Chicago was the place to be during that summer of 1932. Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been in town on July 2 for the Democratic National Convention at the Chicago Stadium, to accept his party’s nomination for president. This event vied for attention with the Olympic tryouts, held only days later. But neither the political story nor the sporting event received as much attention as Equipoise, the horse that had become more famous than the presidential hopeful or any future Olympian could ever wish to be. Betty also certainly took note that the newspapers concentrated on two women who stood out from the pack: Stella and Babe.
Life for Stella had always been tough, and it continued to be so. She had recently lost her job at the Cleveland Railroad System, and, much like her track defeats, it hurt her. Although reports claimed that participating in the Olympics was still her primary goal, she realized, as most people did, that in these turbulent times gainful employment was of the utmost necessity. Factories in Ohio had closed, and the one where Stella’s father had been employed since arriving from Poland had cut back his hours to less than half-time. He had found it impossible to keep up the monthly mortgage on their home while supporting his wife and daughters.
But there was a bright spot on the horizon. Throughout her life, Stella had looked forward to becoming a naturalized American citizen. She had submitted her paperwork in 1930, nearly two years earlier—her desire for citizenship fueled not as much by a great attachment to her new country as by her eagerness to run the Olympics as an American rather than Pole. Her citizenship exam was scheduled for June, just days prior to the Olympic trials.
On the day of the exam, she was awakened by a knock on the door. A messenger held an envelope from the Polish Consulate in New York, with a letter offering her employment inside. She was not the most qualified person to perform the job it was offering, but the letter hinted that if she kept her Polish citizenship, she would be given not only a good job but also benefits that extended to her family. No one would decline a secure, well-paid position, even if—in this case—it meant sacrificing one’s dreams and running for Poland instead of the United States. She quickly packed a bag and caught a train to New York.
As she climbed into her private train compartment at the Union Terminal train station, Stella concluded that the Polish Consulate had offered her something that American citizenship could not: not only employment and benefits but also the promise of money to finish her education. She decided that after the Olympics she would move back to her native country to study, find a job, and continue running under the Polish flag. Only hours earlier she had been looking forward to becoming an American and finally gaining full acceptance as one, but as she settled into the train’s compartment at Union Terminal, she found the prospect of leaving the country and all that noise behind refreshing, even uplifting.
“I’m not trying to duck the United States,” she told a reporter who cornered her at the station. “But I’ve got myself to look out for.” Days later, following her announcement that she would be permanently leaving Ohio to take the job in New York, she publicly declared that she would be running for Poland in the upcoming Olympics. The papers had anticipated as much, yet to hear her say so came as a jolt. “I will always have a warm spot in my heart for Cleveland,” she said.
Her decision would have long-term implications, but at that moment she did not worry about them. She was severely criticized for it, especially when it came to light that the Polish Consulate was not the only business that had offered her a job. Cleveland’s Recreation Department had also come forward with a proposal, one that she had turned down. Her fans were stymied, but the choice had been a simple one: working for the Recreation Department meant being associated with physical education, which would go against the IOC’s regulations on amateurism. The rule stated that athletes could not involve themselves in sports-related work. Had she taken the position, she would have forfeited her status as an amateur and automatically become a professional, denying herself participation in the Olympics. She was not willing to make that sacrifice just yet.
—
As Stella boarded the train to New York, relieved to have found a job but a pariah in the eyes of many, Babe Didrikson arrived at the trials, intending to win all eight of the events. She had already made a big splash in the papers. Unfolding The New York Times in her compartment as her train sped north, she read, “Miss Mildred Didrikson, the sensational young lady from Dallas, Texas, is expected to be the standout of the meet.”
It was an odd position to be in. Earlier in the year, Colonel McCombs had strategized a radical plan to improve her chances at a championship and had come up with a scheme that was unlike any he had ever seen or executed before, and that he soon proposed to Babe. Most of the other teams from across the country were composed of a dozen or more athletes. Each took part in one or two events, based less on their preferences and more on their skill set. Thus team members not only earned points toward a total number required for the team to win but also won based on their individual scores.
But what if they did not follow the usual rule regarding their team? McCombs proposed. What if Babe, alone, represented the whole team and participated in all the events by herself, permitting a full display of her talents? It seemed simple to him, if not for the opposition of Fred Steers—the AAU Rules Committee chairman and manager of the US Women’s Track and Field Team—who would doubtless bring up arguments against the plan. Steers had good reasons to do so, for the AAU governed the competition and its rule book specified that no athlete, under any circumstances, could compete in more than three events.
And Steers had a reputation for being obstinate. He would refuse Babe’s participation in all the events, McCombs knew, and the only way of circumventing this was to beat him to the punch. So McCombs self-assuredly told the press that Babe would be the only representative of the team attending the tryouts and that she would be participating in all of the events herself. Steers had no time to react, much less refuse.
