“I would be guilty of deception if I gave you the impression that this was the moment I first regarded Goldine as a potential Olympic champion. The idea had germinated in my brain many years earlier, but what parent has not at some time pictured his child as a concert pianist, a brilliant attorney or a President of the United States? We learn to curb these ambitions, do we not? To load them onto our children would be monstrous. But when a child in adolescence reveals a prodigious talent, an undeniable potentiality to do great things, then I think the parent has a moral obligation to do everything in his power to foster that talent.
“Allow me to mention an example. Exactly fifty years ago in Fort Worth, Texas, a girl of sixteen saw a running track for the first time in her life. Like Goldine, she was a second-generation American, the daughter of Norwegian immigrants. Her mother had been a brilliant skater and skier. The child, who had the unprepossessing name of Mildred Didrikson, had inherited some of that facility for sports. Her father recognized the talent, and encouraged her by fitting out what was in effect a private gymnasium in their backyard, complete with weight-lifting apparatus: a broomstick with flatirons fastened at the ends. Primitive, but effective, and, for 1930, enlightened. The girl had several brothers, and she benefited from joining in their games, often outplaying them, in fact. Her ability at baseball was so outstanding that she acquired the nickname of ‘The Babe,’ after the celebrated ‘Babe’ Ruth. When she came to that running track, she took to the sport at once, astonishing the coaches there.
“Within two years, Babe Didrikson was the outstanding girl athlete of America. In the Texas State Championships, she entered all ten events and won eight, finishing second in the others. At eighteen, she was nominated for three events in the Olympics, held here in 1932 at the Los Angeles Coliseum. With her first throw in the javelin she beat the world record, but tore a ligament in her shoulder. Despite that, she qualified for the final of the hurdles and won that, again in world-record time. That left her third event: the high jump. For this, she had spent many months mastering the technique of the Western Roll. The competition developed into a duel between the Babe and another American girl who used the conventional scissors style. They tied at a height that beat the world record, but the rules in force stated that a jump-off must take place to get an outright winner. The bar was raised by another three quarters of an inch, but both girls failed their three attempts. The judges lowered the bar by half an inch and told the girls to try again. It was still almost an inch and a half above the official world record, and with both girls obviously tired it seemed a pointless exercise, but to everyone’s relief and astonishment the other girl got over on her first try. That seemed to have settled the matter. It meant that the Babe had to clear the bar with her next jump, or take the silver medal. She was possibly the only person in the Coliseum who hadn’t written off her chance. She took a long look at the bar, gritted her teeth, ran smoothly forward and got over. Stalemate. Then one of the judges ruled that with her Western Roll style she had contravened the rules by ‘diving,’ so she was placed second. Even so, she had every right to go down in Olympic history as the first ‘golden girl’ of the Games.”
Valenti released a long sigh and shook his head sadly. “Today that kid could have made a million — easy.”
“Actually, she did turn professional,” said Serafin. “An advertisement appeared before the end of the year linking her name with the latest Dodge automobile. Ruthrauff and Ryan acted as her agents, and she appeared for a few weeks in vaudeville at the Palace Theater, Chicago, for a fee of twenty-five hundred dollars, doing an Eddie Cantor imitation and demonstrating running on a treadmill. I gather that a sports star can make a little more than that these days in a more dignified manner, Mr. Dryden.”
He nodded. If he didn’t come up with the obvious example, someone else would. “Mark Spitz, the swimming star of the seventy-two Olympics, is said to have scooped up something in excess of five million dollars.”
Valenti gave a jump in his seat.
“Do you see the point of the story?” Serafin asked, a missionary gleam behind his gold frames. “Given the proper encouragement, a girl can beat the world.”
“And make at least ten million,” added Valenti, no slouch in speculative mathematics.
“We’ll come to that at the proper time,” Serafin told him with pedagogic stiffness. “The position as I saw it in 1978 was that Goldine deserved a chance to fulfill her potential as a runner. But these days you need training resources more sophisticated than flatirons. An all-weather running surface, a fully fitted gymnasium and, of course, a knowledgeable coach. And research has shown that training at high altitude markedly improves athletic performance. For reasons I shall explain, I had decided to keep Goldine’s ability secret for as long as possible. But my personal savings were not sufficient to provide the facilities she needed.”
“That’s how the rest of us came in,” Armitage told Dryden.
“Yes, indeed,” said Serafin with a slight smile. “I was fortunate in knowing Dick through my work. He was referred to me when he sustained a hamstring injury. I occasionally treat patients privately, to keep myself from becoming too much of a theoretician. Somehow we got around to talking about women in sports, and I spoke in general terms about Goldine and my hopes of providing her with a high-altitude training camp. I mentioned the idea of approaching possible sponsors, and Dick was enthusiastic to be included. So I made soundings among other acquaintances, putting my project as a commercial proposition — I couldn’t ask people to finance us without some return on their investment. Mr. Valenti was one of those who agreed to form a consortium dedicated to making Goldine the golden girl of the next Olympics.
