Mark Montieth: A quiet champ

The Olympic gold medal is stored in a nearby bank’s safety deposit box, valuable yet virtually forgotten. He never talks about it and rarely even thinks about it unless someone brings it up, and why would anyone assume this 63-year-old man working at Pendleton Correctional Facility earned one 40 years ago?

“If they don’t ask, I don’t tell,” Sunder Nix said.

Nix got his medal by running the first leg of the 4×400-meter relay in the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. One would think such an achievement would stand as a personal Everest, casting a golden hue over an entire lifetime. Something to be cherished. Something to proudly exhibit, because, despite the proliferation of events that fill the Olympics these days, it’s not like every Tom, Dick and Mary has a gold medal.

Some athletes do show them off, of course. Boxer Sugar Ray Seales, who lived in Indianapolis until last year, carries the one he earned in 1972 everywhere he goes. He voluntarily shows it off and will drape it around the neck of a stranger for a photo op if desired. Others frame them or hang them in a display case, or at least keep them in a drawer at home for easy access.

Nix, however, never made an Olympic medal of any hue his primary life ambition. That was criminology, his academic focus at Indiana University. Nor does he consider it his greatest running feat. That was winning the gold medal for the 400 meters at the National Sports Festival in 1982, when he set a world record as a sophomore.

It so happened that the scheduling in Los Angeles wasn’t conducive to peak performance because the track and field competition didn’t start until a week after the opening ceremony, which he regrettably skipped because of concern about the potential impact of standing in the hot sun for hours. He trained during the lulls in competition, of course, and the other runners had the same schedule, but he wasn’t able to find a comfort zone in his preparation for the individual 400-meter run and 4×400 relay.

“I had too much time off,” he said. “Too much idle time.”

Besides, the U.S. team would have won the relay event with or without him, such was its dominance. Had another elite runner taken the opening leg instead, the bottom-line result would have been the same. U.S. teams have won the men’s 4×400 in the Olympics 18 times and nine of the previous 11, including this year.

A medal in the individual 400-meter event was the one Nix wanted most, and he feels like he blew it. He certainly had the resume for it. He was a seven-time Big Ten champion at IU in the 440-yard and 400-meter runs and as a member of relay teams. He set a world indoor record in the 440-yard dash as a senior. He was the NCAA indoor champion at 600 yards and the U.S. national champion at 400 meters in 1983. His gold-medal-winning run in the 400 meters (44.68 seconds) at the National Sports Festival in ’82 still stands as a school record.

Running from lane six, he had only one running in his line of vision at the start of the race and said he “fell asleep” on a curve midway through. He closed fast but didn’t lean forward at the finish line. If he had, he said, he would have finished third instead of fifth. A bronze medal in that individual event would have meant more to him than the relay gold.

“That’s the one that haunts me,” he said. “I was tired. It was my fourth race [including heats]. It’s one of those things I wish I could have done differently.”

But it did provide a lesson he uses today. And victory takes many forms.

An outlet

Nix was born and raised in Sylacauga, Alabama, but moved with his mother and three siblings to Chicago as a seventh grader after his father’s alcoholism split the family. His mother worked at a Zenith television plant to support her four children, but Sunder was lost amid the new culture. He was forced to mature. In Alabama, he had gone by his middle name, Lamont, because the kids in school made fun of his given first name, his mother’s creation. In Chicago, when the teachers called roll, he stuck with Sunder, regardless of what anybody said.

“I matured into that name,” he said.

Running provided an outlet amid a foreign environment, and he excelled in it at his public school, where the team practiced in the hallways because it had no outdoor facility. He accepted a scholarship to IU over Tennessee and Arizona and found a father figure in IU coach Sam Bell. There, he became a four-year letterman, the IU and Big Ten Athlete of the Year in 1984 and a member of the school’s athletic hall of fame in 1996. He remains a loyal alum, as indicated by the small IU flag placed in the ground alongside the walkway to his front door.

He also earned his degree in criminal justice in 1986, delayed by his participation in professional meets while he completed his degree requirements. That interest resulted from watching “The F.B.I.” on television, a series that ran from 1965-1974.

“It was fascinating to me the way they solved crimes,” he said. “I was fascinated by the way the law worked. And I always wanted to help people become a better person.”

After running professionally in Europe for a couple of more years, he began his career as a probation officer in Marion County in 1988. He later moved to Johnson County, where he still lives, to run a detention center. He now works the night shift—6 p.m. to 6 a.m.—at Pendleton. The job title that once was correction officer is now more commonly known as youth development specialist.

“I just try to be a mentor to these young men,” he said.

“I treat them with dignity and respect. They want to talk. We talk about life. I’m like a father figure. They call me Uncle Nix. At first, I didn’t like it. But I embraced it.”

It’s a career that seems at odds with Nix’s quiet, polite and modest demeanor. He stands 5 feed, 9 inches, 155 pounds, just 10 more than his running weight. He speaks softly, quickly and politely, peppering conversations with “sir.”

Former IU track teammate Brian Brase said that, when he introduced himself to Nix when Nix was a freshman, they struggled to understand each other because of Nix’s lingering Alabama accent. But everyone understood Nix’s nature.

“He was a kind and gentle person,” Brase said. “His nickname was Killer, because that’s what he called people. So, he became Killer.”

Sharing lessons

Although Nix never brings up his running background to boys at Pendleton, they find out. Someone Googles his name, and the word spreads quickly. He tries to apply the lessons learned from his track career to their lives. No. 1, discipline is essential. So is finishing, a lesson he learned the hard way in the 400-meter Olympic race.

“I tell kids, ‘Whatever you do, you need to finish.’ If I had finished, I would have two medals.”

Just having the gold one elevates his status among the boys, however. That, combined with his patience and willingness to listen, makes him an effective counselor.

“He was a gold medalist,” said Eric Courtney, a warden at Pendleton. “Once they find out, it’s hard not to be impressed. It opens some doors with some kids. They look at him differently; it gives him credibility.

“When he’s called to deal with a youth who’s excited or angry, he has a great knack [for] being able to separate that kid from the rest of the kids and calm him down.”

It’s difficult for Nix to know how much impact he’s had throughout his career. There are the occasions he sees familiar faces on the local news for getting in trouble or being killed. The kids who benefit from the experience with him are never heard from again, a good thing. But one time he was at the outlet mall in Edinburgh, and a young man approached.

“Do you remember me, Mr. Nix?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“You saved my life. You sent me back to prison. If you hadn’t sent me back to prison, I would have been killed on the streets.”

The young man asked his wife to thank Nix as well.

A victory.

The quiet, small-town kid from Alabama adapted to cold and blustery Chicago, turned his running ability into a college scholarship, won championships and medals, earned a degree in his chosen field and made a career out of mentoring juveniles.

He admits nothing in his life would be different if he hadn’t won that gold medal in 1984. But a lot would be different if he hadn’t become capable of it.•

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Montieth, an Indianapolis native, is a longtime newspaper reporter and freelance writer. He is the author of three books: “Passion Play: Coach Gene Keady and the Purdue Boilermakers,” “Reborn: The Pacers and the Return of Pro Basketball to Indianapolis,” and “Extra Innings: My Life in Baseball,” with former Indianapolis Indians President Max Schumacher.