Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  “I don’t think he was upset.”

  “Really? I do. And so did Stevie and Bobby.”

  Her father laughed. “I think Bobby might be a bit biased on the subject. We both know how he feels about agents.”

  “That’s true. But he also knows Mr. Costas, and he can tell when he’s ticked off.”

  Her father didn’t answer. The rest of the trip to the pool passed in silence.

  Stevie and Bobby didn’t need to be back at the pool as early as Susan Carol. They pulled up about a half hour before the evening session was scheduled to begin at six. This time, Kelleher circled to the back lot, where they had gone for the NBC interview. Sure enough, the lot was only half full.

  “Good call,” Stevie said as they climbed out of the car. Both were carrying computers since the plan was to write from the small media room in the Aquatics Center.

  They walked past the NBC set—which was deserted—to the back door they had used that morning.

  There’d been a security guard at the door in the morning, but this time he stopped them.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Media entrance is around front.”

  Kelleher looked confused. “We came through here this morning and there wasn’t a problem. And the media room is right down this hallway.”

  The security guy was nodding. “I know, sir, I’m sorry. But someone from USA Swimming came by about an hour ago and put that up.” He pointed to a handwritten sign that said COMPETITORS ENTRANCE. SWIMMERS, COACHES, AND SWIMMER-SUPPORT BADGES ONLY.

  It looked as if someone had literally drawn up the sign on the spur of the moment.

  “Who put that up?” Kelleher said. “It looks like something a sixth grader made.”

  The security guy laughed. “I hear you,” he said. “But he was definitely with USA Swimming.”

  “Right, all those USA Swimming guys wear big badges with their names on them, like they’re afraid they might forget who they are,” he said. “Did you happen to see his name?”

  The guard thought for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “Last name was James. I noticed because that’s my first name.”

  “That’s helpful, James, thanks. Now, since no one’s around, can you do us a favor and let us go through rather than walk all the way around this enormous building in the heat?”

  James looked around. “Look, I know who you are, Mr. Kelleher. I’ve seen you on TV. And I’m not trying to give you a hard time. But you walk down that hall now and someone sees you, I’m the one who gets fired.”

  Kelleher nodded. “I hear you. Thanks for your help.”

  They turned to leave. “I’m really sorry about this,” James said.

  “Not your fault, James. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  By the time they circled the building to the front entrance, Kelleher and Stevie were both steaming—literally and figuratively. Soaked in sweat, they walked in and Stevie could see through the windows behind the lobby that the pool was filled with swimmers warming up for the evening’s finals. Each event would have a consolation final for swimmers who had finished ninth to sixteenth in the morning and then the championship final. The women’s 100 fly was the second event. The men’s 200 fly, which Phelps would swim, was the fifth. Then there were two relays after that to finish off the program.

  They headed for the media room, which appeared to be a fitness room where desks had been set up for the weekend meet. They found a couple of empty spots for their computers. Kelleher looked at his watch. It was 5:50. He picked up the program that had the heat sheets in it and opened to the first page.

  “Here it is,” he said. “USA Swimming staff.”

  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. “Trevor James,” he said. “Assistant executive director.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him. Let’s start with Mike Unger and see what we can find out.”

  “Is it that big a deal?” Stevie asked.

  “No,” Kelleher said. “But it’s stupid. And I hate stupid. And there’s two more days to this meet—might as well complain early.”

  Mike Unger was in the interview room, apparently trying to figure out where to put all the TV cameras for the post-race interviews.

  “Hey, Bobby, Steve, what’s up?” he said with a friendly smile when they walked in. “You might want to get to your seats pretty soon. We’re going to be packed by the time the 200 free starts.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” Kelleher said. “Mike, did you know they made the back door over by the locker room hallway off-limits to the media?”

  Unger frowned. “First I’ve heard of it,” he said. “I know they get a little jumpy when Phelps is coming and going, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. Most people don’t even know that back door exists.”

