Fast Girls Page 15

  When she crossed the finish line, she was still in second place, but that was wonderful! Never had she been so thrilled to be in second place. She raised her arms in victory, tears blurring her vision. After years of hard work, she was going to the Olympics.

  Tidye jogged out to Louise to clap her on the shoulder.

  “I can’t believe it,” Louise said, almost limp with relief, but her euphoria was dampened by a rabble of voices coming from the judges’ area. There, a coach stood with one of the women who had been ejected earlier for falling before the finish of her semifinal heat. The man’s hands gripped the judges’ table and he leaned in, his face flushed and furious, yelling at the semicircle of race officials in front of him. “You must include her!”

  Tidye blew out her breath. “Good grief. What’s all of that about?”

  Louise shook her head in dismay, unsure what the commotion was about, but certain that it didn’t bode well for what was to come next.

  WHEN IT CAME time for the finals, Mary and Tidye were also advancing from their heat and Louise fell into place beside them on the way to the track. What a relief that they had all qualified for the Olympic team and would be heading to Los Angeles! It was almost too good to be true and Louise couldn’t believe their good fortune. The purpose of this final heat was simply to determine their Olympic events: the first two finishers would race in the individual 100-meter sprint and the remaining four would constitute the 4-x-100-meter relay team.

  But when they arrived at the lanes designated for their race, there were seven women, not six, awaiting the start.

  Confused, Louise looked to the officials for clarification, but the man directed them to their assigned lanes without any explanation. The athlete whose coach had been yelling at the judges’ table earlier stood on the starting line with them. Louise knew she had not seen the runner race in either of the semifinal heats, but the official began his starting routine, no time for questions.

  The seven women dropped into crouches, the gun fired, and they were off.

  Louise’s toe failed to gain purchase in the cinder, causing her to stumble, but she regained her footing and burst ahead. Everyone was fast. Legs whirred, lungs heaved. Two women were a step or two ahead, and Louise found herself in third place with Mary at her side. A spark took hold inside Louise. She would beat Mary—after all, she usually did. Louise pushed her legs to go that much faster. Just a little farther, push, push, push! Her heart thundered, her lungs were on fire. Each step came faster and faster as she bolted along the straightaway, yet Mary clung to her side, undeterred.

  Louise crossed the finish line in a clump of racers. Had she beaten Mary?

  Immediately the judges huddled to argue over the finishing order.

  In the late afternoon heat, Louise’s thighs burned and her vision seemed to swim. She bent over, resting her hands on her kneecaps as she tried to steady her breathing while awaiting a verdict on the results. She couldn’t bring herself to look at any of the other racers.

  Finally a judge stepped from the crowd, a clipboard in his hand. “Congratulations to our Olympic qualifiers. Please let me remind our spectators that since we only measure finishes to the tenth of a second, we can end up with some real close calls, but often judges can detect who crossed the finish line first even when the clocked time is the same. So in first place, Ethel Harrington won with a time of 12.3 seconds; in second, Billie von Bremen at 12.4 seconds; a close third, Elizabeth Wilde, also with a time of 12.4 seconds; and because judges just couldn’t make a firm ruling with this one, we have a rare tie for fourth with Louise Stokes and Mary Carew at 12.5 seconds . . .”

  A tie! Even through her joy of advancing to the Olympics, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t been able to beat Mary. She knew she needed to congratulate her, but she just wanted a minute to process her irritation, to put the prickly edge of competition away so she could move on with the excitement of traveling to California. But then she heard a gasp and turned.

  Tidye’s face blanched as the judge called her name out last in seventh place.

  “But I’m going to Los Angeles, right?” Tidye asked, her voice thin with anguish. “Why are there seven women here? There were only supposed to be six! I earned my spot in this final.”

  The man with the clipboard studied his notes again. “There was some confusion in an earlier heat with Ethel Harrington. She stopped running before the finish, but based on her past performances, it was decided to include her. Only the top six will be going to Los Angeles. Sorry, you didn’t make the team.”

