Babe didn’t care about her teammates’ feelings. She was not there to forge friendships; she was there to play while earning money and courting fame. From the start, it had been understood that she had been brought to Dallas for her basketball skills, even though she had officially been hired as a stenographer, a job for which she lacked the basic typewriting skills required. She earned seventy-five dollars a month, forty of which she immediately wired home to Ole and Hannah, spending thirty on rent and other necessities and keeping five for incidentals. Her diet continued to be inconsistent—or consistent in its own way—as her grades had been. She downed gallons of Coca-Cola throughout the day and subsisted mostly on cupcakes, either chocolate or toasted ones, her favorites being ones with the slightly charred marshmallow topping she bought at a local diner.
As the season neared its end, she thought about the plans she and her parents had made around the dinner table. She had promised that she would return to Beaumont and finish the required classes for graduation. But now, as her popularity grew after only a few months with the team, she wondered about her promise and the wisdom of returning to school at all. What was the point? She had never liked the place, had never fit in there. Now she was making money doing what she loved. And there was more to come, the Colonel and others promised her. So she drafted a letter to her parents and withdrew from Beaumont High School.
—
The season officially ended on a muggy late-spring day; even by Dallas standards, the heat was unbearable. That meant rest for most teams, but not for the Cyclones, who quickly transitioned to softball. The boredom the athletes, particularly Babe, displayed around a softball diamond stunned the Colonel. He needed a way to shake them out of their lassitude. On a lark, and as the temperatures climbed, he took Babe and several of her teammates to a track meet. He recalled his own days as a track star at Texas A&M, the pleasure he had felt as his feet bounced off the cinder tracks. There were several teams training at Lakeside Park, and he and his team sat on the bleachers and watched the strength and vigor on display.
McCombs explained that there were approximately nine events in track and field, and though they were all under the same umbrella, they differed from one another, each requiring a particular set of skills and training. And aside from the relay competition, they were all individual events.
As Babe admired the athletes pushing their way down the tracks, she thought of her sister Lillie, who, about four years earlier, in the aftermath of the Amsterdam Olympics, had had aspirations of becoming a runner. Unlike Babe, Lillie had never practiced enough, thus never came near her goal. Now, watching the amateurs at Lakeside Park, Babe marveled at the possibilities: the athletics on display were a matter of personal control, she thought, as opposed to basketball, where she had none. These people played for their own sake, and were not reliant on others. In basketball, if one of her teammates had an off day, despite Babe’s best efforts the team would lose, and she would blame that person or be blamed by the others. But track was different: there would be no one to blame but herself and, by default, no one else to congratulate. She felt drunk with the discovery of what this new world could offer. As she looked at her teammates and thought about the sniveling and gossiping she had endured since arriving in Dallas, she considered just how this sport could change all that.
—
Babe watched the hurdlers, mesmerized. She realized that she already knew the basics of the sport. Catapulting over the hedges in her neighborhood while trying to keep her speed between jumps came naturally to her, and hurdling was similar. She was not tall and knew that her stride would be shorter than that of the athletes she was observing. But she would make up for it by increasing her overall velocity.
Watching, she also realized that there were several tricks she could use to ensure a win: she could pummel her trunk across the ribbon, ensuring that it broke; or wave her hands wildly just prior to crossing the finish line, to confuse the officials and make it seem, from a distance, as though she had won. It was a decoy she employed once she started competing, and it would fool judges and audiences alike. Years later, she admitted it to a reporter. “All you have to do to win if it’s close,” she said with a smirk, “is to throw your arms just before the finish.”
The Olympics would soon be held again; this time they would be in Los Angeles, relatively her own backyard. Perhaps Babe didn’t know it, McCombs let slip during their conversation, although he suspected that she did. There was no female basketball Olympic tryout, but there was track.
Of course, Babe recalled the newsaper reports she had read in 1928 and the fuss that had been made over the new track-and-field starlet who’d won the 100 meters. As she admired the athletes pushing their way down the tracks, she remembered sitting with her father on the front steps of their house on Doucette Street as he opened the newspaper, pausing at the sports section and marveling at the feats the athletes were accomplishing during the Amsterdam Olympics. She had never participated in track and field, nor had she ever worn spiked shoes, for that matter. But those were only small handicaps, in her mind. She began to concoct what seemed an implausible plan and told McCombs that she wanted to learn every technique involved in each track-and-field event. Her words provoked ridicule from her teammates. How could she take such an approach to a sport she had never participated in? She just smiled, confident that she would show them.
—
As Babe began her new routine, there was a density to the air, coalescing with the expectation Babe had set up for herself. She practiced her new track-and-field techniques until nightfall, arriving on the grounds of Dallas Lakeside Park after the team’s practices and not leaving until the sun was low behind her, with training absorbing the better part of her days.