  “That’s what I would think,” Kelleher said. “Who is Trevor James?”

  “Chuck Wielgus’s new number two. Hired him at the beginning of the year to help with rules and sponsorships mostly.”

  “Where was he before?”

  “Octagon. He helped make a lot of Phelps’s deals for them, apparently. But he’s also an international swimming official. He’s one of the US reps at all the big meets. That was one reason Chuck wanted him: gives us a little more influence with FINA.”

  FINA was the Fédération Internationale de Natation. That was French for International Swimming Federation. A lot of international sports organizations used French for their official name. French was the official language of the Olympics because it had been Baron Pierre de Coubertin—a Frenchman—who had started the modern Olympics in 1896.

  “So Chuck hired an agent?” Kelleher asked.

  “Not exactly,” Unger said. “Trevor James didn’t represent specific athletes. He mostly worked the other side of the street, bringing corporations to the agents for deals.”

  “Right, I know the type,” Kelleher said.

  “He shouldn’t have anything to do with media access, though,” Unger said. “He steers clear of you guys, best I can tell.”

  Stevie started to say something, but Kelleher gave him a look that told him to keep quiet.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Kelleher said. “Come on, Stevie. We better go find a seat.”

  They left Unger to finish his work and made their way upstairs to the media seating area. Unger hadn’t been kidding about getting there early. Since there was no assigned seating, it was first come, first served, and there were exactly three seats left when Stevie and Kelleher arrived—two of which Tamara Mearns had been saving for them.

  “Wow, it looks like a lot of people didn’t bother to come this morning,” Stevie said as they squeezed in.

  “Makes sense,” Kelleher said. “Except for Susan Carol, no one really swam fast this morning. They want to save their best for the finals.”

  “You think she went too fast this morning?”

  Kelleher shrugged. “We’ll find out soon.”

  Unlike the morning session, where swimmers simply reported to the blocks when their heat was up, the swimmers for each race stayed together in a holding area underneath the stands until it was their time to swim. Stevie knew from watching the Olympics that at big meets the swimmers had to sit in a “ready” room until they walked onto the deck to be introduced. Since this meet was a warm-up for the Olympic Trials, they were doing their best to follow that setup to give the swimmers a chance to get accustomed to it.

  As the swimmers in the women’s 100-fly final marched onto the deck, they were already lined up so that the swimmer in lane one came out first and the swimmer in lane eight came out last. Susan Carol was smack in the middle since she had qualified first and was in lane four.

  Christine Magnuson, who would be in lane five, was directly behind her, and a Chinese swimmer named Li Lin-Yu, who had qualified third, was right in front of her. Becky Ausmus would be in lane seven after qualifying sixth. Even from a distance Stevie could see that all the swimmers were tall and most of them had b
roader shoulders than Susan Carol.

  As soon as they reached their lanes, they began peeling off their sweats and putting on bathing caps and goggles. Each swimmer was introduced with a good deal of fanfare. The loudest roar from the crowd, not surprisingly, was for Susan Carol.

  “Swimming in lane four with a qualifying time of 58.29 seconds, from Goldsboro, North Carolina, Susan Carol Anderson!”

  The cheering might not have been as loud as at a basketball game with Susan Carol’s beloved Duke Blue Devils, but it was close.

  “North Carolina’s favorite daughter,” Tamara said with a smile.

  Susan Carol waved quickly when she heard her name, then put on her cap and began adjusting her goggles. A moment later, the swimmers were called to the blocks. Stevie heard the starter say, “Take your mark …,” and then boom, the horn sounded and the swimmers were in midair for a second before knifing into the water. Since the race would be decided in under a minute, the crowd was shrieking before anyone had even come up for a breath.

  Christine Magnuson had clearly watched Susan Carol closely in the morning. She’d seen her pull clear in the first twenty-five meters and wasn’t going to let her do it again. She came up off the dive with a slight lead and began extending it as they closed in on the fifty-meter wall.

