by Elise Hooper
Dedication
For all who support young athletes, no matter the time of day, weather, location, or score
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Historical Note
Part 1: July 1928–December 1929
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part 2: July 1931–December 1932
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part 3: March 1933–June 1936
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part 4: July–August 1936
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Afterword
Acknowledgments
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Praise
Also by Elise Hooper
Copyright
About the Publisher
Historical Note
During the 1920s and ’30s, “athletics” referred to track and field events, but given that this word has expanded over the years to include many different types of sporting events, the modern label of “track and field” is used throughout this novel.
All newspaper stories, letters, telegrams, and memos in this book have been created by the author and reflect the language and attitudes used to describe women athletes during their era.
Part 1
July 1928–December 1929
1.
July 1928
New York City
BEFORE THEY LEFT THE PRINCE GEORGE HOTEL, BETTY’S mother warned her to be careful aboard the steamship and avoid the girls from California. Apparently they were a loose set, something to do with year-round sun and mild temperatures softening one’s moral fiber. Up until that point Betty had only been half listening, but now she perked to attention. A roommate from some glamorous-sounding location like Santa Monica or Santa Barbara—wouldn’t that be a lark? With a series of decisive clicks, Betty fastened the latches closed on her suitcase and started for the door. Maybe if she was lucky, some of those objectionable girls from California would be her cabinmates aboard the S.S. President Roosevelt.
Minutes later, Betty and her mother, Mrs. Robinson, sat in the back of a taxicab on their way to Pier 86. A heat wave had been pressing over New York City for a week, and Betty fanned herself while her mother fussed with their taxicab driver over the best route to take. Traffic clogged the street and newspaperboys hawked their wares, bobbing from one stopped vehicle to the next. Their driver bought one and rested it against the steering wheel, studying the headlines.
“Are you sure this is the fastest way?” Betty’s mother huffed.
“Ma’am, if there was a faster one, we’d be taking it, I promise. Now pray to the Virgin Mary that my engine doesn’t overheat.” He crossed himself.
As if on cue, the automobile shuddered and her mother inhaled sharply. “Pray all you want, but my daughter simply cannot be late. She’s on the Olympic team set to depart for Amsterdam at noon.”
“That so?” He turned around to inspect Betty.
“Please, sir, keep your eyes on the road,” her mother said.
“But we’re not moving.”
Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “So I noticed.”
“I didn’t realize there were lady Olympians.”
“This is the first year women will be competing in running events,” her mother said, and though she still sounded annoyed with the man, the unmistakable pride in her voice made Betty sit straighter.
“Running doesn’t seem like a very ladylike business. Aren’t you worried she’ll become a bit manly if she keeps this up?” he asked, squinting at her from under the rim of his porkpie hat. “I could see encouraging rowing. Builds up the chest, you know.” He smirked.
“What an absurd notion, and anyway, she’s not running the marathon or undertaking anything too dangerous. She’s a sprinter.”
“If you say so,” said the driver, cracking his knuckles. Clearly, he was enjoying rankling her mother, and Betty hid her glee by turning to gaze at the throngs of people on the sidewalks. Heat rippled in the air above the pavement.
“Here we are,” the driver said, nosing his taxicab into a line of vehicles at the edge of the road. Band music floated over the crowd. When he opened the door, Betty paused on the running board, tenting her hand to study the S.S. President Roosevelt in the distance.
Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the ship’s decks, and its brass railings gleamed to a high shine, but it looked awfully small, its proportions unbalanced, especially when compared with the majestic vessels gracing neighboring piers. It appeared Betty’s journey was to begin with a steamship better suited to pleasure cruising in New York Harbor than the far more serious task of transporting America’s Olympic team across the Atlantic.
Betty reached for the U.S. Olympic Team pass dangling around her neck and wrapped her fingers around it, taking comfort in the solidity of the thick card stock. None of this was a dream. Only several months earlier, the boys’ track team coach spotted her sprinting for the train, and now here she was in New York City, a member of the inaugural women’s track and field team bound for the Amsterdam Olympics. A flutter of anticipation surged through her.
“Never thought I’d live to see the day when lady runners would compete in the Olympics,” the driver muttered, shaking his head as he fetched Betty’s suitcase from the trunk of the taxicab. He straightened and searched their surroundings. “Now, where’s a porter who can take this?”
Betty reached for the luggage, but the man shook his head. “Aww, miss, you’re a wee thing. Let’s put a porter to work.”
“I can do it.”
“Impatient, are you?” He shrugged and placed it in front of her.
Betty leaned into the vehicle where her mother sat. “Well, this is it, Mother. So long. I’ll be sure to write.” They embraced. When Betty pried herself free from her mother, her voile blouse stuck to her damp back.