The time she spent running revealed a discipline and commitment that she had not shown before, not even in the team basketball games, and she became maniacal about her practices, intoxicated by the high she got from exercising. Following supper, she would don her running shoes again—or even go barefoot—and jog up and down a hill named Haines Street, stretching her legs and rotating her arms. She would run and run, faster and faster, alternating long sprints with short jumps, then moving on to a light jog. She would skip, then hop first on one foot and then on the other. Long walks and short ones, long runs and short ones. She would be tired by then, having practiced all day with the team and then run around Lakeside Park for hours on end. She always hoped for a bright moon, since its light allowed her to run even further into the night.
It was a punishing workout that left her little time for anything else. There were no shopping excursions, no diner meals, no breaks at the ice cream parlor, no fun at the swimming pool. It was tough and unrelenting; if anyone thought women could not take hard physical work, Babe proved them wrong.
Her resolve not only to improve but to perfect her introduction into track and field amazed McCombs, even as it worried him. He urged her to try to strike some kind of balance—the constant pounding on her body could be disastrous, he said, actually hindering her progress, both physically and mentally. Interact with teammates, he urged her, go out with some girlfriends, maybe even find a boyfriend. But she insisted she didn’t have time to waste on such trivial pursuits, and she followed the simple philosophy her father had instilled in her: practice makes perfect. And so she trained until, as she later said, she “was seeing stars,” her body aching but her mind soldiering on. Then, gasping and at the brink of inevitable collapse, she tumbled into bed, knowing that in a few hours everything would begin anew.
Babe was aware that there were dozens of little details to master to make it seem as if she had been born with wings on her feet. No one could see her struggle, the efforts she put into catapulting herself forward. She knew what the payoff for her labors would be: a trip to the Los Angeles Olympics in 1932.
CHAPTER TEN
WELCOME HOME
A great deal of fanfare greeted the 1928 Olympic athletes on their return to the United State
s, the port of New York full of pleasure boats and small vessels as the SS President Roosevelt made its way back into the pier. Spectators, assembled there since morning, were standing and yelling welcoming cheers while waving battered handkerchiefs and soggy newspapers. The athletes were awestruck as they passed the Statue of Liberty, skyscrapers looming large before them, the sound of bugles playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” reverberating in the air. Despite the inclement weather, shouts of delight resounded on the promenade, and although a parade had been planned for the athletes, they soon learned that the rain that was pelting the city had altered those festivities.
The enthusiastic gaiety displayed by the crowd seemed to contradict most of the written reports; not every American was thrilled by the athletes’ performance in Amsterdam, particularly the men’s. Many faulted General MacArthur, although he consistently hailed the mission as a success. “Our victorious team returned to New York with the plaudits of the country ringing in their ears. The team was feted out from coast to coast, both the press and my superiors being most gracious,” MacArthur wrote in a telegram to T. V. O’Connor, chairman of the United States Shipping Board. “The American athletes not only have not failed, but have achieved a brilliant success comparable to those of past Olympics. Guests who were entertained on board the Roosevelt were served the same fare always served to passengers,” he added, chiding the reporters who still blamed the lackluster results on the copious amounts of food.
In a letter to President Calvin Coolidge, MacArthur elaborated, “If I were required to indicate today that element of American life which is most characteristic of our nationality, my finger would unerringly point to our athletic escutcheon.”
—
After having been out of the country for forty-two days, Betty was ready to return home. Clutching her sweater, she looked anxiously over the crowd for her parents. Finally she spotted them and raced down the gangplank, virtually lunging at them, ignoring the rain and the chill, embracing her father and inhaling deeply the sharp smell of tobacco that always clung to him. Moments later, he whispered that there was something special waiting for her at home. At her urging, he revealed her birthday and Olympic-gold-winning present; he had purchased what every young person in the history of time has desired: a new car. The freedom that Betty craved, that she had come to enjoy during her early training in Chicago, would be hers.
Before she could test out her new car, the athletes were supposed to take part in a parade leading from the pier to City Hall. Nearly two thousand people had gathered to accompany them along the parade route, together with dozens of police officers who had been enlisted to escort them. But a sudden downpour changed all that. Instead, they were driven to City Hall, where, following numerous speeches, they were at last left to their own devices. Betty did not mind missing the fanfare of a formal ceremony; she was eager for a good night’s sleep and a return home.
Shortly after her victory had been announced, thirty-five representatives from Riverdale and Dolton had met at the Bowen School to plan a celebration worthy of their winner. William A. Reich, a local businessman, had called the meeting to order and stated the purpose of it to be the organization of a parade and associated celebration to honor “our Elizabeth.” It was decided that several other cities and villages should be involved in the plans, including Harvey, South Holland, and Calumet City. The gist of the parade and party was quickly decided on: all the homes and businesses along the route would have to adhere to strict regulations that included beautifying their facades with Olympic colors and banners, in addition to an abundance of streamers and balloons. Several bands would play, and thousands of noisemakers would be distributed. The state car Betty and her parents would ride in would lead the parade, beginning in Riverdale and winding its way through the surrounding towns before returning to Betty’s proud hometown.
