. Then he threw some rocks.

"Tim!" he shouted into his phone. "What the hell do I have to do to get you to stop calling me? I've been talking about this s--- for fifty years, and ain't nothing changed since Mexico City in 1968. Nothing! I've spoken and spoken and spoken, and it ain't gonna make no difference. It ain't enough. I could die and come back in another life, and things would be the same. You have to agree with that."

I suggest that a story might amplify his message. "You write your article in Sports Illustrated," says Carlos. "You think that evil is defeated because people read that s---? That ain't gonna happen, my brother."

At 73, John Wesley Carlos is a proud and passionate man, unfiltered. A few weeks later I talked with the oldest of his three children, Kimme, who is 52. "My father is a private person," she said. "But if you do talk with him, he will speak from the heart. It's all on the table." I spoke with John for 17 minutes. His initial response- it ain't gonna make no difference -sounds at first like resignation, but it's actually anger. Where Smith is careful and largely muted on social media, Carlos posts and shares furiously on two Facebook pages. Where Smith assiduously avoids the bullring of public discourse, Carlos seeks it, on his terms, advocating change. Last May he posted a 347-word criticism of the NFL's anthem policy and the President's support of that policy.

I asked Carlos why he still fights. "Look at what you have in the White House," says Carlos. "That's the outer layer of America. That's the President, supplying his base. He called young black men sons of bitches for kneeling. Sons of bitches! He said they weren't respecting the military. What did he ever do in the military? What did any of his children do in the military? And then you've got police officers out there shooting young black men, and nobody is prosecuted. Nobody is sent to jail. It's the same b------- today that it was fifty years ago."

Carlos was not impolite in this exchange. He was full of life and fury. Only on the subject of Smith did he mellow ever so slightly, shifting from prose to poetry. "You look at Dr. King and Malcolm X," says Carlos. "Each of those men had different methodologies for dealing with the complexities of society. But both came to the fight with courage. When the dust settles, O.K., Tommie Smith and I walk together for eternity, but we never got the chance to be together."

With that, Carlos ended our conversation, but for this: He added suddenly, "Hey, Tim. I'm done. That's all I got. O.K.? That's it. O.K.?"

O.K.

The Mexico City protest was not spontaneous. It was part of an 18-month movement organized by Edwards. He had been an athlete at San Jose State, and that is where he first began organizing student protests. A boycott of the 1968 Olympics by black U.S. athletes had been discussed privately, and the idea went public after Smith won two medals at the World University Games in Tokyo in September '67, when Smith affirmed the possibility to a Japanese reporter. In late November the vague boycott talks coalesced into the formation, under Edwards, of the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR), which made four demands: the expulsion of apartheid South Africa and Rhodesia from the Olympics; the removal of IOC president Avery Brundage of the U.S., who had vigorously supported the awarding of the 1936 Games to Hitler's Germany; the hiring of more black coaches at college sports programs; and the restoration of Muhammad Ali's heavyweight championship title (which had been stripped in April '67 after he refused induction into the Army).

In late 1967, Smith and his San Jose State teammate Lee Evans, a 400‑meter runner, committed to the boycott. According to an SI story that December, Smith said to Evans as they walked out of Smith's apartment, "All I hope is that this [boycott] does some good, that it doesn't create any chaos."

But America was already ablaze in chaos. In the summer of 1967, there were race riots in Detroit and Newark. In January '68, the Tet offensive fueled antiwar sentiment and spurred demonstrations. On April 4, Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis. Two months later, presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy was killed in Los Angeles. But despite growing frustration among African-Americans, the Mexico City boycott lost steam for many reasons, not least because many athletes didn't want to sacrifice years of training for a cause. They wanted medals.

Boycott talk became protest talk, but no roles were assigned. Athletes would make their own choices. Ten days before the opening ceremony, at a student protest in Mexico City's Tlatelolco plaza, government troops killed scores of protestors. (The exact number has never been determined.) There was fear in the air when the Games began on Saturday, Oct. 12. Facing death threats at home and if he went to Mexico, Edwards did not attend. He would watch the Games from Montreal, where he was attending a writers' conference.

Events willed Smith and Carlos forward. Before the start of the track and field competition, USOC officials arranged for Jesse Owens, a national hero for his performance at the Berlin Games, to speak to the black athletes. He discouraged them from demonstrating. "Jesse told those guys, 'If you do, you'll never get a job,'  " says Edwards. "[U.S. 400-meter runner] Vince Matthews stood up and said, 'I already don't have a job.' In 1968 a black athlete didn't get a job. Maybe you got a job at the parks and recreation department in the town where you grew up."