  Susan Carol and Li were almost a body length behind as they reached the wall, and out in lane seven Becky Ausmus, the other North Carolinian in the race, was actually ahead of both of them. Stevie glanced at the electronic timing board as they all pushed off the wall. Magnuson had gone out in 27.01, which Stevie knew was lightning fast—as opposed to Lightning Fast. Ausmus was second in 27.34 and Li was third in 27.52, trailed by Susan Carol in 27.55.

  “She’s got some work to do,” Kelleher shouted in Stevie’s ear.

  Stevie was nervous, but not that nervous. He and Susan Carol had talked about the fact that she didn’t mind being behind in the 100 because her training for the 200 almost always made her second 50 better than her first. He started to tell Kelleher but realized it was pointless. By the time he explained, the race would be over.

  Halfway back, both Ausmus and Li began to fade. Susan Carol had pulled into second place, but Magnuson was still looking strong. Both swimmers breathed every second stroke, and Stevie could see they were both staying as low as possible when they came up to breathe, saving energy by not climbing too high out of the water.

  “She’s gonna get second,” Kelleher yelled as they approached the flags that were five meters from the wall.

  But just then, Stevie saw Magnuson breathe on her second consecutive stroke. She was cracking! He couldn’t find his voice, so he just pointed in her direction, which told Bobby and Tamara absolutely nothing.

  As soon as Magnuson took the extra breath, you could see Susan Carol close the gap. Magnuson was now breathing every stroke. The piano might not have hit her, but she was clearly hurting. As they went under the flags, Stevie could see Susan Carol stretching her long arms in front of her and he knew she was going to win. Magnuson was bobbing up and down; Susan Carol was plunging forward. Magnuson stole one last breath and it cost her the race.

  The building exploded as Susan Carol touched in 57.88. Magnuson plowed in at 58.01. They had dusted the rest of the field. Lucy Griffin, way out in lane one, actually came on to take third in 59.69. Li faded to fifth; Ausmus, after trying to go out as hard as she could, finished seventh.

  “How about that!” Kelleher yelled.

  “I knew it,” Stevie said. “I knew she had her when Magnuson started breathing every stroke.”

  Kelleher gave him a look. “You noticed that Magnuson was breathing every stroke?”

  “Well, yeah. Susan Carol told me that’s how you can tell when a butterflyer is getting tired.”

  “Okay, that makes it official: You are the Susan Carol Anderson beat writer for the Washington Herald.”

  Stevie laughed. “When did Susan Carol get her own beat writer?”

  Kelleher looked down at the deck. Susan Carol had just climbed out of the water and was waving to the crowd, which was still on its feet.

  “About sixty seconds ago,” he said.

  8: WINNING?

  Tamara stayed behind to watch Phelps swim so Stevie and Bobby could go downstairs to the interview room to see Susan Carol. When they made their way into the jam-packed room, they spotted Mike Unger in the back. Kelleher and Stevie worked their way through the crowd to talk to him.

  “Great race, huh?” Unger said. “Hey, you were asking about Trevor James before?” He pointed to the podium. “That’s him. He’s taking care of this press conference because I have to go out and get Phelps organized once he swims.”

  A short man wearing a USA Swimming tracksuit was standing at the microphone and calling for quiet. He had closely cropped graying blond hair and the look of someone who had once been an agent, though Stevie wasn’t quite sure he could articulate what that meant.

  The room quieted enough for James to tell everyone why he wanted quiet. “I want to be sure all of you understand our guidelines. Susan Carol Anderson and Christine Magnuson will be here in five minutes. You’ll have a maximum of fifteen minutes with them because Michael Phelps will be in soon after that and we know you all want to talk to him.

  “So, let’s keep the aisles clear as the swimmers come in and out.”

  “Where can we talk to the swimmers after they finish in here?” someone up front asked. James was shaking his head before the questioner had even finished.

