by Pol Robinson
Sheila nodded to the Irish coach, a small smile on her face. “Thank you, Siobhan, for your faith in us.” She dusted her hands on her sweats and turned to the referee and said curtly, “We’re done here.” Cass could hear the suppressed fury in her voice as she waved Cass and Sarah to their feet. “Now. Since there seems to be no wronged party here, perhaps you can tell me what started this? While,” she held up a hand, “my athletes, along with these women, continue their preparation for the upcoming race?”
The chief referee glanced around the room, hesitating for a moment before finally nodding in agreement. Cass and the others quickly left, leaving Sheila and Taylor in the room with the Chinese official. In the hallway, Alanna gave Sarah a quick hug. The two obviously knew each other well.
“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, Sarah, what in the hell was all that about, do you think?”
Sarah shook her head and glanced quickly at Cass. At her nod, Sarah said, “We think someone’s out to smear Cass. Throw her off her game.”
“You’d be speaking of the woman who’s been so spiteful on the radio then?”
“Yes, we think so.”
“Is this related to the troubles your eight had the other day?”
Cass looked at Amy and then nodded, wondering if Coach had put the two incidents together yet.
“That bitch.” Amy spit out. “She was all over last night’s broadcast, too, making nasty comments about teams cheating!”
“Well, God help you if she’s got the media in her corner!” Alanna turned to Cass. “Sorry, our introduction was cut a bit short. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Oh, sorry. Cass, Alanna Doyle and Kay Sinclair. Alanna, Cass Flynn.” Sarah nudged Amy’s shoulder and shook her head, trying to calm her down.
Cass answered Alanna. “Yes, we met after Nationals, but there were a lot of people there.”
“Yes, I remember, you’re from one of the states in the middle, aren’t you?”
“Wisconsin. Yes. Glad to meet you, ah, again.” Cass blew out a breath. The brief interlude with the Irish scullers served to distract Cass for a moment, allowing her to get some of her anger under control. She looked up at the Irish coach. “Sorry about the mess, Coach.”
“Not your fault then, is it?” McCandless waved off Cass’s apology as she led them back down to the launching area. The Irish coach waved her athletes toward their boat, then turned to Sarah and Cass.
“Sarah, Alanna’s spoken of you, well and often. I am happy that we could help you out today and very sorry for your troubles. Good luck to you both.”
“And to you,” Sarah said. “Thanks again for your support, we really appreciate it.”
Both women watched as McCandless made her way to the emerald green shell and her team. Sarah tucked her arm in Cass’s and steered them toward their own boat. “You know, of course, that it was that bitch Michaels behind this, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I guess one thing she hadn’t counted on were our close ties to the team she accused you of tampering with!”
“What do you mean?”
Sarah laughed and said, “Well, Alanna is my ex-girlfriend and,” she paused, looking back over her shoulder at the Irish coach, “rumor has it Coach Sheila and McCandless were quite the hot item back in the day.”
Cass’s laughter blended with Sarah’s, her nerves and tension suddenly gone. Shelly Michaels’ spiteful and rather pitiful attempt to derail her had failed. Even better, it had served to push Cass’s focus from herself to her boat where it should have been in the first place. Her nerves were gone, now. In their place was pure, fiery determination. She grabbed her gym bag and sat on the docks to pull off her sandals, using the ritual to refocus on the upcoming race. She methodically placed her sandals into the bag and as she slipped her hand in deeper in search of her crew socks, her fingers brushed a small piece of paper. Curious, she pulled it out and unfolded it.
Cass,
I know it seems pretty high school to be leaving you a note, but I couldn’t find you when I got down to the docks. Anyway. I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you and I know you’ll go all the way today. I’d like to talk when you’re done today. When you’ve WON! You’re a hell of an addition to the team and I’m glad you’re here. For a lot of reasons.
Remember, “Who do you play for?!”
Thinking of you,
LK
A slow smile spread across Cass’s face, matching the warmth blossoming inside. She’d remembered. Laura had remembered a conversation they’d had weeks ago, just after their elevator do-over. They’d argued about the all-time best sports movie ever, finally agreeing that the story of the men’s hockey team’s 1980 “Miracle” win capped them all. Herb Brooks’ inspiring question to his team, “Who do you play for?” and their shouted “USA!” response had become Laura and Cass’s private training mantra. When Cass would falter, Laura would ask it and Cass would do the same in return. Over the weeks, the rest of the team had picked it up as well, using it as a rallying cry that worked to fire them all up.
Cass read through the note again, running her fingers over the last words in the note, savoring the words on the page one more time before tucking the paper safely back into her gym bag. She’d come to terms, somewhat, with her attraction. Or so she thought. She’d decided to wait Laura out, sure that eventually she would come to her. With the medal races to focus on she hadn’t wanted to distract either of them, so she’d just...let it be. And now...now it looked like that approach was paying off. Suddenly Cass felt buoyant, invincible.