But the first black American to win a gold medal embraced Owens's words. On the night of Oct. 14, Hines became the first 100-meter runner to crack the 10-second barrier with fully automatic timing, setting a world record of 9.95. His protest was that he declined to shake Brundage's hand, a significant act that went largely unreported. He stood at attention for the anthem. "Jesse Owens was our leader, and we were under his instructions to do what was right and acceptable," says Hines, now 72 and living in his native Oakland. "I also followed my own instructions with respect to Brundage."

Two nights later was the 200 meters. Pressure was building within the OPHR. Hines had not been a part of the OPHR meetings. On the afternoon of the 16th, Carlos and Smith won their 200-meter semifinals. Carlos had run a hand-timed 19.7 seconds, a world record, at the second of two Olympic trials, in the 7,382-foot altitude of Echo Summit, Calif., in September. (That mark was later disallowed because he had worn Puma spikes that were deemed too advantageous.) Carlos entered as the favorite, a status solidified when Smith tweaked a groin muscle decelerating past the finish in his semi. (In videos he can be seen limping off the track.)

After the heat Smith retreated to a training room with Bud Winter, his college coach. "Bud loved ice," says Smith. "He put ice all over my leg." As Smith lay on a trainer's table, Evans approached. They had met as adolescents working the fields near Smith's home in Lemoore and Evans's in Madera. "Smith!" Tommie recalls Evans shouting at him. "We picked cotton, we cut grapes. You gonna let this stop you? You better get out there and win that race."

Smith started from lane 3, with Carlos in lane 4. These were the first Olympic track races on an artificial surface rather than on cinders or on dirt. Smith ran a cautious turn, protecting his groin injury; Carlos, the more powerful sprinter, scorched the bend, swallowed up the stagger on the third U.S. starter, Larry Questad, and reached the straightaway with a one-meter lead over Smith. "I was in trouble," says Smith. "I was way behind the fastest man in the world." But with 80 meters to run, Smith burst forward and delivered 60 meters that are among the fastest by any human. Carlos turned to look as Smith shot past (more on this). Smith was a breathtaking runner-knees lifting, shoulders slightly hunched, the rest of his body placid. Where Bolt was a fury of movement and power, Smith was serene.

Ten meters from the line, Smith raised his arms high and wide, then took his last seven strides that way. The automatic timer first froze at 19.78, and then was adjusted to 19.83. With Carlos's previous mark disallowed, Smith's time became the world record, and it stood for 11 years, and there's little doubt he left time on the track by prematurely celebrating. Carlos, staggering at the line, lost the silver to Norman but comfortably took the bronze. Soon afterward came the medal ceremony. The gloves. The socks. The moment.

In the years that followed, Smith and Carlos would be seen as twins in a reductive narrative: tall black men with goatees, fast runners, militants. They were painted with the broadest of brushes and turned into caricatures of the angry black man, reviled and feared by many. The reality was different: Aside from being two of the fastest runners on earth, they had little else in common.

Smith was born in Clarksville, Texas, the seventh of 12 children; his family came to California on a labor bus when he was seven. They settled in -Lemoore, worked in the fields and went to church on Sundays. Tommie was serious, thoughtful, pious. Lynda Huey arrived at San Jose State two years after Smith, a blonde sprinter raised in San Jose. They dated for a while and later became close friends before drifting apart in the 1990s. "When I met Tommie," says Huey, "he was very aware of his place in society. He didn't think we should be seen together, a black man and a white girl. He would leave the apartment first, and tell me to wait 15 minutes."

Smith's track career was a runaway success. At one time he concurrently held world records for 200 meters, 220 yards and 400 meters. And if he was quiet, he was not unaware. In 1966, on the day that he set records in the 200 and the 220, he participated in a civil rights march in East Palo Alto. "I was a college student," says Smith. "I was no dummy. And I knew racism."

SMITH AND CARLOS WERE TURNED INTO THE CARICATURES OF THE ANGRY BLACK MAN. BUT ASIDE FROM BEING TWO OF THE FASTEST MEN ON EARTH, THEY HAD LITTLE ELSE IN COMMON.

Carlos was born one day short of a year after Smith and hardened by realities that only New York City can confer. In his 2011 autobiography, The John Carlos Story: The Sports Moment That Changed the World, written with Dave Zirin, he describes his childhood as a frenetic hustle, whether stealing food off freight trains (and giving it to poor families), playing the numbers for money or singing with his friends outside the Savoy Ballroom. His life and Smith's were different versions of black men growing up in 1950s and '60s America.

