Betty shook her head in disbelief. Too strenuous? She had seen her older sister, Jean, wan and exhausted but triumphant, after giving birth to her daughter, Laura. Now that had looked strenuous, and it was considered the utmost accomplishment for a woman. But running? By comparison, running was easy. This news made no sense. “I won a gold medal and haven’t suffered from any problems. Where’s all this fuss coming from?”
“Remember what happened with the women’s eight-hundred-meter race?”
“Sure, those women ran hard and the ending was a real nail biter.”
Coach Sheppard jammed his hands into his pockets. “But that’s not why it made it into the papers.”
A quick, furious heat spread through Betty’s chest. Back in Amsterdam, she had attended the 800-meter finals. Betty and Caroline had sat next to Dee, who hadn’t made it out of earlier preliminary rounds and scowled at the track, her arms crossed. At the starting line on the track, nine women lined up, and when the starter’s gun exploded, they took off at a furious clip. Betty and Dee both cheered the lone American in the field, Florence MacDonald, who was in the middle of the group, racing neck and neck with Canada’s Bobbie Rosenfeld. Though they weren’t among the top three finishers, as Florence and Bobbie neared the finish, Bobbie lunged forward and fell over the line to stay ahead of Florence. She lay for a moment before rising slowly and staggering to the side where the other finishers stood, hands on their hips, panting, their faces slack with weariness. It had been a tough race, hot and fast, and the announcer came over the loudspeaker and proclaimed, “The top three finishers have all set new world records—” but the crowd’s excitement drowned out the rest of his message.
“What a race!” Caroline shouted over the cheering, clapping.
Dee leapt to her feet, applauding. “I sure wish I had been out there, but those girls did us proud.”
The following day, the sense of excitement evaporated when reporters appeared at the practice track as Betty and her teammates arrived to train.
One man called out, “Girls, The New York Times is reporting that Miss MacDonald fainted and all of the finishers collapsed at the finish line of the eight-hundred-meter yesterday and needed medical care. Renowned football coach Rockne was in the stands and he said”—the reporter glanced down at his notebook—“‘It was not an edifying spectacle to see a fine group of girls run themselves into a state of exhaustion.’ So, whaddya say about that?” The fellow cocked his pencil, the delight on his face unmistakable.
Betty and Caroline looked at each other in confusion. There had been no fainting, no medical care on the field.
Another reporter shoved his way in front of Betty. “The New York Evening Post describes the women looking ‘wretched’ and said that five of the racers couldn’t even finish the course.”
“That’s not what happened,” Betty said. “Are we talking about the same race? Yesterday’s women’s eight-hundred-meter?”
The reporter scratched his forehead and scanned his notes. “That’s what I’ve got, but wait, have the lady runners collapsed in other races too?”
“No, no, they haven’t,” Caroline said, tugging Betty away from the reporters and into the entrance to the locker room. Once inside, the women put their track shoes on in silence.
“Why do those reporters say such horrid things?” Dee asked.
“Because they don’t want us out here,” Caroline said.
“But we’ve been doing well. Better than the men, that’s for sure. We’re winning medals for our country. The satisfaction these reporters take in making us all sound like a bunch of ninnies sickens me.”
The memory of that race made Betty grimace at Coach Sheppard. “I don’t care what made it into the papers. None of those reports were right. I’ve been running my heart out and now I’m just supposed to quit? I can’t do that.”
Coach Sheppard’s expression slid into something approaching wariness. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that this debate isn’t over. I’m going to write to General MacArthur as soon as I get home and tell him this isn’t fair. And then I’m going to write to all of the women who were my teammates and tell them not to quit either just because we make a bunch of old men feel uncomfortable. Amsterdam was just the beginning.”
Coach Sheppard scratched his forehead. “Sure, go ahead and try to enlist as much support as you can. The AAU has been working for years to find and cultivate talent—talented runners like you—and we don’t want to see women dropped from the Games in Los Angeles either, got it? You gals have been costing us money, time, and a lot of effort. I hate to see it all go to waste. We’ll fight it with you, tooth and nail.” They had reached the entrance to the IWAC’s stone building and paused in front of the main entrance. “But here’s another thing: you’ve got to continue to have good races. Great races, in fact. You need to set records at the next AAU Championships. You need to show that you’ve got more to offer, that you’re not going to fade away before Los Angeles.”
“Are you worried I’ll get married and retire?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I have no plans to marry. But even if I did, who says that would be the end of my running?”
“Listen, just keep getting better and better,” Coach Sheppard said, squeezing her shoulder before turning and waving goodbye. Betty watched him saunter toward Michigan Avenue and tried to shake the sense she was treading on shaky ground.
WHEN SHE RETURNED home that evening, she flopped across her bed, jotted a quick letter to General MacArthur, and then dropped her head onto her forearms. She’d write to everyone else tomorrow. She couldn’t believe she had gone to Amsterdam and won gold right under the noses of all those
