Fast Girls Page 4

  Next to her, Canada’s Bobbie Rosenfeld lowered herself into a lunge and Betty copied the move, focusing on the stretch of her hamstrings and hips. Her gaze wandered over the swarm of faces in the stadium surrounding her, but they faded into a blur. All she felt was the beating of her own heart. The steady cadence of her breath. The easy stretch of her legs, first one side and then the other. She had made it. This was the Olympics. With these realizations, her shoulders loosened away from her ears. What did she have to lose? A flush of glee filled her. She needed to run like she was trying to catch the train—that was all.

  One of the officials gestured for the girls to get ready. Each racer stood in her lane above her starting divots.

  “On your marks,” said the official in a thick French accent. The next few minutes were a confusing blur of false starts and the elimination of two racers, but through it all Betty gazed straight ahead to where the finish line lay, determined not to get distracted. She felt ready to spring, her mind clear, her body loose. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the starting official raise the gun into the air.

  BANG!

  Quick off the start, Ethel Smith of Canada surged ahead, but Betty easily overcame her. Only Bobbie Rosenfeld lay ahead, but Betty punched her arms up and down. Step by step, she came alongside Bobbie, and the two ran together, stride for stride, but Betty pumped her legs faster and faster to increase the turnover of each step. She inched ahead.

  She could have been racing alone because everyone dropped away. The crowd. Bobbie. Ethel. Everyone. She may have been flying. Not once did she feel the surface of the track under her whirring feet. Her mind was quiet. Every gear in her body turned easily. Nothing else mattered. The white finish tape got closer and closer. She threw out her chest and reached her arms upward, hurling herself into the tape with everything she had. As it caught on her chest and she crossed the finish line, she closed her eyes and lifted her face upward toward the sky. She had done it!

  But wait . . . had she?

  Bobbie Rosenfeld’s left shoulder nudged Betty as both women slowed their pace to a jog. They turned to each other, their expressions clouding with uncertainty. A horde of officials and judges descended upon them, gesticulating and shaking their heads. Who had crossed the line first?

  Betty’s breath caught as she looked around the stadium for answers. What had happened? Several feet away, Coach Sheppard, Dee, Caroline, and Elta climbed over the railing of the track and raced toward her, their expressions exuberant, mouths wide open as they yelled with glee. They enveloped Betty, hugging and kissing her. She fell into them but kept watching the judges, who remained huddled, immune to the celebration on the track. Beside them, Bobbie waited for the official judgment with her Canadian teammates, their faces grim as they watched the judges too.

  Even as congratulations showered upon her, Betty’s stomach tightened. Had she crossed the line first? She tried to think back, but she didn’t trust her memory. Certainly, it had been close. The Canadian coach jogged over to his racers and stood with them, staring at the judges, a wary glint in his eyes.

  Finally, an official broke from the cluster and marched toward the racers.

  “We’re declaring Mademoiselle Robinson the winner with a new world record of 12.2 seconds. Mademoiselle Rosenfeld wins the silver with a time of 12.3, and Mademoiselle Smith will be awarded the bronze.”

  “Say now,” said the Canadian coach. “We think Bobbie took first place.”

  The judge raised his eyebrows. “It’s five dollars to file a contest to our verdict.”

  The coach glowered at the judge and stalked away as the Dutch band broke into “The Star-Spangled Banner” and Betty’s teammates lifted her onto their shoulders. “You did it!” they shrieked. She beamed as a light breeze blew her hair from her forehead and she gazed up toward the sky. One day she was a schoolgirl, now she was an Olympian. In only twelve seconds her life had changed forever.

  THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD

  August 23, 1928

  “Olympic Champ Heading Home Sweet Home”

  By Ralph Martins

  After being feted in New York City for her athletic accomplishments in Amsterdam, Chicago’s very own Elizabeth Robinson is heading home tomorrow. Clad in an all-white ensemble, pert and plucky “Betty” appeared to be Artemis herself as she stood in front of the boisterous crowd of well-wishers at Pier 84 in New York City, beaming from ear to ear. But maybe it wasn’t just her accomplishments that pleased her; after all, it’s her birthday and next to her on the small stage stood the victorious University of California’s eight-man crew that rowed for gold to defeat the heavily favored Brits. Miss Robinson still has one more year of high school to complete, but the college men appeared all too eager to help the pint-size lass celebrate.

  Along with winning silver in the 100-meter women’s relay, the diminutive teenager restored American prestige with her surprising gold medal victory in the 100-meter dash, an event certain to go down as one of the most entertaining races in Olympic history. In a display of feminine histrionics never before seen in an Olympic stadium, Canada’s comely Myrtle Cook sobbed lustily for half an hour after being disqualified for several false starts. But Cook’s act was just a warm-up for the next round of thrills delivered by blond and buxom Fraulein Schmidt of Germany, who shook her fist furiously under the nose of the official after being the second racer to be disqualified for two false starts. Everyone in the stands held their breath, wondering if a face-scratching, hair-pulling act would follow. Instead Schmidt threatened vengeance upon the official the next time they meet. This reporter isn’t alone in hoping to snag a front row seat at their next face-to-face encounter!

  Women’s track and field is under provisional status for these Olympic Games, and officials have given some indication that the ladies will not be asked to return because these feats of endurance can be too strenuous for the fairer sex. Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) and its second president, always a staunch advocate of banning women from athletic participation, has made his vision of feminine participation clear by saying, “At the Olympic Games, a woman’s role should only be to crown the victors.” But after seeing firsthand the entertainment value that these ladies provided, this reporter hopes the IOC will continue to include feminine athletic participation.

  On her way home, Miss Robinson’s new luggage carried not only gold and silver medals, but also a beautiful golden globe charm given to all the lady athletes by Major Gen. MacArthur and a medal from the City of New York. But what about athletes who returned home without Olympic prizes packed into their suitcases? Don’t worry, they’ve been having a grand time. Several reporters peeked into their luggage and glimpsed enough bottles of gin, champagne, and whiskey to keep the city’s speakeasies soused for weeks. Government officials looked the other way and did not press charges. Apparently being back on dry land won’t be so dry after all!

  CHICAGO LADIES SOCIAL CLUB NEWSLETTER

  August 29, 1928

  “Girl About Town: Olympic Gold Medalist Betty Robinson”

  Chicago’s newest celebrity, Olympian Betty Robinson, arrived home earlier this week to great fanfare. Bedecked in wreaths of red roses and pink carnations, Betty beamed at the crowd that included classmates from Thornton Township High School, teammates from the Illinois Women’s Athletic Club, and officials from Harvey, Riverdale, and Chicago. After signing autographs and dispersing souvenirs to her friends and fans, she settled between her parents in a black convertible for a victory lap around the Loop, ending at city hall, where Chicago rolled out the red carpet for its new hometown hero. So overwhelmed by emotion, our dear, modest girl could barely speak, but with tears shining in her eyes, she thanked everyone for their support and encouragement.

  Praise wasn’t the only thing heaped upon our golden girl. She received a diamond-studded wristwatch from the City of Harvey, a golden track shoe charm from the IWAC, a silver tea set from the Edgewater Beach Club, a gold bracele
t from the Central Amateur Athletic Union, and a princess-set diamond ring from admirers in Riverdale. We don’t know how she will pull off breaking more world records weighed down with all of this loot, but if there’s anyone who can do it, Betty’s our girl.

  Perhaps the biggest prize came from her parents: a shiny brand-new cherry-red roadster has been parked outside the Robinson family home in Riverdale awaiting its new driver. Be sure to wave if you see her spinning around downtown enjoying her new set of wheels.

  The Chicago Ladies Social Club welcomes Miss Robinson to be its guest of honor at its Annual Fundraising Luncheon on September 15. Please contact Mrs. Dudley Armison, Club Secretary, for tickets.

  7.