Carlos earned a track scholarship to East Texas State, spent two years there and then moved home before transferring out West in 1968. Carlos wrote in his book that it was Edwards who had encouraged the move at a meeting in New York City in January '68, where Carlos says he also met Dr. King. Says Edwards, "I didn't know, or know of, John Carlos prior to him showing up at San Jose State in May 1968. He quickly became one of the most ardent and vociferous advocates of the OPHR. Carlos came on board in May 1968-four months before the Olympic trials at Lake Tahoe-and I'm glad he did."

The arrival of Carlos changed the atmosphere at San Jose State, which was already known as Speed City. "It had been Tommie's kingdom," says Huey. "Then John came, and the energy was different. John's personality could be scary. And Tommie didn't want to be a part of that. I don't think they were ever friends."

Carlos was the archetype of the trash-talking, big-stoned sprinter. In a 1991 retrospective, SI's Kenny Moore, who was a marathoner on the 1968 and '72 Olympic teams, called Carlos "a fountain of jive."

Dick Fosbury, the gold medalist in the high jump at the '68 Games, became friends with Carlos and Smith at Team USA training camps that summer. "John Carlos was a street-smart, very confident, fun guy to be around," says Fosbury. "He had a walk, this strut, the way he carried himself. I was from small-town Oregon. I had never known anybody like 'Los. He struck me as a smart guy who could handle himself and any situation that came up. Tommie was thoughtful and a gentleman. They were different guys whose paths crossed."

Their appearance on the stand remains riveting to this day, every element significant. Single shoes and bare feet covered only in black socks, signifying poverty at home. Carlos's beads, recalling the lynchings of black men. Smith's black scarf, highlighting a deep identity with his race. The gloves, the fists shoved upward for the world to see, suggesting defiance and unity.

Edwards watched from an apartment in Montreal. He started the movement, but he takes no credit for the moment. "That was them," he says. "I didn't know what they were going to do. They had a monumental thing in front of them. First, somebody had to win. Then they had to wrestle with the whole issue of what to do. There was no clear path, no silver staircase. The scope of the demonstration: the beads, the shoes, the gloves. The courage and the commitment that they showed. They deserve every accolade that they get. They deserve to be the faces of a movement that defined an era."

Smith and Carlos knew they would protest somehow; they just weren't sure what form it would take. They have never publicly agreed on who devised the specifics, but they agree that it came together only after the race, in the well of the stadium. "In the dungeon," says Smith. Smith's wife, Denise, had bought a pair of black gloves (Smith wore the right, Carlos the left). Carlos's wife, Kim, had brought beads with her from the U.S. Over the years each man has taken credit for orchestrating the moment. And again, the outcome overwhelms the details. In the end, they were together.

At the first notes of the anthem, both men turned 90 degrees to the right and struck their poses. Carlos has said that his arm was bent to shield his face from sniper fire, Smith that his posture was ramrod straight as a remnant of his ROTC training. Smith told me, "I was afraid the whole time. I prayed. I said the Lord's Prayer all the way through. Then I listened to the national anthem, because that's a powerful thing, hearing that anthem knowing how many people died so that belief could remain a part of America."

All three men wore OPHR pins; Norman's had been given to him by a U.S. rower who supported the organization. The ceremony was over in less than 90 seconds. Smith and Carlos raised their fists as they left the stadium floor. Both men remember hearing boos and whistles.

Reaction at home was swift and mostly negative. The most frequently cited response came from Brent Musburger, then a 29-year-old sportswriter with the long-shuttered Chicago American, who wrote, "Smith and Carlos looked like a couple of black-skinned storm troopers, holding aloft their black-gloved hands during the playing of the national anthem." Most media accounts found a way to use the term black power, which was fair-Edwards calls it a -"proto-hashtag"-but simplistic.

The BBC interviewed Smith and Carlos the next day.

BBC: "Do you think the Olympic Games are the right place to do this kind of thing? To use the world stage?"

Smith: "We used it so the whole world could see the poverty of the black man in America."

BBC: "You might say you've got it all. You've got publicity, you've got medals, you've got martyrdom as well."

Carlos: "I can't eat that. And the kids around my block, that grew up with me, they can't eat that. And the kids that grew up after them, they can't eat it. They can't eat gold medals. Like Tommie Smith said, 'All we're asking for is an equal chance.' "

Later that day Smith sat down with ABC's Howard Cosell for a brief live interview. It is Cosell's last question, and Smith's answer, that lives on.