  In the silence that followed the judge’s announcement, another official stepped forward. “Now see here,” he said, looking at the judge but pointing at Tidye. “This girl made it to the final six, fair and square. Under the rules, she’s earned a spot in the Olympics too.”

  Surprised, the sprinters studied one another, then cast a wary look at Tidye.

  Again, the judges conferenced, and after a brief conversation, the man with the clipboard stepped forward. “This year we will send seven girls to the Olympics to be eligible for the hundred-meter and relay. Congratulations to all.”

  The women applauded, and the onlookers in the stands, listless and tired in this late hour of the afternoon, roused themselves into cheering. Louise wrapped her arms around Mary and Tidye, happy to celebrate the exciting news about qualifying, but she still didn’t understand how the Olympic officials planned to resolve the problem. Why send seven women to Los Angeles for only six racing spots?

  THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD

  July 17, 1932

  “A Big Day for Babe Didrikson!”

  Lady’s Olympic Track and Field Trial Mired in Controversy

  Evanston—In sweltering heat that could have knocked a heavyweight boxer to his back in a split second, a swarm of tenacious lady athletes competed in a range of physical challenges to determine who will continue to Los Angeles to compete in the Olympics. Yesterday’s National AAU Championships served up thrills and chaos in equal measure. Unexpected accidents and injuries and questionable judgments from officials made it a fascinating day from start to finish.

  Miss Mildred “Babe” Didrikson delivered on the hype that has surrounded her ever since she began competing in her home state of Texas. She nabbed first-place finishes in the shot, javelin, high jump, and 80-meter hurdles, and fourth place for the discus. A close finish in the 80-meter hurdles also set off sniping when officials initially awarded first place to Caroline Hale of the IWAC and then changed their minds and gave it to Didrikson. When asked about how the day went, Miss Didrikson shrugged off any criticism. “I won this whole thing. Of course, these gals aren’t happy, but I proved that I’m the best.”

  With almost 50 entrants, the real drama lay in the 100-meter sprint. Normally six women would have been selected from the top finishers of the qualifying heats and these athletes would advance to the Olympics, but several disputes in preliminary rounds allowed the judges to loosen their rules so seven women sprinters will be traveling to Los Angeles, all hoping for a spot to compete in the individual 100-meter and the four-woman relay team. You don’t need to be a mathematician to count that there are too many runners heading to California so get out your hankies, because some disappointed lady sprinters will be sitting on the sidelines of the Olympics, tugging at your heartstrings, in a couple of weeks.

  THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD

  July 18, 1932

  “Girl Olympic Champ Clinging to Life”

  Chicago—Betty Robinson, the 19-year-old Northwestern coed and 1928 Olympian who narrowly survived a plane crash on June 28, has regained consciousness and battles to survive. She remains in critical condition at Oak Forest Infirmary with a shattered left thigh, a right leg broken in several places, and a fractured left arm.

  After examining her most recent X-ray, Miss Robinson’s doctor reports that once her left leg heals, it will be shorter than her right leg because of the extensive damage incurred by the crash. He says, “A return to runnin
g is unlikely, given the severity of her injuries.”

  Despite the prognosis, the girl’s father, Harold Robinson, promises his daughter’s spirit is not crushed. “She’s a very determined young lady, and we’re hoping she’ll be up and walking again within the year.”

  Miss Robinson’s absence at the Olympics will leave a gap in the competition for new stars to emerge. Her primary competitor, Miss Stella Walsh of Cleveland, who recently announced she’ll be racing for Poland, remarked, “My prayers are with the Robinson family, and I hope for a speedy recovery for Betty.” With everyone’s favorite American lady sprinter fighting to live, Miss Walsh is now favored to win gold in the women’s Olympic 100-meter sprint.

  23.