From the very beginning, Babe had liked the Colonel’s demeanor, that of a self-assured, confident, presumptuous man who commanded respect, a respect he acquired without yelling or screaming but simply by the strength of his words. But by nature, he was neither calm nor confident. He had been advised to cultivate patience and composure, even in the midst of the most strenuous circumstances and while enduring the most pressure-ridden situations. While in the army, a physician had discovered a heart defect, which had immediately prompted McCombs’s dismissal. The condition could kill him, the doctor had told him, and he’d better learn to handle himself with a little more tact.
In sending Babe alone, McCombs was creating an awkward situation for her. Her teammates, who already disliked her, felt ripped off. Why shouldn’t they be given the same chance to try out for the Olympics? Oddly enough, they did not blame McCombs for the turn of events but insisted that Babe had instigated it. And other competitors did not appreciate her blatant disregard for rules, either. If they could compete in only a handful of events, why shouldn’t the same be true for Babe? Why was she deemed so important and given so much freedom? So in essence, and by no fault of her own, she was leaving an awkward situation behind, only to find a similar one in Evanston.
—
The girl who left the Dallas train station that hot, humid July day was markedly different from the one about whom reporters had been writing recently. As the five o’clock train awaited departure, there stood Babe, dressed uncomfortably in a pink midcalf dress (an anomaly considering her usual attire), holding a small white leather purse in the crook of her arm. On her head sat a large pink hat, and the grin on her face seemed to radiate both excitement and a shade of uneasiness, most likely because she was standing on high heels for the first time in her life.
She arrived in Chicago when the temperature had climbed to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit and felt even stickier. Waiting for her were dozens of reporters and AOC president Avery Brundage, who fawned over her. Following cordial greetings, Babe self-c
onsciously ran her fingers through her hair and over her dress, both now limp from the heat of the train compartment, and tried to put them in order. It had been an unusual welcome: Brundage prided himself on remaining detached from the athletes, on not showing any preference toward them in public, regardless of his private feelings. Yet the image of him shaking hands with Babe was published in papers nationwide, signaling his obvious favorite to readers and athletes alike.
Brundage was born in Detroit in 1887 and graduated from the University of Illinois in 1909 with an honors degree in civil engineering. He had excelled both academically and athletically, afterward qualifying for the 1912 Stockholm Games in the pentathlon, where he finished sixth, and in the decathlon, where he came in sixteenth.
Following his training as an engineer, Brundage went on to build a construction business and quickly became a millionaire, though despite his financial success, or perhaps because of it, his first love always remained amateur sports, which he could now pursue with abandon. He was adamant that sports should be followed as recreation, not for profit, that amateurs should live up to the “highest moral laws,” their lives imbued not only with self-discipline but also with a principled outlook. Professional athletes, in his opinion, were nothing more than “a troop of trained seals.” Not surprisingly, the Olympics became a particular obsession of his, especially the participation of female athletes, and he took particular issue with the track-and-field stars. In 1936, during some private correspondence, he would write, “I am fed up to the ears with women as track and field competitors. Their charms sink to something less than zero. As swimmers and divers girls are beautiful…as they are ineffective and unpleasing on the track.” Yet he made an exception for Babe—for even he thought that she was exceptional.
Babe’s luggage was whisked away as she followed the crowd out of the station. Everywhere she went, she heard people complaining about the heat, fearing that it would hinder the athletes’ performances. But she was used to training in temperatures that rocketed even higher than the ones in Chicago. Neither heat nor humidity would be an issue for her, and she knew it. While the others took light workouts at Dyche Stadium in the hope of acclimating themselves, she preferred to walk alone, calming herself by visualizing the meets ahead.
But there was one thing that nagged at her. Earlier, while speaking to the Colonel, she had decided to enter every available event at the trials except the 200 meters and the 50-yard dash (her weakest events). Still, there were eight others that she could win.
Although she felt that she would come out victorious, the night before the trials she slept fitfully, plagued by nervous energy. Her stomach cramped so severely that her chaperone, Mrs. Wood, fearing appendicitis, summoned a physician. He examined her while she writhed on her bed in agony. He promptly diagnosed her illness: anxiety. She was too edgy, he told Mrs. Wood; her nerves were even causing a sickly pallor to spread across her face. She was letting her fears and emotions get the best of her, making herself sick. She’d better calm down, or she would not be good to race tomorrow.
The doctor’s ministrations did little to wash away the tension Babe felt. If anything, she felt worse than ever. She rested her back against the headboard and remained awake most of the night, mentally running her races, half of which she imagined she lost, her brain churning and finally quieting near dawn, when she slept fitfully.
Not surprisingly, she woke up later than intended, the horror of arriving late to the meets increasing her uneasiness. She hurried to catch a taxi to the stadium, quickly stripping most of her clothes off and climbing into her uniform as the cab drew near the stadium.
—
Five thousand spectators had braved the hot spell and bought tickets to the events. They sat fanning themselves as the athletes marched around the stadium, a somewhat scaled-down version of the Olympic parade. The teams consisted of groups of fifteen to twenty-two athletes, clogging the center field. Representing the Dallas contingent was only one small woman, a girl really. Waving her arms frantically, Babe entered the stadium to thunderous applause. It was noisy, rowdy, and completely unlike anything she had experienced back in Texas.