“Make us all proud, dear.”
“I will. Look for me in the newspapers,” she said, winking.
Mother shook her head, but Betty detected a softening in her expression. Mother had always been a staunch believer that a woman’s name should appear in the papers only when she married and when she died, but since Betty’s success had begun on the track, she seemed to have loosened her position.
Betty turned back to the crowd, lifted her su
itcase, and stifled a groan. It was heavier than expected, but there was no way she would ask for help. She gritted her teeth and took a step past the driver.
“Best of luck to you, miss,” he said.
She could barely stifle her delight. “I think you’ll need it more than me. You’re the one staying behind with my mother.”
THE TIDAL PULL of the crowd pushed Betty toward the gangway, where she handed her suitcase to a liveried steward, and there was a moment when she glanced back to consider all that she was leaving behind. Her country, her family, everything that was familiar. But the moment was brief, because she hungered for the adventure of something new.
She pushed toward the plank and found General MacArthur at the top greeting everyone individually. The previous evening, at a meeting in the hotel’s ballroom for the athletes and their families, he had been stern, but now when she reached him, he grinned. “Ah, Miss Robinson, the fastest girl in the Midwest. Ready to serve your country?”
His transformation from fearless leader to something akin to more of a garrulous uncle made her uneasy, like the uncomfortable feeling of overfamiliarity that comes from hearing someone use the lavatory or seeing the dark cloud of a man’s chest hair through his shirt.
She forced a smile.
“Good, good. You’ll find your chaperone in there and she has your cabin assignment. We’ve got you bunking with two other midwesterners. Chicago and St. Louis, I believe. You’ll feel right at home.”
St. Louis? What about those Californians? She hid her disappointment by thanking him in a cheerful voice and marched into a dizzying tumult of porters shouting directions and athletes gawking at the rails and calling out to the spectators lining the wharf below. Never before had she seen such a spectacle.
“Betty, dear, is that you?” Mrs. Allen, the track team chaperone, jostled through the crowd, huffing loudly as she fanned at herself with a sheaf of paper. “Do you have your cabin number?”
“Yes,” Betty said, raising her pass. “How in the world does General MacArthur manage to remember everyone’s room assignments?”
“Follow me,” Mrs. Allen called over her shoulder as she waddled along the narrow corridor. “Oh, that General MacArthur, bless his heart. He appears to have a soft spot for the younger athletes. Now, how old are you again?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen, my goodness. Well, you’re hardly the youngest. There are a few other high-school-age track and field girls and some swimmers and divers too. I believe little Eleanor Holm is fourteen and Olive Hasenfus can’t be much more than that. Good heavens, isn’t this heat wave dreadful? The New York Post is reporting that six people died yesterday, poor souls. I hope it goes away when we get out onto open water.” With her silk stockings and tightly fitting lilac-colored serge suit, it was easy to see why the woman had a steady stream of sweat rolling down her temples. She stopped by a door and checked her list. “Let’s see . . . yes, here we are. This is your cabin. It will be tight. I’m afraid we were supposed to be on a different ship, but it suffered a recent fire. So now everyone’s jammed aboard this one. All three hundred and fifty of us, dear me.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Yes, well, you’re going to have to be very careful and alert. We’re packed in here like sardines. You could get knocked over by gymnasts flipping on their mats on the C Deck, stabbed by the fencers or punched by the boxers on the Sun Deck, shot by the men competing in the modern pentathlon on the rear back deck, or kicked by the horses galloping on the treadmills set on the D Deck. I make it all sound positively lethal, but keep a lookout and you’ll be fine. Just wait until tomorrow when you try the track installed on the Promenade Deck. We’ve told the athletes doing field events that they are not to throw javelins and discuses while we’re out at sea. Too risky. The cyclists are only permitted to ride their bikes during certain times, but I’m sure they’ll be whizzing around without any respect for the rest of us.” She leaned over and said in a conspiratorial tone, “They can be a bit superior, but if you ask me, they look rather absurd on their little contraptions. And just wait until the boat starts rolling while they’re speeding around. Mark my words, it will knock them down a few pegs.” She gave a breathy giggle. “Now, General MacArthur plans to have a meeting up on the Promenade Deck once we’ve pushed offshore, and he will explain the assigned practice times. Just keep a cool head, follow directions, and everything will go smoothly.”
Betty’s mind reeled. Stabbed? Shot? Kicked? What exactly had she signed up for? But then she looked at the matronly figure of Mrs. Allen buttoned up in her department store ensemble, topped with her carefully constructed beauty-salon coiffure. She didn’t appear to be the type who would live too dangerously.
