“Let’s go eat,” Kelleher said. “Then we can walk around for a while. I need to get a look at more than just the swimming venue.”
To Stevie, the entire Olympics would take place in the swimming venue between now and the final of the 200 butterfly on Wednesday night. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way, but he did. As they walked outside onto the plaza, his phone buzzed. Susan Carol had texted back.
Felt great, she wrote. Never hurt at all. Need to know re Chip. Have something to tell re J.P. Having dinner with my fam tonight after semis. Get a pass to have bfast w/me tomorrow? I will get you clear on my end. Xoxoxoxo.
23: GOING FOR GOLD
The semifinals had gone just about perfectly as far as Susan Carol was concerned. She and Ed had decided the best strategy was to sit right on Sjöström’s shoulder and let her set the pace.
“She knows exactly what she needs to do because she’s been through it a million times,” Ed said. “Let her do the mental work, and then turn it on at the end.”
Susan Carol did just that, picking up her kick with ten meters to go. Sjöström still touched her out, going 58.06 to Susan Carol’s 58.12, but she was through to the final with no problem. In the second heat, Krylova blasted through the first fifty meters, opening up a lead of almost a body length on Wentworth before tiring at the finish. She touched in 57.44—awfully fast for a semifinal. Wentworth was second in 58.24, meaning that Krylova would be in lane four for the final with Sjöström in lane five, Susan Carol in lane three, and Wentworth in lane six.
That was fine with Susan Carol. She knew Krylova would set the pace, and she was happy to let her go out fast and fade.
And she was very happy to be having breakfast with Stevie now.
“So how do you feel this morning?” Stevie asked as he dug into a plate of French toast that looked like it could feed four people.
“Fine,” she said. “Usually when you swim two races in a day, the one at night is a final and you go all out. I held back a little in both, so I’m not feeling spent at all.”
“You looked like you were cruising the whole way,” he said.
She smiled. “It’s a very fast pool,” she said. “Everyone is saying it may be the fastest pool ever. Even without the rocket suits, I think there will be lots of world records this week. Whoever wins our race tonight will probably break fifty-six.”
The rocket suits, as swimmers called them, almost literally lifted a swimmer in the water because of the materials they were made from. They had been banned in 2009, and there had been a dearth of world records for most of the next two years. Now, in a super-fast pool with Olympic gold medals at stake, it seemed likely that people would start breaking world records again even in regular suits. Susan Carol knew she could go a good deal faster than she had the night before and assumed the other three primary contenders could too.
“Okay,” she said when all the French toast had miraculously disappeared. “Tell me about Chip.”
He filled her in on the news and speculations. Remembering Bobby Maurice and his sinister black beard from their meeting in New Orleans made Susan Carol shudder a little bit. She took a long sip of her orange juice and folded her arms.
“Well, that almost fits with what J.P. said after my heat yesterday morning,” she said.
“What’d he say?”
“That if I won either gold medal—100 or 200—there was going to be a bidding war for me.”
“Hasn’t he said things like that before?”
“Yes, but there’s a new twist now.”
“What?”
“Now he says it’s okay with him if I win ‘only’ one gold as long as Krylova doesn’t win the other.”
Stevie almost spit out the coffee he was drinking. “So Lightning Fast must be totally up to date on the Brickley deal. If Krylova wins gold, Brickley goes with her,” he said. “You win gold and she doesn’t—”
“Then Brickley will want me. And if Brickley makes a big offer and Speedo decides to invoke the matching clause in my contract—”
“It could get completely crazy.”
“Exactly.”
“You know, that also might mean Krylova’s going with another agent.”
“Maybe. Or the whole thing is a smoke screen because he’s worried I may have heard he met with Krylova. Or he’s spinning her a similar story about how she needs to beat me.…”
Susan Carol spotted Elizabeth Wentworth approaching and waved her over.
