Impatience made Betty’s hands knot into fists. She didn’t want to wait. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting. This was going to be hard—the throbbing in her knees and lower back would make sure of it—but she didn’t want to waste another minute.
“Let’s try today. If I’m ever to have a chance of running again, the nurses said I need to start walking as soon as possible while my muscles still contain some memory of the movement.”
Bill shrugged. “Why are you so hung up on running? What’s the point? Come on, you and I have grown up. We can’t play sports forever. Let’s be realistic and focus on walking. It’s time for us to move on.”
Betty stared at Bill. She was supposed to give up on running? She hadn’t been “playing” at running; competition had opened up a whole new world for her. Without it, she felt lost.
27.
August 1932
Los Angeles
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE RELAY WAS A QUIET EVENING at the Chapman Park Hotel. When Louise slid between the sheets and rolled onto her side to face the wall, she curled her legs toward her chest and tried to count backward. Useless. Sleep would be impossible. The sounds of the hotel felt too loud and jarring. Water whooshing through the pipes. The opening and closing of doors. The low hum of voices. It was too much. Eventually she drifted into sleep, but when she woke in the morning, she felt woolly headed and sick to her stomach.
The women dressed in their team navy skirts, blazers, and straw boaters, and filed downstairs for a subdued breakfast before climbing into the motorcars idling outside the hotel’s front doors to take them to the stadium. Once there, Louise followed her teammates into the locker room to change into their white satin tanks and shorts. There was little conversation; a nervous energy hung over the group as if a storm were settling over them. The concrete walls made the room cold and damp, almost subterranean, and goose pimples prickled over Louise’s arms and legs. When they filed out toward the track, Louise was the last woman out the door. In front of her, hands waved, flags fluttered, and faces turned toward the racers, shrieking with excitement. The din felt overwhelming and Louise grabbed on to the railing to guide her through the throngs of people. Uncle Freddie’s face appeared in the crowd and relief at his familiarity washed over her. She could do this.
She reached the edge of the track and stepped onto the cinder, squinting ahead into the sun. Where was she supposed to go? Where was Coach Vreeland?
Eve, Annette, and Billie were taking their places in the team’s lane.
And then Louise froze.
Mary was walking to the lane and taking the first spot.
A hand clapped onto her shoulder, pulling her back. She turned to see Tidye looking at her with concern. Tidye cupped her hand around her mouth and, over the clamor of the crowd, she yelled, “Coach Vreeland just told Mary she’s racing. I’m sorry.”
Louise stumbled into place on the sidelines beside Tidye.
Coach Vreeland wasn’t going to say anything to her?
The racers took their places and Louise watched numbly as the starting gun fired. As the first racer, Mary dashed toward Eve. It happened so quickly. The sprinters blurred as they ran by Louise, and she could barely register what was happening. All the cheering, the jostling, the energy of the crowd, it swept past her as if she were a rock in a stream, unmoving and unable to feel the cold of the rushing water. She couldn’t believe that Coach Vreeland had said nothing to her. What a coward! Her insides roiled. She tried to breathe through the fury engulfing her. She had arrived at the Olympic trials focused and had run with everything she had to earn one of those six coveted spots. She didn’t have a coach who intimidated everyone into giving her a spot in the finals; she came to her spot fair and square. She had followed the rules, bitten back her shame when treated poorly in Denver, ignored Babe’s boorish behavior, and focused during practices—but none of it had been enough. Coach Vreeland had betrayed her.
And then she flinched. Why had she allowed herself to dream that she was going to have a spot on the relay? After all of Coach’s questionable additions to the team, excluding her from the team photo, ignoring her during practices, she should have known. She and Tidye never had a chance.
When the announcer called out that the American women had won and set a world record, Louise stared at the track but didn’t see a thing. She didn’t see her teammates celebrating. Didn’t see officials handing them laurel wreaths and gold medals. Didn’t see them singing the national anthem. As everything inside her thrummed with anger, everything outside of her body was a blur.
She felt like a fool for believing that she’d had a chance. She had arrived in Los Angeles a hopeful and excited girl, but within the space of two or three minutes, she had become disillusioned and furious.
WHEN THE TEAM made it back to the Chapman Park Hotel later in the afternoon, Louise peeled off from the group and stalked into the garden behind the hotel. She found a bench next to a fountain and dropped onto it, her forehead falling into her palm. She didn’t cry; she felt too wrung out. Though the sweet smell of hibiscus hung over her, she wished she were back home in Massachusetts, away from all of this disappointment. Of course, once she got home, she’d have to face everyone’s pity and disappointment on her behalf, and that might even feel worse. She had been such an innocent when she’d arrived, prepared to believe that Babe was the worst of her and Tidye’s problems. At least Babe had been plainspoken about her poor treatment of them. Now Louise could finally see what had
