Though nothing around her had changed, she certainly had. It was not only the medal that had opened her eyes but the places she had seen, the people she had met. There was so much more to the world than the confines of Riverdale and Harvey, than the path she walked on every day. Luckily, running continued to afford her opportunities to experience new people and new surroundings.
—
In September 1930, Betty was listed as a participant in the Third World Championship, to be held in Prague. It was an exciting honor, as only the very best athletes had been selected to attend the competition. Helen Filkey would also be there, but more than anyone else, Betty was most eager to finally meet the athlete everyone was talking about: the Dallas dynamo Babe Didrikson.
One could not be a member of the track-and-field family without hearing the name of the brash Texan whose impact on the sport was being felt far and wide. Everyone looked forward to the challenge of meeting her face-to-face. It wasn’t that long before that Betty herself had entered the competitions with a chip on her shoulder, perhaps not quite as oversized as Babe’s but a chip nonetheless. And she still had one. But to Betty’s disappointment, the young women were not fated to meet. No team was sent to Prague, disheartening the athletes—and Betty—even more.
In the spring of 1930, Betty transferred to Northwestern University and enrolled in a physical education program. Unlike Riverdale, Evanston was a vibrant and stimulating place, and she quickly felt a revived sense of freedom that the university had to offer.
Now, as she walked to class each morning, she was struck by the defining features of the South Quadrangle, which had been constructed by James Gamble Rogers, the architect who had also designed the vast vistas of Yale University. At Northwestern the sleeping quarters were arranged around smaller courtyards that branched away from a larger one.
As she acclimated to her new surroundings, Betty learned that it wasn’t only running or her studies that interested her but also the typical pursuits of a college girl—including boys. While crossing one of the college’s quadrangles, she noticed Bert “Ball Hawk” Riel, a young man well over six feet tall whose interests included football, tennis, and baseball. He was also the captain of the basketball team, which would become the most successful team in the school’s history. He had been playing since arriving at the school three years earlier, becoming the captain of the basketball team in 1931 and leading it to win the Big 10 Championship.
Betty spotted Bert the moment she stepped onto the lawn, watching as he threw a football high across the quad to one of his long-limbed friends. Bert was a lanky young man himself, a late bloomer whose body was still unsure of how to handle that height and the additional bulk that accompanied it. Betty had always appreciated a brawny physique and was not shy about admiring a man if he caught her eye. She had refined this taste on the SS President Roosevelt, where the male athletes, in nearly perfect shape, had strolled about wearing either tight training uniforms or almost nothing. She still remembered Johnny Weissmuller and his daily routine; in fact, her admiration for him would last a lifetime.
Bert had grown up in Watseka, Illinois, a small town at the mouth of the Iroquois River, a tributary of the Kankakee River. His father, Paul E. Riel, was a watchmaker, jewelry maker, and all-around tinkerer who had served Watseka as the sole eyeglass framer. The shop was attached to their house, leading to a continual stream of customers on the premises; the Riels came to know everyone in town—their stories, sorrows, tragedies, and loves becoming as familiar to the family as their own. Bert was a bit of a dabbler in the trade himself, learning to fit glasses and giving townspeople the impression that he would one day take over his father’s trade and store. But he had other plans. He was aware that a whole world existed outside of Watseka, and upon graduating from high school he made a dash for Evanston, though he often returned home to help his father or wade through his hometown’s rivers.
In the months between high school and college, Bert became a star athlete, a model student, and a handsome, muscular young man. When he did revisit Watseka, he did not lack for female attention or company.
By the time Betty reached Northwestern, she had become more noticeable than she had been in high school, her hair having grown longer and now tumbling in curls to her shoulders, her smile more pronounced, her body leaner, her stride emboldened by the confidence of an Olympian. She instantly reminded Bert of a Hollywood star, one of those women who made waves on the screen and took up the better part of the daily papers. The two bonded in local diners, chatting about their shared interests in sports, among other passions. He was a star at the university, and many believed he would have a long and glamorous future in sports. Meanwhile, as an Olympian, she brought to their relationship an alluring, elegant aura that other girls didn’t possess.