  July 1932

  En route to Los Angeles

  LOUISE AND HER TEAMMATES HAD A BUSY FINAL FEW days in Chicago, filled with preparations for the trip to California. Telegrams. Training. Dinners and luncheons with oyster-colored table linens and silver cutlery. Even though the nation was slogging its way through the worsening Depression, people appeared eager for good news and fervor for the Olympics grew. When the women gathered in the parlor of the boardinghouse where the AAU was paying for them to stay, Tidye untucked a newspaper from under her arm to show her teammates as they lined up for a team photograph.

  “I’m a student reporter for The Chicago Defender and wrote an article about the Olympic trials. See?” Tidye pointed to a long column in the middle of the page.

  Babe leaned in closer to look. “Never heard of it, and, I swear, every reporter in town has introduced himself to me at this point. I would’ve given you a special quote if you’d asked.”

  “The Chicago Defender’s the most widely distributed Negro paper in the city,” Tidye said, the pride unmistakable in her voice.

  Without saying anything more, Babe wrinkled her nose and handed the paper to Louise without taking a look at the article.

  Caroline crowded over Louise’s shoulder to read it. “This is really good, Tidye. You bring the race to life so well that I almost feel my heatstroke coming on again.”

  The other girls drifted away, uninterested, and Louise watched Tidye’s expression fall.

  “Can I keep this for my scrapbook?” Louise asked. “I can’t wait to tell everyone at home that I became friends with the reporter who wrote this. Want to sign your name underneath it?”

  “Of course,” Tidye said, autographing the article before handing it back to Louise with a grateful smile.

  THE NEXT DAY, the women were chauffeured to the train station and boarded a Pullman passenger car decorated with red, white, and blue bunting and a banner that said U.S. Women’s Olympic Athletics Team on its side. At each train stop, the women pressed their noses to the glass of their railcar windows, eager to see the crowds awaiting their arrival. Each dusty town appeared to awaken from its summer stupor, hungry for a reason to celebrate good news, and the crowds formed on the station platforms, waving flags, as bands played. Hope and excitement spread across the faces of the spectators, most of whom appeared to be people of modest means, and fueled the delight of the women aboard the train.

  When the train stopped in Denver, motorcars awaited the athletes, and they were driven to the top of Pikes Peak. For Tidye, Louise, Mary, and Caroline, women who had never crossed the Continental Divide, the dramatic view of the craggy peaks of the Rockies spreading far in every direction left them speechless. Eventually the women climbed back into the motorcars and were driven to the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver to spend the night.

  With her valise tucked under her arm, Louise headed for the elegant main entrance of the red granite hotel, already relishing the prospect of spending the night in a real bed instead of being jostled and quaking in a Pullman sleeper.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the hotel manager called, smoothing his suit as he marched toward her. “This entrance is for whites only. Please use the servants’ door in the back.”

  Louise froze. Someone took her hand and Tidye nudged in beside her, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Ahead, Babe Didrikson and a few of their teammates disappeared into the hotel’s lobby, but Mary remained beside Tidye, looking bewildered. “What did that man say?”

  “Apparently Louise and I have to use the entrance in the back,” Tidye whispered, her face screwing into a scowl.

  Mary’s mouth opened in indignation, but before she could say anything, Caroline pulled her bag to her chest and linked her arm through Louise’s. “Come on, we’re going with you.”

  Instead of liveried porters waiting to greet them at the back door, the only things marking the nondescript service entrance were several large overflowing garbage bins and a cracked flowerpot filled with cigarette butts. Louise held her breath against the putrid smell of rotting fruit filling the air. Silently, the women entered a narrow, dim corridor and squeezed past a large cart filled with freshly laundered white towels waiting to be folded. The manager conferred with a woman before turning to Caroline and Mary. “Ladies, please head toward that door, where you’ll find the main lobby and receive your room assignments. You two”—he pointed at Louise and Tidye—“follow Miss Martin. She’ll take you to your room.”