“Steve, you’re spending more time here than in the media center,” Elizabeth said as she sat down. Stevie noticed she was having French toast too—although considerably less than he had eaten.
“Is it really okay to eat French toast on the day of a big race?” he asked.
She laughed. “Well, to begin with, we all burn so many calories in a day we can pretty much eat whatever we want to—as long as it’s early. I’ll eat some pasta about three hours before we swim but only fruit between now and then. Second, it isn’t as if anyone is going to ask me to do any bikini modeling when this is all over—unlike some people.”
“Stop it,” Susan Carol said, smiling but clearly embarrassed. “I will not be doing any bikini modeling.”
“Oh, I was talking about Krylova.” Elizabeth grinned. “What made you think I was talking about you?”
Susan Carol laughed. “I told you she was funny,” she said to Stevie.
“Speaking of when this is over,” Stevie said, plowing ahead as always. “Have you been approached by anyone? Agents? Swimwear companies?”
“I’m guessing that was directed at me since you already know Susan Carol is doing all the morning shows, Letterman, and Leno from here tomorrow if she wins tonight,” Elizabeth said. Then she turned serious. “Actually, I do have an agent who is interested in me. I think his last client was Johnny Weissmuller.”
That one was lost on Stevie. “Johnny who?”
Susan Carol sighed. “Oh, Stevie. You really should read more. Johnny Weissmuller was an Olympic swimmer about ninety years ago. He then went on to play Tarzan in the movies.”
“So, that was a joke about the agent, then, right?” Stevie said.
“Can’t fool you.” Elizabeth smiled.
Susan Carol was still irked. “If you win, I guarantee there will be agents and swimwear companies after you.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I doubt if I’ll have two Sports Illustrated photographers trailing me after a semifinal like you last night, not to mention that HBO guy who wants to do a documentary on your ‘Olympic experience,’ ” she said, smiling. “Honestly, I don’t care. I never got into swimming to make money.”
“Neither did I,” Susan Carol said, feeling at that moment very, very sad.
The two girls were headed for the pool for a light workout after breakfast. Stevie gave Susan Carol a hug and kiss goodbye and wished her luck. Then he went to pick up Kelleher at the media center. They saw the US men’s basketball team beat up on Angola 123–54 for their first win. It was a pretty boring game, but mostly Stevie just wanted a chance to see Chip in person again to find out if he’d had any contact with Bobby Maurice. Sadly, all Chip knew was that Maurice would definitely be at the Aquatics Centre for the finals that night. Hardly breaking news.
Riding back to the media center to meet Tamara, Stevie thought about what Elizabeth Wentworth had said that morning about not getting into swimming to make money. He doubted that any swimmer got into the sport to make money. But what if Bobby Maurice offered her a lot of money not to win? Considering she could try her absolute hardest and not win anyway, it might be tempting. His gut told him she wouldn’t play that game. But his gut wasn’t always right.
They tried hashing over what they knew—but it was all so nebulous. Kelleher said, “Well, if Svetlana or Susan Carol wins tonight, there will be a huge scramble to get their names on contracts—even before the 200-fly final on Wednesday. At the very least, one of them will be buried in offers. If Sjöström wins, I imagine her value in Europe would go
up, but not by much—she’s already a champion.”
“And if Elizabeth wins?” Stevie asked.
“Then things may get interesting,” Tamara said. “It’s what none of the agents or marketers want.… Who knows what they might get up to if it happens.”
Kelleher’s cell phone was ringing. He answered, listened for a few seconds, and then his eyes went just a little bit wide.
“That is interesting,” he said, and then hung up. “Looks like the stakes keep getting higher.”
“Who was that?” Stevie asked.
“Matt Rennie,” he said. “Apparently, Bobby Maurice isn’t the only apparel rep who is planning on attending the swimming tonight. Phil Knight is going to be there too.”
“The founder of Nike is hardly what you would call a swimming rep,” Tamara said.
“Even so, why is that a big deal?” Stevie asked.