  September 1928

  Malden, Massachusetts

  LOUISE LOPED ALONG MALDEN’S SIDEWALKS, HER MUSCLES loose, her stride confident, her breathing rhythmic, as she and her teammates ran to the park where they would be competing in an unofficial time trial against a few local running clubs. For weeks she had been looking forward to today, this first opportunity to try racing and see what she could do. Coach Quain had shown them a newspaper article about Olive Hasenfus, a girl from the neighboring town of Needham who had gone to the Olympics earlier in the summer as a reserve member of the women’s 4-x-100-meter relay team. Olive hadn’t ended up racing, but Louise was eager to see how she stacked up against this girl.

  Leaning against his automobile, Coach Quain waited for his girls at one of the entrances into the park. When Louise and her teammates reached him, they stopped and spread out to stretch on the grass. Dahlias as large as dinner plates bloomed by a park bench, and Louise held on to the trunk of an oak tree as she balanced to stretch her quadriceps. Well-maintained houses, bigger than what she’d find in her neighborhood, tidy landscaping, and tall, established elms fringed the park. Within minutes a group of the Medford girls appeared. Louise searched the other team for any black girls, but they were all white, setting off a familiar tinge of disappointment deep within her.

  The girls called out greetings and approached the Malden runners to mingle, stretch, and chat. A small stringy girl with a broad face, nondescript lank blond hair, and freckles took a spot on the grass next to Louise and bent into a lunge. She couldn’t have weighed over a hundred pounds. Her shorts inched up slightly on the backs of her thighs, revealing a lattice of faded white scars. Louise lowered her gaze to the grass. This was the type of thing you minded your own business about.

  A few minutes later, a station wagon chugged to the curb. Runners from Needham poured from it and found places to stretch in the grass around the other girls. Louise recognized Olive from the newspapers and watched as she flopped onto the grass and lifted her leg into the air to lengthen her hamstring. Apparently the Olympic experience hadn’t imbued Olive with a special glow or left any outward marks upon her. She looked like a regular fifteen-year-old, much to Louise’s disappointment.

  When the Medford team’s coach arrived and parked behind Coach Quain, the men got to work explaining the order of racing. Within minutes the girls were running sprints up and down the grassy section of the park. Each time, Louise, Olive, and the stringy girl from Medford tried to edge ahead of each other for the lead, but they remained within a couple of inches of one another as if connected by a short string, none of them able to get a consistent, decisive lead. Between each interval, the three girls eyed one another while catching their breath. Louise tried to remain calm, but she couldn’t believe she was maintaining the same pace as Olive.

  In each race, a dark-haired girl trailed them in fourth place. She was never a contender for one of the top three spots, but she kept trying to catch them. Between races, she sauntered among the group, tossing her inky black curls, her pale blue eyes taking in the crowd as she spoke in a loud voice clearly vying for attention. Louise knew the type: pretty girls who had everything yet still believed they were coming up short somehow and put on a big show to cover up their own shortcomings.

  After several minutes the coaches separated Louise, Olive, and the blonde from Medford from the rest of their teammates. As if as an afterthought, the coach from Medford waved the fourth girl, the one with dark ringlets, to join them.

  “You four have been the fastest. Let’s try a longer course around nearby Craddock Park,” said Coach Quain. “I’ve chalked the route with arrows so you’ll know exactly where to go. It’s an out-and-back course so watch for the tree with a white ribbon around it as your turnaround point. Touch it and come back.” He turned to the two girls from Medford. “Now, I know Louise and Olive, but what are your names?”

  “Mary,” the freckled blonde answered.

  “Rosie,” said the one with dark, shiny curls and full lips.

  “Right,” Coach Quain said. “Now let’s do one more.”

  Louise, Mary, and Olive appeared serious as they took their places on the chalked starting line, now blurry from all the other starts, while Rosie pranced around them impatiently.

  And then they were off.

  Once again, Louise, Mary, and Olive vied for the lead, racing side by side. Several yards behind them, Rosie’s heels pounded the packed dirt path.