  Caroline started to protest, but Tidye shushed her. “Just go. We’ll find you in a bit.”

  Caroline and Mary plodded away while Louise and Tidye watched them wistfully before turning to follow the maid up a flight of stairs. One set of stairs became two, and then three, and by the ninth floor, the women were perspiring and huffing in the heat of the tight passageways. The maid opened a door, revealing a pair of twin beds and a washbasin atop a small shared bedside table underneath a tiny window. One bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. “There’s a washroom on the floor below with the other women’s staff rooms,” she said in a flat voice that brokered no further discussion.

  “Where are our teammates?” Louise asked.

  “They’re staying in guest rooms on the lower floors. We’re not accustomed to accommodating colored guests. You must remain in your room here because your kind isn’t allowed in the dining room downstairs. Meals will be brought up to you.” Miss Martin gave her instructions as if reciting a weather report. No inflection, no change in demeanor.

  Tidye stepped inside the room and knocked on the strange-looking unpainted tan-colored walls. “What in the world is this?”

  “Terra-cotta. This is only the second building in the country to be constructed of fireproof materials.”

  “Huh, finally some good news for us, given that we’re stuck all the way up here. I’d hate to think of our deaths weighing on your conscience if a fire broke out,” Tidye said, keeping her features expressionless.

  Without another word, the maid huffed past them and headed for the stairs.

  Louise gave a weary shake of her head and placed her valise on the ground before leaning over the washbasin to peer out the window. Thankfully, it opened with a groan, and a gasp of air stirred through the room. It was a small victory, but not enough to take the shame out of their circumstances. In silence, both women peeled off their travel clothes and lay atop the beds’ thin pale cotton spreads in their slips.

  As promised, a maid delivered a tray with two plates of roasted chicken and baked beans, no dessert, and nothing to drink except for a small pitcher of lukewarm water.

  “If I thought they’d care, I wouldn’t even eat their dried-out chicken and soggy beans,” Louise muttered.

  “I thought the same thing, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of us going hungry. Let’s not make ourselves any more uncomfortable than we already are,” Tidye said with a sniff.

  When the light in their room started to fade, a knock at the door roused them.

  Louise answered the door and found Caroline, wearing a mint-colored georgette dress, her hair in glossy waves. She held on to the doorframe, looking around their meager quarters, and wrinkled her nose. “This is it? After all of those stairs, this is all you get? When I received my room assignment, the manager said
that this is the tallest building in Denver. He wasn’t kidding, huh?” Caroline shook her head in apology. “I’m sorry. This is terrible.”

  “Never thought I’d look forward to sleeping on the train,” Louise said.

  “Oh dear, I know. This isn’t much, but I nicked a few slices of lemon chiffon pie from the dining room. Figured you both enjoy sweets.”

  Louise accepted the pie wrapped in a napkin edged in scalloped trim and thanked her.

  “If only Howard was stopping in Denver, we could just get off the darned train and ride with him,” Caroline said.

  “You miss him, huh?” Tidye asked.

  “I just wish he had qualified for the men’s team.”

  “He’s a good one, Caroline. He’s really proud of you.”

  “I know. I can’t wait to see him when we get to Los Angeles. Poor guy, he’s going to be sleeping in his car most nights unless I can sneak him into our hotel. I can count on you girls not to rat me out, can’t I?”

  They all laughed, and Caroline stayed for a couple more minutes before saying good night and heading downstairs. After she left, Louise took the napkin filled with pie and dropped it into the hallway wastebasket before shutting the door behind her.

  Tidye nodded with satisfaction. “They can keep their darned pie.”

  After Louise switched off the light, they lay in their beds staring into the darkness.

  “I’m getting worried Coach is going to change the relay team and we’re going to be dropped,” Tidye said.

  Louise rolled to her side, trying to make out Tidye’s outline in the darkness. “Why? What makes you say that?”