Mrs. Allen cleared her throat. “I can tell you’re a good one. Everyone’s been so skeptical of the girl runners. You know all of this talk about being morally objectionable? Well, it’s ridiculous. And what of those girl swimmers and divers? Now, they’re the ones who need to be watched closely. Between the two of us, it seems that prancing around in those little bathing costumes gives them airs. Why, they’re just counting the days until they land film deals. In the meantime, they think they can get away with murder. Oh goodness, their chaperone”—she clucked—“that poor woman is going to have her hands full.” A blast of the ship’s horn made them both jump and Mrs. Allen placed her palm on her chest. “Mercy me, I need to get back up to the gangway to find some of the other girls and make sure they know where they’re going.” She frowned. “You’re a quiet thing, but you can introduce yourself to the girls in your cabin, right? Can you do that?”
Betty nodded. “Yes, everything will be grand.”
“There you go,” Mrs. Allen said over her shoulder as she hustled herself back toward the stairs.
Betty inhaled and gave a little knock on the cabin door before entering. Two young women lounged on a pair of bunks; one had her head hidden behind a copy of Photoplay. A third empty bunk hung above the other two, its height clearly designating it as the least desirable of the set.
“Sorry, kid. This isn’t the nursery. Keep moving down the hall,” one of the women said, folding an arm behind her neck and stretching her lanky legs out on the thin wool blanket beneath her.
From the narrow space between the bunks, Betty looked back and forth at her cabinmates. She had a sister in her late twenties back at home, Jean, and Betty had always been relegated to being the baby of the family. No more. She dropped her suitcase. “I’m Betty Robinson, your other roommate.”
The second woman put down her magazine as she pushed herself into a sitting position and extended a hand toward Betty. “Don’t pay any attention to Dee. She’s deluded into thinking she’s a riot, poor thing. Hey, don’t I know you from home? You’re from Chicago, isn’t that right?”
Betty studied the woman. She appeared forthright and plain, her smile genuine.
“Yes, I’ve been training with the Illinois Women’s Athletic Club.”
“I’m on the South Side of the city and getting to the IWAC is a pain in the neck for me, so my boyfriend trains me. My name’s Caroline Hale and”—she pointed to the other woman—“that’s Dee Boeckmann. You’re another sprinter, right?”
“Yes, I’m running the hundred.”
“Trying to be the fastest women in the world, huh?” Dee asked with an air of self-importance. “I heard that Elta Cartwright is a real speed devil. Didn’t she win the trials? And then there are those Canadians—what are they calling them? The Matchless Six? Sounds like you two have your work cut out for you.”
Caroline flashed her palm at Dee to stop her. “Cripes, quit giving us such a hard time and loosen up. This is supposed to be fun, remember?” And with that, she raised a lipstick and traced it carefully around her mouth before plucking a battered pack of Lucky Strikes from her pocketbook lying on the edge of her bunk. “Want one?” she asked, holding it out.
Betty had never smoked before, but she was on the adventure o
f a lifetime, so why not? She slid one from the packet and leaned in for Caroline to light it. The smoke burned her throat as she inhaled and she coughed, but it felt sophisticated to hold a cigarette aloft. She took another drag. Thankfully, the second try went down smoothly.
Dee frowned. “Couldn’t you two do that outside? I’m feeling a little seasick.”
“Already? We haven’t even shoved off from the dock yet. Don’t be such a killjoy.” Caroline swung her legs to the floor and balanced her cigarette between two long fingers as she stood, grinning. “But that’s not such a bad idea. What do you say, Betty, want to go out to the deck and see what kind of trouble we can get into? If we’re lucky, maybe Johnny Weissmuller will be out there in his swim trunks. Did you see the pool? It’s barely bigger than a piss pot.”
“There’s a pool?” Betty asked.
“Sure, how do you think the swimmers keep up their training?” Caroline said.
“Say, why are you so interested in Johnny Weissmuller? Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Dee asked.
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look. There’s no ring on my finger yet.” She winked at Betty, exhaled a long plume of smoke, and held the door open. “All right, well, that settles it. Put down your bag, Betty. Let’s take a tour of this place. If we’re lucky, the fellas will already be training with their shirts off. Let’s have some laughs. We’ve earned them! For God’s sake, you know what I did to raise a little spending cash for this trip?”
“What?” Betty asked.
“I jumped out of a plane.”
“On purpose?”
“Yep, I was paid twenty-five dollars to parachute out of a plane.”
Dee snorted. “What on earth were you thinking?”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “I was thinking about making an easy twenty-five dollars, what do you think? I needed it. I’m the youngest of eleven kids, so it’s not as if I could ask my parents for money. They’re strapped.”
“What did your fella think?” Betty asked.
“Oh, he thought it was nuts, but he’s figured out that discouraging me is the best way to encourage me to do something, so he stayed quiet.”
Betty laughed.