Getting hold of the plans on Friday, August 14, The Pointer declared, “Never before in the history of the community has there been such enthusiasm as is evident over the plans for next Tuesday evening when Elizabeth Robinson, local girl, is welcomed back to her ‘hometown’ in honor of her achievements.”
“The parade,” the paper informed, “will begin to assemble at 5:30 with its head at the Lincoln Avenue School….Everyone is welcome and the more the merrier. Those who assemble in the formation on Lincoln Avenue will have the first opportunity to see Miss Robinson locally since her Olympic successes, and she will be right at the head at 7:15 and will begin a review of the assembly from an open car which will carry her to the rear of the procession. At 7:30 the procession will get underway. Both the arrival of Miss Robinson at the head of the parade and the start of the procession will be announced by bombs.”
Betty arrived, flanked by her parents, well before the parade began. Nearly twenty thousand spectators elbowed one another for a better view of their golden girl as she was driven through a blizzard of confetti, banners, balloons, flowers, leaflets, and ribbons. She enjoyed the public adulation, craving it as she had craved it during her school plays.
The parade marched through Dolton, Riverdale, Highland, Ivanhoe, the West Pullman business district, Roseland, and the North Side. Inevitably, the parade passed the Thornton Township High School, the edifice Betty had left in a hurry only months earlier, eager to catch her train home. It was on that train that she had met Coach Price, a life-changing meeting, and now she was returning as an Olympian, a gold medal hanging from her neck.
Betty did not know if Coach Price was in the crowd, watching without being watched, as he always did, and barely nodding his head. She still had to complete her senior year; the beginning of the new semester was only a few weeks away. Naturally, the experience in Amsterdam had shifted her vision for her future.
The parade wound back to Riverdale Park, where it circled and made its way toward the gazebo built for the occasion. She felt the car slowing down as it reached the grounds, before stopping completely. She was ushered to a wooden stand by Paul Gull of the American Legion. Asher Parker of the Ivanhoe Civil Club presented her with a bouquet of flowers. Then, just before the mayor of Chicago introduced her to the waiting crowd, she was given “gifts and more gifts: diamond rings, wrist watches, pins, pendants…and a slick new roadster her parents purchased for her,” The Pointer reported. Those were not small tokens from a grateful, proud community but expensive luxuries that a sixteen-year-old girl was not accustomed to receiving, and she was dazzled by them. (It was only a year later that Avery Brundage, then the president of the AAU, made a pronouncement regarding the types of gifts that should, and should not, be accepted by amateur athletes. He stated in no uncertain terms: “Expensive gifts and financial compensation for athletic skills beyond travel expenses must never be accepted by an American amateur-athlete.” But the rule had not yet been set into motion when Betty received her gifts.)
As Betty raised her hand to the light, the diamond ring she’d been gifted shone as fiercely as her medal had in Amsterdam, as fiercely as her desire to recapture that winning moment.
—
Less than two weeks after her return home, Betty went back to high school, now an Olympic gold medalist and a senior with what felt like too many responsibilities. Aside from her classes and physical training, she was in charge of mentoring the incoming freshmen students, in addition to serving as class secretary and Girls’ Glee Club librarian. Much was the same; she still danced and performed in the theater club, participated in the Latin and French clubs, and maintained perfect grades. But she now had her future to think about. She had always imagined that her life would involve a career teaching the arts. But now, as she changed into her running outfit or glanced at her gold medal, she understood that new opportunities had opened up for her. She thought of going to college to study physical education; there was an emerging group of female physical education teachers and coaches, and she considered becoming one of them. Nothing was definite yet, but the possibilities enthralled her.
But more than anything, with the
exuberance and optimism that had always ruled her life, she intended to secure another medal (preferably gold) at the 1932 Los Angeles Games before going on to coach the team herself in 1936. In a yearbook entry published later that year, under her name and photograph she wrote, as her aspiration, “to be a coach of the 1936 Olympic Team.” It was a plan she herself had concocted, confident that she had no reason to assume that her goals would not come to fruition. Looking ahead, the whole world seemed conquerable.
—
Upon graduating from Thornton Township High School, Betty did not enroll in a college away from home but remained on the grounds of Harvey, attending the recently opened Thornton Township Junior College. Her first semester progressed well; she enjoyed her English, chemistry, and French classes, followed by trigonometry and hygiene in the spring, receiving high marks (except for two C’s in chemistry). Her commute was the same as it had been during high school. In fact, it seemed to her that nothing had changed in that regard; she left home early in the morning and took the train to the school, occasionally walking toward Harvey, trudging over grounds she had walked on since arriving there as a freshman years before.
She saw the same people she had always seen leave for work at the same hour they had always left, mostly on their way to the Acme Factory; the children who had stood waving to their parents behind the windows had now grown and were heading to their elementary school, while smaller toddlers assumed their places behind the same windows. The same women were pruning hedges and rosebushes or chatting with neighbors behind low white fences. And the trees changed colors at the same time every year, from vibrant green to russet and brown, then the decaying leaves fell on the ground before the snow buried them.
Fire on the Track Page 10