Screw Shelly Michaels and her petty gamesmanship. You can’t touch me, bitch. And after I win this, we’ll just see what else I go after.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The wake they cut through the water was the only thing Cass saw. Not the other shells, not the swiftly receding start line, not the chase boats. Nothing but the tips of her foot stop and the V they were cutting through the water. Behind her she could hear Sarah’s sharp huff! each time she caught the water with her oars. Cass’s breathing hitched when Sarah’s did.
Exactly when Sarah’s did.
Perfectly in sync.
They had it.
The swing. That often-elusive cadence that epitomizes the absolute synchronization between rowers. She could feel the electricity in the air. Hear the growing roar of the crowd still muffled under the rhythmic sweep of hers and Sarah’s oars as they swept toward the finish.
Inch by inch they moved forward, distancing themselves from those they were leaving, quite literally, in their wake. Trailing them were the Brits, the French and the Italians. Before their shell lay the finish line and two crews, the Dutch and the Irish. Cass knew that when she could see the stands to her left they’d have only one thousand meters to the finish. Time and distance were running out.
Catch the water with the oar, pull through in the drive using the legs, with the arms straight out until almost at full extension, then pull the arms back into the chest, lay back to finish the stroke, release the oars from the water, feather or twist the oar so it’s more aerodynamic and recover, sliding forward into the tucked crouch to begin again. Catch, pull through, lay back, release, feather aaaaand recover. Catch, pull through, lay back, release, feather aaaaand recover. Cutting through the noise of the shell slicing through the water, the hard thunk of the oarlock and the swelling noise of the spectators, was Coach’s voice, drilling that cadence into her head.
Every muscle in Cass’s body screamed for oxygen, her legs felt like dead weights, her arms leaden. Catch, pull through, lay back, release, feather aaaaand recover. She could see the three boats pushing toward her, which meant there were still two between their shell and the finish, two between her and a gold medal. She let out a shout, “Sarah?”
“We go in two!”
“Counting...one...” Catch, pull through, lay back, release, feather aaaaand recover. “...and two!” With that shout, Cass and Sarah dug in and turned it on.
“Too soon, Sarah, too soon!” Laura muttered, louder this time. She shifted forward on the bench, hardly aware of her white-knuckled grip on the rail in front of her. Sheila glanced at the screen and, like Laura, was sure that Sarah had called the final push too soon. There was no way she and Cass could hold that stroke rate to the finish. They had not even reached the stands yet and that meant they’d have to hold their finish rate of forty strokes per minute for just under one thousand meters.
It was impossible.
Nobody does that. Hell, the men row at thirty-six until the last five hundred and that’s in a fast race!
Sheila glanced again at the finish, then at the shells seeming to creep toward it. It always goes much faster when I’m on the water, not watching. Frustrated with the distance and the impossibility of seeing who was moving up, Sheila glanced again at the giant JumboTron screen dominating the inland side of the run. Squinting against the bright sun, she pulled her team cap lower to block the glare and tried desperately to see where Cass’s boat was now. They’re gaining. Gauging the distance again, Sheila resisted the urge to kick the rail before her. Maybe... Suddenly the gap between the tiny blue shell and the lead boat seemed too great to overcome and the distance to the finish too little to make their run. They’re out of room, their start pace was too slow. Oh damn, poor Cass. C’mon... She looked again at Laura and saw the tension in her face. Poor Laura, too.
If it were possible to pull the tiny boat forward with the force of her stare, the U.S. shell would have no problem gaining victory. Laura’s eyes stayed locked on the blue arrow slicing through the mild, rippling current, on the smaller figure at the back of the shell. Sheila could see their rhythm, their sync. The athlete in her marveled at the skill the two were displaying. To mesh so well and so quickly, it was amazing. This race had been almost a throwaway after Pam’s injury, but now, with Cass and the renewed energy of the team, it looked as if they had a chance. Or had one.
Like a wave pushed before the wind, the roar of the crowd grew louder as the tiny shells moved into the viewing stand area. Where seconds before the boats seemed to be crawling along, now they seemed to be going impossibly fast. Sheila couldn’t see their faces but knew at this moment what all the women were thinking. Or rather, what they weren’t thinking. This was the moment athletes trained for, worked for and dreamed of. This was it, that mythical “two strikes, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded” moment Olympians imagined as children when taking their first, tentative steps on the path to the Games. Right now, Cass and Sarah were focused on just one thing: getting every second of speed from their boat, every ounce of strength from their bodies and making up that seemingly impossible distance to finish in the money.
Sheila was jostled as the other team members crowded around her, yelling their support to the women on the water. She pressed a hand down onto Laura’s shoulder, the fingers of her other hand white from the pressure of her grip on the rail.
“Can they make it?” Laura’s voice was low, tense.
“I don’t... I can’t see... Oh my GOD!” Sheila’s shout snapped Laura’s gaze from the JumboTron screen back to the boats racing toward them.
Impossibly, the ball mounted on the front of the blue U.S. boat in Lane 3 was inching past the Dutch boat. Bit by bit, the bright yellow bow ball moved past the bow of the Dutch scull, Cass and Sarah in perfect sync, driving their shell forward. Just inches ahead of them and two lanes to their left, was the Irish boat, its bright green hull flashing in the sun.
