Fast Girls

the way Coach Price had shown her, to create two small indentations that would hold her feet in place when she assumed her crouched starting position. When the divots were in place, she sat back to survey her work; the spacing between the two appeared acceptable. She laid down her trowel, eyeing her competitors. The two German girls bobbed up and down in place to warm up. The three Canadians stretched their quads. All the women wore serious, grim expressions.
Next to her, Canada’s Bobbie Rosenfeld lowered herself into a lunge and Betty copied the move, focusing on the stretch of her hamstrings and hips. Her gaze wandered over the swarm of faces in the stadium surrounding her, but they faded into a blur. All she felt was the beating of her own heart. The steady cadence of her breath. The easy stretch of her legs, first one side and then the other. She had made it. This was the Olympics. With these realizations, her shoulders loosened away from her ears. What did she have to lose? A flush of glee filled her. She needed to run like she was trying to catch the train—that was all.
One of the officials gestured for the girls to get ready. Each racer stood in her lane above her starting divots.
“On your marks,” said the official in a thick French accent. The next few minutes were a confusing blur of false starts and the elimination of two racers, but through it all Betty gazed straight ahead to where the finish line lay, determined not to get distracted. She felt ready to spring, her mind clear, her body loose. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the starting official raise the gun into the air.
BANG!
Quick off the start, Ethel Smith of Canada surged ahead, but Betty easily overcame her. Only Bobbie Rosenfeld lay ahead, but Betty punched her arms up and down. Step by step, she came alongside Bobbie, and the two ran together, stride for stride, but Betty pumped her legs faster and faster to increase the turnover of each step. She inched ahead.
She could have been racing alone because everyone dropped away. The crowd. Bobbie. Ethel. Everyone. She may have been flying. Not once did she feel the surface of the track under her whirring feet. Her mind was quiet. Every gear in her body turned easily. Nothing else mattered. The white finish tape got closer and closer. She threw out her chest and reached her arms upward, hurling herself into the tape with everything she had. As it caught on her chest and she crossed the finish line, she closed her eyes and lifted her face upward toward the sky. She had done it!
But wait . . . had she?
Bobbie Rosenfeld’s left shoulder nudged Betty as both women slowed their pace to a jog. They turned to each other, their expressions clouding with uncertainty. A horde of officials and judges descended upon them, gesticulating and shaking their heads. Who had crossed the line first?
Betty’s breath caught as she looked around the stadium for answers. What had happened? Several feet away, Coach Sheppard, Dee, Caroline, and Elta climbed over the railing of the track and raced toward her, their expressions exuberant, mouths wide open as they yelled with glee. They enveloped Betty, hugging and kissing her. She fell into them but kept watching the judges, who remained huddled, immune to the celebration on the track. Beside them, Bobbie waited for the official judgment with her Canadian teammates, their faces grim as they watched the judges too.
Even as congratulations showered upon her, Betty’s stomach tightened. Had she crossed the line first? She tried to think back, but she didn’t trust her memory. Certainly, it had been close. The Canadian coach jogged over to his racers and stood with them, staring at the judges, a wary glint in his eyes.
Finally, an official broke from the cluster and marched toward the racers.
“We’re declaring Mademoiselle Robinson the winner with a new world record of 12.2 seconds. Mademoiselle Rosenfeld wins the silver with a time of 12.3, and Mademoiselle Smith will be awarded the bronze.”
“Say now,” said the Canadian coach. “We think Bobbie took first place.”
The judge raised his eyebrows. “It’s five dollars to file a contest to our verdict.”
The coach glowered at the judge and stalked away as the Dutch band broke into “The Star-Spangled Banner” and Betty’s teammates lifted her onto their shoulders. “You did it!” they shrieked. She beamed as a light breeze blew her hair from her forehead and she gazed up toward the sky. One day she was a schoolgirl, now she was an Olympian. In only twelve seconds her life had changed forever.

THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD
August 23, 1928
“Olympic Champ Heading Home Sweet Home”
By Ralph Martins
After being feted in New York City for her athletic accomplishments in Amsterdam, Chicago’s very own Elizabeth Robinson is heading home tomorrow. Clad in an all-white ensemble, pert and plucky “Betty” appeared to be Artemis herself as she stood in front of the boisterous crowd of well-wishers at Pier 84 in New York City, beaming from ear to ear. But maybe it wasn’t just her accomplishments that pleased her; after all, it’s her birthday and next to her on the small stage stood the victorious University of California’s eight-man crew that rowed for gold to defeat the heavily favored Brits. Miss Robinson still has one more year of high school to complete, but the college men appeared all too eager to help the pint-size lass celebrate.
Along with winning silver in the 100-meter women’s relay, the diminutive teenager restored American prestige with her surprising gold medal victory in the 100-meter dash, an event certain to go down as one of the most entertaining races in Olympic history. In a display of feminine histrionics never before seen in an Olympic stadium, Canada’s comely Myrtle Cook sobbed lustily for half an hour after being disqualified for several false starts. But Cook’s act was just a warm-up for the next round