—
As the 1932 Los Angeles Games approached, Betty reached out to a new coach named Frank Hill, who had seen her run at the 1928 Olympics. Though he normally coached only the Northwestern men’s track team, Frank agreed to work with her. Betty did not know that Frank had already seen her win back in Amsterdam and taken notes on her, suspecting that they would cross paths one day.
Newspapers got wind of her new coach and quickly profiled the “girl sprinter” as she set her sights toward Los Angeles. She didn’t smoke, drink, or stay out late, she told one reporter. None of that was true—she did all those things, and more. Frank Hill was not immediately impressed by her routine—or lack thereof. He saw her raw natural talent, but her erratic schedule needed structure, he told her, as her wide-ranging interests—the numerous clubs and extracurricular teams, including the rifle team, not to mention her boyfriend—were not going to help her earn another medal. She strung together training sessions whenever she could, which, at the end of the week, did not amount to much. Frank’s training philosophy, on the other hand, was like “going into battle,” he later explained. “Other forms of education should not be allowed to interfere too much with competitive athletes.” When preparing to go to war, nothing stood in a soldier’s way. Getting ready for a race was just like that, he felt.
Frank warned Betty that although her first medal had come easily, nearly seeking her out, the second time around would not be that simple. She needed daily training and conditioning, the likes of which she had never undergone. She now had a target on her back. There were other competitors out there who had been training far harder since the tryouts in Newark in 1928, eager to beat her. In anticipation of the Los Angeles Games, some athletes had made their intentions known in the papers, and Frank cautioned the cocky Betty that she should take those threats very seriously. (One of those athletes was Stella Walsh, whom Betty was scheduled to meet in Texas at the AAU National Championships.)
She considered his advice, and in quiet moments of reflection, when she allowed herself to ponder his words, she realized what the problem was, what it had always been: priorities. She lacked not the ambition but the discipline. Unlike Stella or Babe, for Betty running had remained the same, even after the Olympics—a pleasant activity she performed outside of classes, much like all the other enjoyable activities that took up the rest of her day. She could never conceive of leaving school to train full-time, nor could she imagine denying herself the joy of a date with Bert at the local diner in order to prepare for a race. She ran in small doses, breaking her training down to fit within the rest of her life.
What Frank was suggesting was radical. And every time they met he asked the same questions: How far did she want to go in her sport? What did she want to accomplish, and what was she willing to give up in order to get there? Something had to give in order for her to be able to fulfill her ambitions. It was not out of the realm of possibility for her to win longer races, too, to achieve greater glories and pile on more medals, he told her. But in order to do that, she would have to change her style of training. He would require total commitment from her; was she willing to give him that?
—
Although Stella Walsh
rarely dwelled much on past affairs, the loss she had suffered at Newark in 1928 still ate at her, years later. Undeterred, she had collected armfuls of ribbons in the intermittent years, intensifying her training to such a degree that the Cleveland papers began calling her “The Cleveland 20th Century Limited.” As she trained in rain, heat, snow, and fog, her speed had increased, her stride lengthened, her body eventually fueled by such drive that on May 30, 1930, she became the first woman to run the 100-meter dash in less than 12 seconds. Just a month earlier she had defeated two Canadians, including Myrtle Cook, in the 50-yard dash at the Millrose Games in Madison Square Garden. Her supremacy continued at the Boston Garden, where she took the honors of the 220-yard dash at the AAU National Indoor Championships.
In 1929, Stella had competed in the Pan-Slovenia World Meet in Poland as part of the Polish Falcons of America team. There she had caused a stir by winning the 60 and the 100 meters, taking third place in the high jump and fourth place in the shot put, as well as anchoring the relay team.