  Craddock Park came into view. The tree with the white ribbon neared and Louise reached it first, gave its bark a good smack, and turned. Olive trailed by only a second, but suddenly, from several paces behind, Rosie pivoted and turned without touching the tree. Now in the lead because of her early turn, Rosie darted ahead toward the finish.

  What was Rosie doing? Louise faltered and the delay cost her. Olive took advantage of Louise’s confusion and moved in front as Mary pulled alongside Louise and the two girls exchanged wide-eyed glances.

  Louise and Mary managed to catch Olive and they all dashed toward the final stretch into the park with Rosie still leading by several long strides. How dare Rosie take a shortcut! Indignation fueled a final burst of effort from Louise. Though it felt like her heart might explode from the effort, she bore down, trying to turn her stride over faster and faster to catch the girl. But it wasn’t enough. A roar of cheering erupted from their teammates as the racers barreled across the finish line. The Medford girls surrounded Rosie, heaping praise upon her, but Mary, her teammate, stood alone.

  Their coach beamed in surprise. “Rosie Lawton, that was your best time yet. Guess you were saving a little something for the end, eh?”

  She flushed. “I think I’m better with longer distances.”

  Louise opened her mouth to say something about Rosie not touching the tree but then closed it, overcome by caution. She was the only black girl out there. How would it look if she accused Rosie of cheating? If there was one thing she had learned over the years of being one of the few black girls in Malden, it was to stay quiet. She glanced at Mary standing alone, hovering on the fringe of the group, her eyes downcast, arms wrapped around her narrow frame. Silent.

  Why wasn’t she saying something about her teammate’s shortcut?

  A few steps away from her, Rosie laughed at something before her gaze searched the group and found Louise. The two stared at each other, Rosie’s pale blue eyes flashing with smug satisfaction. Louise’s hands balled into fists. Her muscles still twitched from running. With the energy from the race still pumping through her, she wanted nothing more than to march over and smack the self-satisfied grin off the girl’s face, but she knew this was a terrible idea.

  She turned away and bent over, resting her palms on her thighs, and tried to catch her breath, cool down. What else could she do?

  Olive stepped forward from her cluster of Needham teammates. “That girl cheated,” she announced, raising her index finger to point at Rosie.

  Coach Quain and the other two coaches looked back and forth at the girls in surprise.

  Rosie huffed, “I did no such thing.”

  The coach from Medford frowned. “Mary, is this true?”

  All heads rounded in her direction, and she appeared to shrink once she was the center of attention. Rosie placed both han
ds on her hips and glared at her teammate. Mary blanched. “I . . .”

  “Oh, come on,” said Olive, and she turned to Louise. “You saw her, didn’t you? She didn’t run all the way to the tree like the three of us did.”

  Louise froze a moment before nodding her head.

  Rosie’s eyes blazed. “Don’t be sore losers. I touched that tree.”

  “She did not. She cheated,” Olive repeated. She lowered her chin as if preparing to pounce on Rosie.

  “All right now, let’s not get ourselves worked up,” Coach Quain said, stepping between the girls.

  “This is just a time trial,” the coach from Medford said. “You all ran well. I’m sorry you ladies got confused at the turnaround, but again, this was just for practice. No hard feelings.” He faced his team. “I suppose it’s time to get my crew home. You girls ready to run back?”

  At the Medford coach’s urging, his runners jogged toward the sidewalk with Rosie in the lead and Mary disappearing into the middle of the pack.

  Louise remained rooted to her spot in the grass. Her heart still pounded, both from exertion and the confrontation. The cavalier way the coaches had dismissed the injustice infuriated her.

  Olive stepped next to Louise and watched the Medford girls disappear from view. “You know she cheated, right?”

  “It all happened so fast. I couldn’t really believe it,” Louise said. And it was true. With every minute that passed, Louise became less and less sure of what had actually occurred, but at the same time, her stomach soured with the knowledge that Rosie had cheated.