“Because Phil Knight doesn’t show up someplace unless he’s got an athlete competing or unless there’s an athlete competing he doesn’t have but wants. I’m telling you, the plot’s thickening.”
“I just want Susan Carol to win,” Stevie said. “I don’t care about the rest of it.”
“Spoken like a truly objective reporter.” Kelleher smiled. “Let’s get something to eat before we head over. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
Susan Carol actually brought a book to read because she knew it was going to be a long wait before she swam. The swimmers had been told to please be in the venue before the evening events began at 7:30 just in case some logistical issue delayed them on their way over from the athletes’ village.
So, even though the 100-fly final was the second-to-last event on the program and wasn’t scheduled to start until nine o’clock, she and Elizabeth were in the locker room by 6:45. That would give them time for an easy, stretched-out warm-up, and then, as she always did, Susan Carol would jump in the pool and swim 200 meters about fifteen minutes before they were taken into the ready room.
Her first experience with a ready room had been in Shanghai, and she hadn’t especially liked it. Almost everyone put on headphones and sat with their eyes closed. Susan Carol found this disconcerting: eight people trying not to look nervous who were all dying inside, wishing the race was already over.
So she had brought a book, along with her headphones, hoping for a bit of distraction. She’d chosen All the President’s Men, which was one of her favorites and one that reminded her of the career in journalism she was hoping for—a little last-minute dose of perspective, maybe. It was also a book that reminded her of Stevie because they’d discussed it so often. And that helped too.
The swimmers were actually asked to sit in chairs with their lane numbers on them in the ready room. That meant Susan Carol had Krylova next to her. As soon as she pulled out her book, Krylova pulled off her headphones.
“You read before you swim?” she asked.
“Sure,” Susan Carol said. “It keeps my mind occupied.”
Krylova shook her head. “I just close my eyes and see my race in my head. What is that called in English?”
“Visualizing,” Susan Carol said. “I used to do that. It made me tired. Swimming the race once is enough for me.”
Krylova laughed.
The other swimmers, even wearing their headphones, were giving them looks—except for Elizabeth, who was clearly into whatever she was listening to and had a dreamy look on her face.
A stern-looking official marched into the room a couple minutes later.
“Ladies, it’s time,” she said.
They all stood up and gathered their swim bags, stuffing headphones (or books) into them. As they filed out, the swim bags were handed off to runners—there was one assigned to each lane—who would return them once the race was over.
They walked down a hallway, led by Nadia Antonopolis, an Australian who would swim in lane one, before emerging into the brightly lit pool area to cheers and some overly dramatic music that Susan Carol didn’t recognize. For the first time since she’d gotten to London, Susan Carol suddenly felt her nerves jangling. She gazed around at the packed arena. It looked completely different than it had the night before for the semifinals. Or at least it felt completely different.
Then she hadn’t noticed that the place was packed. But now … She had spent most of her life swimming in front of crowds of maybe 100—many of whom weren’t even paying attention when she stood up on the blocks. Now every one of the 17,500 seats was filled. And everyone seemed to be standing. The night before, for a semifinal, there wasn’t much buzz. This was a final: Olympic medals would be handed out when the race was over. Someone would become a part of swimming history.
And, she knew, someone might become very wealthy. She was instantly embarrassed for thinking that. She wondered if Krylova, walking a couple of steps behind her, had that on her mind at all. She knew Elizabeth didn’t.
Once they reached their spots behind their lanes, they began the ritual of taking off their sweats. She put her things in a basket, and her lane runner literally ran by and scooped it up. Then came the introductions, starting with Antonopolis. The cheers for the four swimmers in the middle lanes—Susan Carol, Krylova, Sjöström, and Wentworth—were deafening.
Susan Carol could pick out the media section at the far end of the pool because the seats had desks in front of them. Right next to the media section was the family section. For a moment she was able to pick out her father. And she saw her little sister, Anna, waving a miniature American flag.
