Despite the prognosis, the girl’s father, Harold Robinson, promises his daughter’s spirit is not crushed. “She’s a very determined young lady, and we’re hoping she’ll be up and walking again within the year.”
Miss Robinson’s absence at the Olympics will leave a gap in the competition for new stars to emerge. Her primary competitor, Miss Stella Walsh of Cleveland, who recently announced she’ll be racing for Poland, remarked, “My prayers are with the Robinson family, and I hope for a speedy recovery for Betty.” With everyone’s favorite American lady sprinter fighting to live, Miss Walsh is now favored to win gold in the women’s Olympic 100-meter sprint.
23.
July 1932
En route to Los Angeles
LOUISE AND HER TEAMMATES HAD A BUSY FINAL FEW days in Chicago, filled with preparations for the trip to California. Telegrams. Training. Dinners and luncheons with oyster-colored table linens and silver cutlery. Even though the nation was slogging its way through the worsening Depression, people appeared eager for good news and fervor for the Olympics grew. When the women gathered in the parlor of the boardinghouse where the AAU was paying for them to stay, Tidye untucked a newspaper from under her arm to show her teammates as they lined up for a team photograph.
“I’m a student reporter for The Chicago Defender and wrote an article about the Olympic trials. See?” Tidye pointed to a long column in the middle of the page.
Babe leaned in closer to look. “Never heard of it, and, I swear, every reporter in town has introduced himself to me at this point. I would’ve given you a special quote if you’d asked.”
“The Chicago Defender’s the most widely distributed Negro paper in the city,” Tidye said, the pride unmistakable in her voice.
Without saying anything more, Babe wrinkled her nose and handed the paper to Louise without taking a look at the article.
Caroline crowded over Louise’s shoulder to read it. “This is really good, Tidye. You bring the race to life so well that I almost feel my heatstroke coming on again.”
The other girls drifted away, uninterested, and Louise watched Tidye’s expression fall.
“Can I keep this for my scrapbook?” Louise asked. “I can’t wait to tell everyone at home that I became friends with the reporter who wrote this. Want to sign your name underneath it?”
“Of course,” Tidye said, autographing the article before handing it back to Louise with a grateful smile.
THE NEXT DAY, the women were chauffeured to the train station and boarded a Pullman passenger car decorated with red, white, and blue bunting and a banner that said U.S. Women’s Olympic Athletics Team on its side. At each train stop, the women pressed their noses to the glass of their railcar windows, eager to see the crowds awaiting their arrival. Each dusty town appeared to awaken from its summer stupor, hungry for a reason to celebrate good news, and the crowds formed on the station platforms, waving flags, as bands played. Hope and excitement spread across the faces of the spectators, most of whom appeared to be people of modest means, and fueled the delight of the women aboard the train.
When the train stopped in Denver, motorcars awaited the athletes, and they were driven to the top of Pikes Peak. For Tidye, Louise, Mary, and Caroline, women who had never crossed the Continental Divide, the dramatic view of the craggy peaks of the Rockies spreading far in every direction left them speechless. Eventually the women climbed back into the motorcars and were driven to the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver to spend the night.
With her valise tucked under her arm, Louise headed for the elegant main entrance of the red granite hotel, already relishing the prospect of spending the night in a real bed instead of being jostled and quaking in a Pullman sleeper.
“Excuse me, miss,” the hotel manager called, smoothing his suit as he marched toward her. “This entrance is for whites only. Please use the servants’ door in the back.”
Louise froze. Someone took her hand and Tidye nudged in beside her, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Ahead, Babe Didrikson and a few of their teammates disappeared into the hotel’s lobby, but Mary remained beside Tidye, looking bewildered. “What did that man say?”
“Apparently Louise and I have to use the entrance in the back,” Tidye whispered, her face screwing into a scowl.
Mary’s mouth opened in indignation, but before she could say anything, Caroline pulled her bag to her chest and linked her arm through Louise’s. “Come on, we’re going with you.”
Instead of liveried porters waiting to greet them at the back door, the only things marking the nondescript service entrance were several large overflowing garbage bins and a cracked flowerpot filled with cigarette butts. Louise held her breath against the putrid smell of rotting fruit filling the air. Silently, the women entered a narrow, dim corridor and squeezed past a large cart filled with freshly laundered white towels waiting to be folded. The manager conferred with a woman before turning to Caroline and Mary. “Ladies, please head toward that door, where you’ll find the main lobby and receive your room assignments. You two”—he pointed at Louise and Tidye—“follow Miss Martin. She’ll take you to your room.”
Caroline started to protest, but Tidye shushed her. “Just go. We’ll find you in a bit.”
Caroline and Mary plodded away while Louise and Tidye watched them wistfully before turning to follow the maid up a flight of stairs. One set of stairs became two, and then three, and by the ninth floor, the women were perspiring and huffing in the heat of the tight passageways. The maid opened a door, revealing a pair of twin beds and a washbasin atop a small shared bedside table underneath a tiny window. One bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. “There’s a washroom on the floor below with the other women’s staff rooms,” she said in a flat voice that brokered no further discussion.
“Where are our teammates?”