Since she’d embarked on track and field, her body had changed dramatically. Always small, she was now leaner than ever, though her leg muscles were more clearly defined. She did not possess the curves that women craved and men favored; instead, she had a strong athlete’s body of which she was proud. She held herself with confidence, which was even more evident when she donned the neon orange uniform emblazoned with the Employers Casualty logo. No one would miss her amid that mob of athletes hovering around her. As the athletes took their places in the stadium, she ran circles, stretched her legs, laced and unlaced her shoes. Her cocky attitude amused the crowd yet unnerved her competitors.
—
The meets began at two o’clock, the animated onlookers taking particular notice as Babe hastily ran from one event to the next. Some of the meets had to be delayed in order for her to finish competing in one before making her way to the next, which resulted in many of the athletes having to wait to compete. So many allowances were being made for her, they felt. It was all about Babe. Employers Casualty, her team’s sponsor, had also given her an extremely expensive pair of track shoes, banking on her winning and bringing more prestige for the firm—along with the title—back to Dallas. They were shiny and supple, with the longest, sharpest spikes on the field. The other athletes took stock of her shoes with envy, knowing that they gave her a clear advantage and despising their own, as most of them had been run to the ground months earlier. They also did not appreciate the hiatus between heats, much less the fact that the crowds were so busy following Babe that they did not care to follow any other athlete.
Spectators drew their breath as they watched Babe’s hurdling skills elevate her to a world record that was two-fifths of a second faster than the existing one. (She was timed at 12 seconds sharp by five of the six timekeepers; the sixth timed her at 11.8 seconds.) Prancing to victory in the broad jump, she managed to win that event as well. Her talents were unquestionable and made headlines, but so did her cocky personality and appearance; unlike her competitors, she refused to fit into any feminine ideals advocated at the time. One fervent hometown supporter, Grantland Rice, wrote, “She is an incredible human being. She is beyond all belief until you see her perform. Then you fully understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination the world of sport has ever known.”
—
By the end of the tryouts, Babe had won the AAU National Championships on her own; of the events she had participated in, she had cinched five wins, tied for a sixth, and placed in a seventh. No one had ever witnessed anything like it.
“A new feminine athletic marvel catapulted herself to the forefront as an American Olympic possibility,” a July 26 New York Times article reported, “when 19 year old [sic] Miss Mildred (Babe) Didrickson of Dallas broke the world’s record for the 80 meter high hurdles, shattered the American mark for the baseball throw and topped off her activities with a victory in the running jump.”
The Olympic trials assured Babe’s place in history. Newspapers across the country, particularly back in Dallas, lauded her at length without ever mentioning any of her teammates. As far as Babe was concerned, that was fine, as there was no reason to reference them. The Colonel had denied them an opportunity to try out in order to highlight Babe’s name in connection to his. From Dallas, her teammates followed Babe’s rise in anger, stung by both her and the Colonel. Now that she had achieved glory without them, their animosity only grew. “She was built up by this man, McCombs,” an anonymous Golden Cyclone teammate moaned. “She was out for Babe, just Babe….She was not a team player….Babe was out for fame.”
But their words did not faze her. Having collected her victories in Evanston, she discarded reports of her teammates’ nastiness, concentrating on one thing: Los Angeles.
CHAPTER FOURTEE
N
GO WEST, YOUNG WOMEN, GO WEST
Even before winning the Olympic bid, Los Angeles had been enjoying a worldwide reputation as the center of American glamour, citizens seduced by the allure of Hollywood. City officials were aware that only a select few were able to capitalize on opportunities associated with the movies but knew that sports, too, had a way of bringing people together, if promoted correctly; why shouldn’t the city, with its verdant hills and abundant sunshine, become a leader in athletics as well? That, at least, was what Harry Chandler—the Los Angeles Times’ publisher and perpetual bolsterer of southern California—had in mind.
Born in Landaff, New Hampshire, on May 17, 1864, and educated at Dartmouth College, Chandler began a stint at the Times in 1884. Serendipity had played a part in enabling him to get the job there; having built a small dispatching service outside Los Angeles that eventually took over the delivery of Los Angeles’ morning papers, including the Times, he had come to the attention of Harrison Gray Otis, then its publisher. The two struck up a friendship, and it wasn’t long before Otis offered Chandler a job.
Chandler was married at the time, but when his wife, Magdalena, died in 1892, he hurried to marry his boss’s daughter, Marian Otis, in 1894; in time she bore him six children and helped him raise the two he had fathered during his first marriage.
In 1917, his father-in-law died, leaving Chandler in charge of the Times, and along with more modern views, his visionary ideas allowed the paper to become one of the most successful ones in the West. One of Chandler’s goals was to promote not only Los Angeles but also the entire southern California region. When the prospect of an Olympic bid had come along, in fact, he had been among the first to argue that holding the Games in Los Angeles could boost the entire region’s economic prospects.
Fire on the Track Page 14