She glanced the other way and saw her teammates in the team section. A little chill went through her when she saw that Phelps and Lochte, having finished their 200-freestyle semifinals and the 4 × 100-meter relay final, were right there, standing and pointing toward Susan Carol and Elizabeth as if to say, “Come on, you guys can do it.”
Jane Vessels, the British swimmer in lane eight, had just been introduced to huge cheers. Susan Carol heard the double whistle calling the swimmers to the blocks. She carefully placed her goggles on her eyes and took a deep breath. A moment later came the single whistle telling the swimmers it was time to step onto the blocks.
If Elizabeth had been next to her, she would have looked at her and said softly, “Good luck.” She always did that with friends before climbing onto a block. But Elizabeth was miles away in lane six. Krylova had jumped onto the block as soon as the whistle had blown. Susan Carol stepped onto the block and pressed the mental button inside her head so she could hear Ed’s voice. First instruction: “Up first, then out on the start.” Her starts tended to be flat, so Ed wanted her to push off upward first so she would enter the water more smoothly.
“Take your mark.”
She slowly got into position, not wanting to have to stay in the starting position any longer than she had to. “BEEP!”
She arched her back to get up into the air and pushed off the block. As always, it took a few seconds to change over from sheer instinct—muscle memory got her through the start and the first few strokes—to thinking about what she was doing. In the 100, there wasn’t all that much to think about. It wasn’t an all-out sprint, but you couldn’t afford to hold much back on the first fifty or you would be swamped—literally and figuratively.
Halfway down the pool she could tell that Krylova was using the same strategy as in the Semifinal: Swim as fast as you can for as long as you can and hope you can hang on. Ed had told her to expect that and not to worry about it.
“She’s gonna die if she does that—with the adrenaline she’ll be out too fast.”
Krylova was almost a body length ahead at the turn, which was fine. When Susan Carol picked her head out of the water, she could see she was almost dead even with Sjöström. She couldn’t tell where Elizabeth was. Right with them, she guessed.
She pushed hard off the wall, wanting to conserve as much energy as possible with a long pullout. Once she had taken her first two strokes and come up for air, she began to consciously pick up her kick. E
ven with thirty-five meters to go she knew she wasn’t going to die. She felt strong. But could she reel Krylova in?
The noise was so loud now that even underwater Susan Carol could hear it clearly. Stay down! she screamed at herself, knowing that adrenaline could cause her to come out of the water too high when she breathed and cost her time. The flags were approaching. She could see Krylova coming back to her. She was convinced she would catch her. Just before she reached the flags, she decided to take one last breath and stay down. It was the Olympics: One breath could be the difference, she knew, between first and fourth.
She put her head down and took three strokes. Her touch wasn’t absolutely perfect, but it was close. She picked her head up and could see that Krylova, Sjöström, and Elizabeth were all on the wall. The noise was beyond deafening.
She couldn’t hear Ed up above her, but she could see him clapping. Finally, she looked at the scoreboard. All four swimmers had broken the world record. Krylova had died and finished fourth at 56:01—out of the medals. Sjöström had finished third in 55:92—fourteen hundredths of a second under her world record—but not quite good enough to beat the two young Americans, who had finished one-two.
Elizabeth had won the race. She had gone 55.79—four hundredths faster than Susan Carol, in 55.83. When Susan Carol realized they had finished one-two, she let out a shriek. Her first thought wasn’t to bemoan losing by the tiniest of margins, it was to celebrate: She had won an Olympic silver medal and her pal had won gold.
Krylova had her head in the gutter and was crying. Susan Carol ducked under the lane line and went through Krylova’s lane and Sjöström’s to get to lane six. Sjöström was already there, congratulating Elizabeth. When Elizabeth saw Susan Carol’s head pop out of the water, she screamed, “WE DID IT!” and the two young Americans embraced.
Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics Page 19