  “No, no, no. You’ll get plenty in here. The swimmers all have races early tomorrow, so—”

  “Susan Carol doesn’t,” Stevie heard himself say, before he remembered he was in a jam-packed room. Everyone turned to look at him. “Um, she’s got the 200-fly heats at noon and then the final isn’t until Sunday morning.”

  James was glaring at him. “Young man, are you credentialed to be here?” he said in the sort of condescending tone Stevie truly hated. He was about to take his press pass from around his neck and wave it in the air when he heard Kelleher’s voice.

  “He’s got a credential,” Kelleher said. “The real question is, when did you take over PR for USA Swimming, and how do you know what reporters need and don’t need? Normally we have access to the swimmers outside of this room.”

  Several voices backed Kelleher up. Now James looked really annoyed.

  “This is a USA Swimming event, Mr.…”

  “Kelleher,” Bobby said. “Washington Herald.”

  “Mr. Kelleher, this is our event and you play by our rules. If you don’t like them, you’re free to leave.”

  Kelleher looked about as angry as Stevie had ever seen him. He didn’t say another word to James. Instead, he turned to Mike Unger, who looked pretty horrified by the exchange himself. “Where’s Chuck Wielgus?” Kelleher said.

  “Probably on deck somewhere waiting for Phelps to swim—”

  Kelleher didn’t wait for him to finish; he just headed out the door. Stevie figured somebody from the Herald better stick around. Plus, he wanted to see Susan Carol. And a moment later, she walked in the back door with Christine Magnuson. Susan Carol was clearly searching the room for him because the minute she spotted Stevie, she veered away from the path that had been cleared in the middle of the room for the swimmers and darted over to him.

  She hugged him and, before he could congratulate her, said, “Where are Bobby and Tamara?”

  “Long story,” Stevie said. “I’ll tell you when you’re done … if I’m allowed to talk to you.”

  She gave him a look, but Trevor James was calling her name. “Ms. Anderson. We need you up here,” he said.

  “Walk with me on the way out,” she said, and headed up the aisle to join Magnuson on the podium.

  Most of the questions were for Susan Carol: How surprised was she by the time; did she think she could catch Magnuson those last few meters; how surprised was she by her improvement in the last twelve months? When someone finally asked Magnuson
a question, it was about Susan Carol.

  “How amazed are you by the way she has come out of nowhere to be such a threat in the upcoming Olympics?”

  Magnuson looked frustrated. “Look, she’s a terrific swimmer,” she said. “But teenage phenoms are nothing new in our sport. Almost every year someone new comes along, especially among the women.

  “She put up a really good time for this early in the season, but we’re all going to have to go a lot faster than that to win anything in London. And if I hadn’t been swimming through the meet, I wouldn’t have died the way I did.”

  Stevie knew that “swimming through” the meet meant she hadn’t cut back on her training to be less tired for the real races. He also knew Susan Carol had done the same thing. He looked at her to see if she would make that point. She didn’t.

  Someone who had apparently not picked up on Magnuson’s simmering frustration asked a follow-up. “Don’t you think this is kind of special, though? Especially swimming like this practically in her hometown …”

  Magnuson looked at Susan Carol and said, “Didn’t you tell me you live, like, three hours away from here?”

  Susan Carol nodded.

  “Hardly her hometown,” Magnuson said. “And trust me, there won’t be a hometown crowd when we get to Omaha and, I hope for both of us, to London. Look, she’s a damn good swimmer and, from the little time I’ve spent around her, she seems like a real nice person. But let’s be honest here: What makes her special as opposed to other promising young swimmers is the way she looks. That’s why she’s got all these agents and sponsors and, frankly, you-all, trailing in her wake.”

  Stevie was studying Susan Carol as Magnuson talked. He thought he saw an eyebrow twitch, but other than that she seemed composed. After a moment of silence, a reporter asked Susan Carol if she had any response to what Magnuson had just said. Susan Carol smiled. It wasn’t The Smile, but Stevie suspected it was the best she could do.