Cosell: "Are you proud to be an American?"

Smith: "I'm proud to be a black American."

Fifty years later Smith sits in his basement and remembers the exchange. "That question stopped me," he says. "I didn't want to say, 'Yes, Howard,' because I was not proud at that particular time. I was confused about how to respond. So I said I'm proud to be a black American. I felt a light go through my body when I said that."

On Friday, Smith and Carlos were suspended by the USOC (though they were done competing) after the IOC threatened to suspend the entire U.S. team if Smith and Carlos were not expelled. The two were ordered to leave the Olympic Village. The front-page headline in The New York Times: 2 black power advocates ousted from olympics. That night Evans led a U.S. sweep of the 400; all three men wore black berets on the victory stand, but removed them for the anthem. Long jumper Ralph Boston, who won a bronze medal behind teammate Bob Beamon's ethereal world record, received his medal in bare feet. The Times wrote that their behavior had been "tempered" by the expulsion of Smith and Carlos. No one else was sent home.

There is one other issue relating to the 200-meter race in Mexico City: Carlos says he allowed Smith to win. He first hinted at this in the press conference afterward. Asked why he looked to his left, Carlos said, "The upper part of my calves were pulling pretty hard. I wanted to see where Tommie was and if he could win it. If I thought he couldn't have won it, I would have tried harder to take it."

By 2011, when Carlos wrote his book, that had evolved into, "Whatever drove Tommie, I could tell that for him, the only acceptable ending was to make his political statement from the gold medal perch and the gold medal perch alone. As for me, I didn't care a lick if I won the gold, silver or bronze. I wasn't there for the race. I was there for the after race." In his interview for an NBC documentary, 1968, which will air this month, Carlos went further and called Smith's injury "Fake. Artificial. He didn't fool me in the least little bit."

There is a long tradition of head games among sprinters. Perhaps Carlos truly settled for any medal that would get him onto the podium. But his insistence on this narrative has deepened the rift between the two. "John says he let me win," says Smith. "Threw the race. You cannot say that. When you don't win, you congratulate the winner for trying his best. I don't believe Carlos means it. I really don't."

In the fall of 2017, Smith met with Kaepernick at a hotel restaurant in New York City. The meeting had been arranged by Glenn Kaino, an artist and documentary filmmaker who is working with Smith. "I told him he will have to find new avenues for his life," says Smith. "He'll need a second plan. I had a plan for my life before Mexico City. But that stopped it. I got home and I was hungry. I lost my food. I lost my house. The price was devastating."

There is a distinction here: Kaepernick's protest has cost him millions, but he has also made millions. And his new contract with Nike figures to generate significant income. His future is sure to be very different from the one Smith and Carlos have lived. Says Edwards, "Not only is Kaep likely to make millions from his Nike deal, he is also likely to receive every dollar that he would have made on the field by way of a settlement with the league without taking another hit." (The resolution of his collusion claim against the league is pending.) Edwards adds, "On top of it all, he will continue to grow as a sports icon, who will be remembered and revered by tens of millions after all but the most diehard football heads will have long forgotten the likes of Brady, Favre and Manning." The scope of Kaepernick's legacy is debatable, as Smith and Carlos will attest, but there are differences between a sprinter and a quarterback.

The question of whether their protest was worth it will always hang over Smith and Carlos. It did not instantly alter the course of race relations in America. Edwards argues that the path set upon by Smith and Carlos was never going to be a straight line to equality. "Struggles that are not victories do generate change," says Edwards. "Whether or not they generate progress is another issue. -Progress is like profit; at some point it comes down to who's keeping the books." Edwards divides athlete activism into waves: Jack Johnson and Jesse Owens (among others) fighting for legitimacy in the first; Jackie Robinson and Larry Doby (among others) fighting for access in the second; Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Bill Russell and Smith and Carlos (and others) fighting for dignity in the third. And Kaepernick (and others including Malcolm Jenkins and Eric Reid) are the evolving fourth wave.

What did Smith and Carlos contribute most? "Imaging," says Edwards. "Those two men on a victory podium in Mexico City is the most iconic sports image of the 20th century, and that will still be true 200 years from now."

But to paraphrase Carlos, you can't eat imaging. Both men suffered for their protest, drifting in and out of poverty; Smith for several years and Carlos for large slices of three decades. Not long after Smith returned home from Mexico City, his mother's home was vandalized, with feces left in the mailbox and dead animals on the lawn. Both men played pro football-Smith played two regular season games for the Cincinnati Bengals and caught one pass for 41 yards, while Carlos never made it out of training camp.