Her native country had taken notice, the Polish government encouraging her to represent it at the international level, particularly in the upcoming games against Austria and Czechoslovakia. But she refused to run for Poland. Instead she upped her training even further, making 1930 one of her most productive years. All told, she competed in more than two dozen meets across the country and in Canada, bettering or equaling her own records.
The 1930 Outdoor Track and Field National Championships was held on July 4 in the Southern Methodist University Stadium in Dallas, Texas. More than two thousand spectators watched as six new world records were set, three of them by Stella. She also set a new world record in the 100-meter dash—11.2 seconds—outrunning Betty.
Betty had arrived in Texas feeling particularly exultant, as the training she was undergoing with Frank seemed to have placed her in a much better place, both physically and mentally. She had gained speed and several pounds of muscles, plus the confidence that she could win any race Frank put her in. The extra hours of training had also convinced her that a cinder track was where she belonged, causing her to streamline her schedule of activities, no longer wasting the little time she had on what she now considered frivolities.
—
On the evening of July 4, Betty and Stella met at the starting line and crouched for the “set” command. When the gun popped they dashed off at precisely the same instant, matching themselves stride for stride the entire length of the track. They traded the lead for several seconds, until at last Stella rapidly gained speed, crossing the finish line first. The move shocked Betty, who, unprepared for the surge, finished second.
Although the papers in Riverdale reported that only an inch or two had separated them, the reality was that it had actually been six. Reporters beyond Riverdale were only slightly fairer in their writing, claiming that “a slip at the starting line lost the 100 yard dash for Betty Robinson.” The Chicago Evening American reported, “The only flaw in what otherwise would have been a most glorious Fourth was the defeat of Betty Robinson in the 100 yard dash by Stella Walsh, Cleveland’s ‘super woman,’ who wound up the afternoon with two new records to her credit. Betty lost by a margin of six inches after getting away to a most horrible start, and even Stella’s coach was frank to admit that the Chicago girl probably could take her measure the next time they met.”
In an echo of years past, Betty slowly circled the track to regain her composure, looking over at the reporters as they gathered around Stella for photographs and interviews. To an outsider, the scene would have looked eerily familiar, similar to the tryouts in Newark in 1928 but with roles reversed. What Betty knew for certain this time was that she needed to train much harder to make it in Los Angeles, for she had experienced firsthand what she had read in the newspapers: Stella was becoming unbeatable.
Betty was still thinking about her loss weeks later—the more she dwelled on it, the more it stung. So when the Illinois Women’s Athletic Club approached her with the idea of a rematch against Stella, Betty enthusiastically agreed. She increased her daily workouts with Frank, feeling secure that this time she could give Stella a good beating.
—
February 23, 1931, was a blustery evening. Spectators gathered at the 124th Field Artillery Armory on the South Side of Chicago, taking and making bets. Their money was on Betty, the hometown favorite, although for the first ninety-five yards it was a dead heat, the two athletes battling it down the track on equal stride, as though they were attached to each other by an invisible string. The crowd grew agitated when no clear winner seemed to move ahead, until, as the final ribbon loomed into view, Betty seemed to gain a final burst of energy, hitting and breaking the ribbon nearly a foot ahead of Stella, enough of a distance to dismiss any controversy. Her time was clocked at 11.1 seconds. But expecting that they would meet again in Los Angeles, each vowed to take the other one out, even if it killed her.
—
When Tidye Pickett heard that Los Angeles had been named the next host city for the Olympics, she knew that she had to be a part of them. Deep down in her gut she felt that these were the games where she would make her mark. Of course, she was aware of the obstacles, not the least of which was the color of her skin, but she was determined nonetheless to heed the call of the West.