On the water, Sarah heard the Irish sternman step up their rate, signaling the approach of the last five hundred meters of the race.
“Cass! Let’s roll!”
Cass’s only response was to lower her head and dig in. They’d rehearsed this sprint to the finish several times in the last month, but never at this rate. Time to go.
I can do this. We can do this. Clenching her teeth, Cass matched Sarah’s slightly longer arc, making the stroke that tiny bit longer, carrying the boat that little bit further. Rowing faster was not always about adding another stroke or two per minute, it was also about technique. The longer the stroke, the farther the boat traveled.
Row smarter, not harder.
Okay, do both.
Cass lengthened her backswing and deepened her position at the catch for a deeper drive in time with her teammate. Sarah let out a shout as their boat surged ahead, responding to their extra effort.
Three hundred fifty meters to the finish.
The crowd surged to its feet, stomping and yelling at the finish. Today’s event was proving more exciting than anyone had expected. Beside the U.S. squad on the rail, the Dutch team members were screaming and waving their flag, trying to bring their women back into the race.
Sheila scowled at them and yelled louder. She knew Sarah and Cass couldn’t hear her over the distance, or above the sound of their oars hitting the rigging, or even over the sound of their breathing at this point. Nevertheless, she added her voice to the cacophony of noise surrounding the finish. A sharp elbow in her side forced her to step aside.
“Dammit coach, I can’t see!” Amy shoved and elbowed her way to the front, the tiny cox nearly jumping out of her sneakers in her attempts to see over her taller teammates. Laura grabbed her by the shoulders and wedged Amy into a small space between herself and Sheila, right on the rail. On the water, the sleek blue scull gained another foot on the Irish boat, Sarah’s bow seat now even with Ireland’s stern rower. Amy’s wince was visible as Laura tightened her grip on her shoulder. It was like watching a tennis match; first the Irish boat had the lead, then the Americans, then the Irish. Amy clenched her fists and pounded them on the rail. “C’mon ladies! Haul ass!”
Two hundred meters to the finish.
Cass was certain this was the longest race she’d ever been in.
We’ve been rowing for days. Dig in Cass, dig in.
The thump and bang of the oars against the oarlocks began a counterpoint rhythm to the sound of the water rushing against the hull as they moved forward. Cass gained a seat-length on the Irish hull. She began singing in her head. Rounds of that endless children’s tune began to work their way through her tired cells. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...
One hundred meters to go.
Cass drew even with the forward rower in the Irish boat. We’re there! Sarah’s gotta be even with their bow ball, we’re in front. She heard a shout as the stroke for the Irish boat pushed their rate higher. The Irish boat shot forward again. Cass shook her head.
No way.
No. Fucking. Way.
“Ten in two, Cass! Ready? One...Two!”
Cass nodded and dug in as Sarah did. This was the call she’d been waiting for. The call for the last ten strokes in the race. As hard as they’d been pulling since the one thousand-meter mark, now they poured it on. This was where mental conditioning made all the difference, where races were won or lost. Now, when your body was tired beyond imagining and you felt as if you’d rowed for weeks. It was not the strength of the body that finished the race. It was the strength of the mind, the mental ability to dredge up that last reserve of energy.
Eyes slitted against the sweat pouring down past her cap, Cass shut it all out. The damp, fishy smell of the air; the growing cheers of the crowd; the thunk of the oars in the oarlocks; the hiss of the slides and the voices of the scullers in the nearby Irish shell.
Ten.
From deep inside, Cass called on those reserves.
Nine.
There it was, that euphoria. That zing. I could fly if I wanted to.
Eight.
Cass was suddenly aware of the tiniest details. She could hear Sarah’s breathing behind her, louder than any ot
her sound around her.
Seven.
One of the laces holding her right foot in the foot stop had come free and seemed to float in its own gravity as she slid forward for the next catch.
Six.
The orange lane markers flashed past in a strobe-like blur.
Five.
A flash to her right of sunlight catching the water on her oar’s blade.
Four.
A glance up, back along the lane, a snapshot burned in her memory.
Three.
Sarah’s grunt as her oars caught the water. A glimpse of Irish green to her left.
Two.
The whistle of the wind they were making. An odd shooshing sound she only ever heard on the water. Another flash of emerald green. A shout from the stands.
One.
Catch, pull through, lay back, release, feather aaaaand...
“Let ’er run, Cass! Let ’er run!” Sarah’s call to stop rowing heralded both women’s collapse backward in the shell, struggling for breath. The blast of the finish horn drowned out her words. It was followed almost instantaneously by another burst, as first one boat then another crossed the finish line. A third blast, as the bronze medalists crossed the line, only vaguely registered with Cass as she fought for air. The double-blast of the first two finishers told Cass that it was too close to know who’d won, they’d have to wait for the official call.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The loud blasts of the horns signaling the end of the race startled Sheila even though she was expecting them. It was impossible to tell who’d finished first and she, like everyone in the crowd, turned to the giant screen to view the finish again as it was replayed. Everyone was speculating on the final result.
“They did it.”
“Damn, looks like the Irish got ’em in the end.”