Smith caught a break in 1972, when activist Jack Scott was named athletic director at Oberlin (Ohio) College and hired three black head coaches, including Smith. Smith worked at Oberlin for six years, until he was hired as a coach and phys-ed teacher at Santa Monica, a community college. Smith stayed there for 27 years, speaking out mostly when spoken to. Huey recalls walking down the hall with Smith in the late '80s, hearing a young student heave a little trash talk at him and Smith saying, softly, "They have no idea." Mexico City was always a part of his life. "I don't remember ever not knowing about it," says Kevin Smith, 50, who was born to Tommie and Denise a few months before the '68 Olympics.

But Smith found traction at Santa Monica. "He was quiet, humble, analytical," says Jeff Shimizu, who worked at the college from 1985 to 2016, mostly as executive vice president. "I felt he was happy here, but he had been through difficult times. He was a strong advocate for diversity, and he loved working with students. I loved going into his office and talking. I miss him."

Reentry was more challenging for Carlos. After a few races in the aspirational and short-lived International Track Association (a fledgling pro track league in the era of "amateurism"), he moved to Los Angeles with Kim and their three children in the early 1970s. There, as he describes in his book, he found work as a security guard and a groundskeeper at a park. He told SI in '91 that he once worked as a bar bouncer for $65 a week. He wrote of burning furniture in the fireplace for heat. Says Kimme, "There were struggles, but what I remember most is seeing my father get up and go to work every day, no matter what the job was. We had a roof over our heads. We had food. I saw a man of integrity."

Kim died by suicide in 1977, four years after the couple had split. Carlos has long blamed himself and the backlash from Mexico City for her death. But Kimme, a mental health counselor in Trenton, N.J., has pushed back against that narrative. "Suicide is much more complicated than that," she says. "My mother was a woman of color in the '60s and '70s. You did not discuss mental illness. You did not discuss whatever pain you were dealing with. The demonstration [in Mexico City] didn't make our lives easier. But any decision my mother made had nothing to do with my father."

In 1984, Carlos was hired by the L.A. Olympic Organizing Committee and spent the year working in youth programs. After that he backslid again, including an arrest in '86 for cocaine possession. (He was found guilty, but after he attended an interventional program, the conviction was expunged from his record.) In 1990, at 45, he was hired by Palm Springs (Calif.) High as a counselor and track coach. He spent 24 years at the school and became revered for his ability to connect with some of the most at-risk students in the community. "John doesn't tolerate any b-------," says Ricky Wright, a former college athlete who was the principal for most of Carlos's time there. "He did not pull punches. He loved those kids, and he changed lives."

Paul Grafton, the vice principal of student affairs at Palm Springs High who hired Carlos, says, "There's a point where a kid makes excuses before he tells the truth, if he ever tells the truth. John was able to get kids very quickly from excuses to truth."

Retirement for Smith and Carlos does not snuff out the fundamental question: Would they do it again? They set a course for their lives on that night in Mexico City. They were inarguably heroic (if you think they were something else as well, that is fine, but do not deny them their heroism), but that came at a cost. Still, neither man will look back and question himself because the act endures as inspiration, powerful beyond words.

Says Carlos, "Would I do it again? Absolutely! Yes! When the time came, when I had my one chance in life, I stood up and said, 'This s--- is wrong. It's got to be corrected.' "

But now? "The present is not frustrating to me, man. My time was fifty years ago. That's over. Young people today, they need to turn up the volume. They need to come together."

Smith cannot imagine his life without the protest. "It was not a matter of whether I wanted to do it," he says. "I had to do it. My father had a saying: 'When you could, you wouldn't. Now you want to, but you can't.' I was standing on the highest platform in the world. How could I not?"

In his basement, surrounded by history, I ask Smith if there is anyone he would like to talk to about all this, a kindred soul who might understand the struggle and the wounds, the stubbornness of progress and the evil of hate. Smith nods slowly, turns to face me and offers the slightest hint of a shrug. His answer: "John."

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John Carlos and Tommie Smith, 50 years later

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This story appears in the Oct. 8, 2018, issue of Sports Illustrated. For more great storytelling and in-depth analysis, subscribe to the magazine-and get up to 94% off the cover price. Click here for more . Start with the image, a still life of protest.

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Here, you'll connect to the 4 (or 5) sources from the reading list for your group. Attach the link to the reading and a short SUMMARY of each in the post. About 200 words.