Like Betty, Tidye had been born in Illinois, on November 3, 1914, in Chicago. As she so often ran over the city parks’ cinder tracks, she’d recall the athletic programs she had participated in as a child, held by the Park District. Not everything had been open to African American children, but the park programs were. One had been held at the Carter School Playground, where Tidye had befriended Pearl Green, the girls’ athletic director. Impressed by Tidye’s abilities, Green had entered her in all the meets she could find, including those at the YMCA, the church organizations, and the Chicago Park District’s South Track Team. Tidye excelled in all of them.
Slight, standing only five feet, three inches, she had never weighed more than a hundred pounds. She knew that her size should have hindered her, yet she learned early on that being small meant that she could run even faster than her competitors. During an early 1932 meet at the Armory Cottage on Grove Avenue, she met John Brooks, a young track-and-field hopeful who would eventually go on to qualify for the Olympic long jump competition. Watching Tidye, Brooks saw not only fresh potential but also the determination to break boundaries, a mentality he shared. He would work with her and push her to become one of the first African American women to grace the Olympic stage.
—
In Malden, Massachusetts, a suburb not five miles north of Boston and on the banks of the nearby Mystic River, another young African American athlete, Louise Stokes, also had her sights set on Los Angeles. Born in Malden in 1913 to William Stokes, a gardener, and Mary Wesley Stokes, a domestic, Louise was the oldest of six children and began her athletic career while still a student at Beebe Junior High School. While she was a star of the high school basketball team, her coach, noticing how fast she was, suggested that she join the prestigious Onteora Track Club, sponsored by William H. Quaine. Although Quaine was a postal worker, he had once been an athlete, and he now coached those in whom he saw burgeoning talent.
Louise joined the athletes who looked to Los Angeles as an opportunity, a place where all of her hopes would coalesce; but before reaching the City of Angels, she would have to make it to Evanston, where the tryouts would take place in the summer of 1932.
—
It seemed only one thing could have kept these athletes from their goal: the possibility that women’s track and field would not be on the Olympic roster, as its omission was still very much on the table. Old-fashioned beliefs about women’s ability to compete alongside men persisted, that belief dictating that women participating in what were considered masculine sports jeopardized their femininity and rendered them unappealing to men. Mrs. H. E. Schoenhut, a physical education teacher, was quoted in a newspaper as saying, “Running in particular, either
sprinting or distance, quickly destroys the feminine musculature and develops a condition of the muscles similar to that of a male runner of like experience. Again, if one thinks of the future, the strain of such physical exertion writes its story on the face of an athlete, and that is the only face one has, you know, to carry her through the rest of her life.”
One infamous journalist, Paul Gallico, reflected the feelings of many men who had witnessed track and field in 1928. “There is no girl living who can manage to look anything but awful during the process of some strenuous game played on a hot day,” he wrote, zeroing in not on the physical harm sports were said to cause but on the supposed compromising of women’s looks. “If there is anything more dreadful aesthetically or more depressing than the fatigue-distorted face of a girl runner at the finish line, I have never seen it.” (Not surprisingly, Gallico was dating a dainty swimmer, the petite Josephine McKim.)
Although Pierre de Coubertin had retired in 1925, he continued to argue that women should have been excluded not only from track-and-field events but from the Olympics altogether. He also suggested that women were not physically built to withstand the demands of strenuous exercise: “No matter how toughened a sportswoman may be, her organism is not cut out to sustain certain shocks,” he insisted. “Her nerves rule her muscles, nature wanted it that way.”
And he had his supporters. About a year after the Amsterdam Olympics, on August 10, 1929, an article with the incredulous title “Olympics for Girls?” (by Frederick Rand Rogers) was published; it offered up dubious science that “perhaps the most obvious physical difference of all is that men are more animal-like, mobile, energetic, aware, while women are more plant-like, more closely attached to the soil, to home, and quieter by nature.” It went on: “Man combats, but woman tends to conform. Man destroys, but woman more truly loves. Man makes history, but woman is history. Competition, even though undesirable socially, is at least natural to men. In women it is profoundly unnatural. Man wins through struggle, but woman stoops to conquer.”
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