“Between us, we put up more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars as an initial outlay. I purchased a strip of land in the Sierras, six thousand feet above sea level, and had the camp built there to the consortium’s specifications in the most stringent secrecy — the contractors thought we were setting it up for a challenger for the heavyweight boxing title — at a cost of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The total outlay will be in excess of half a million.”
Dryden looked at the ceiling.
“Should still leave a modest profit margin,” said Valenti. “We aim to clear at least ten million. That’s where you come in, buster.”
Four pairs of eyes fastened on Dryden. He gave a hollow laugh. “Ten million!”
“You just told us yourself Spitz made five,” said Valenti. “That was back in seventy-two.”
“Spitz won seven gold medals,” Dryden pointed out.
“For swimming,” said Valenti. “That’s peanuts. Track’s the thing in the Olympics.”
Dryden drew a long breath. These people had sunk money into the project already. They weren’t going to like what he had to tell them. “Look, she’s a stunning girl. A marvelous runner. But she won’t turn ten million bucks by winning the Olympic one hundred meters.”
Serafin held up his forefinger. “But if she won the one hundred meters, the two hundred meters and the four hundred meters?”
Dryden chuckled and shook his head. “That’s crazy! We’re really into fantasy now. Why not throw in the marathon while you’re at it?”
Serafin said without any display of irritation, “Not crazy, Mr. Dryden. Have you ever heard of Fanny Blankers-Koen?”
“Sure I have. The one they called the Flying Dutchwoman.”
“In the 1948 Olympics she won one hundred, the two hundred and the hurdles, and picked up a fourth gold medal in the relay.”
“Come now, that was over thirty years ago,” said Dryden. “Women’s track was a picnic. There were no Russians in the Olympics, no Germans. Two rounds of heats and you were in the final. We’re talking about 1980. One hundred and forty nations chasing medals. There are women in East Germany who have trained for one event in these Games since they were ten years old. No disrespect to Fanny B., but the era of the all-round woman athlete went out with knee-length runni
ng shorts. I hate to say it, but you’ve spent too much time reading sports histories. In 1980, it’s pure fantasy.”
Serafin remained as cool as he had throughout his narrative. “Very well. Since that is your opinion, let’s stay in the realm of fantasy for just a moment. I would like the benefit of your expert knowledge, Mr. Dryden. Suppose the miracle happened: that Goldine went to the Olympics and won those three events. I do not need to remind you where they are taking place. An unknown American blonde of stunning appearance — to use your word — strikes gold three times in the Moscow Stadium, watched by the largest TV audience in the history of the world. If you knew that was going to happen and were acting as her agent, and had a campaign ready to trigger into action the moment she stepped off the victory rostrum, what would you expect to raise in merchandising revenue?”
Dryden shrugged. “Okay. It would be high. But I don’t deal in daydreams, Dr. Serafin.”
“Ten million? Twenty?”
“Possibly. Listen, she’d have to run at least ten races of world-class standard inside five days. No girl could stand up to it. They test for drugs, you know.”
“Nobody mentioned drugs,” said Serafin in a shocked tone. “There’s nothing irregular in what we are proposing.”
“You wouldn’t find me in a dope racket,” declared Valenti.
Dryden smiled at this from the pharmaceutical king.
“Mr. Dryden, this is all new to you,” said Serafin with an indulgent air. “The rest of us have lived with the idea for two years, and longer. It will take time for you to appreciate the planning in this project and the possibilities it opens up. That is why I suggested an extended weekend for our meeting.”
“Point taken,” said Dryden. “I’m not going to walk out on you. This might not be my idea of a few days away from it all, but I’m here at Dick’s invitation and I don’t upset my top-earning clients. There’s one more thing I ought to say about the kind of money you people seem to be counting on. Even if you pulled it off somehow, and the girl won her three gold medals, that wouldn’t be an automatic guarantee of ten or twenty million bucks. Let’s remember that we’re dealing with a human being, not just a marketable commodity. The turnover is governed by the girl herself, her personality, appearance —”
“No problem,” cut in Valenti. “Remember Trixie Schuba, the Olympic figure skater? She took the gold in Sapporo. That kid was great on compulsory figures, but her free skating didn’t look good on account of her size. Someone said she had the grace of a camel. That could be a handicap in an ice show. Ice Follies signed her up just the same. So they have this golden girl with a figure problem. What do they do? They send her off to Arizona for a course on the Elizabeth Arden fat farm. She comes back glamorized and takes the star spot in the show.”
“So how does that affect Goldengirl?” asked Armitage. “Her figure looked okay to me.”
“I’m telling you this is a commercial sell like any other,” said Valenti. “Package your product right, and you turn a profit.”
“Possibly,” said Serafin, with an embarrassed cough. “I don’t think we should necessarily put it in those terms, but the principle is broadly true.”
“All right,” said Dryden, “let’s stay with skating, because that’s where the biggest money has been made by American girls. I can tell you another story about the Ice Follies. In 1968 they signed up Peggy Fleming, the darling of the Grenoble Olympics. She became a legend in the merchandising business, a TV personality with a name that was selling everything from pantyhose to refrigerators ten years after the Olympics. Now, by 1972, another girl was coming up for the Olympics: Janet Lynn. She was actually the favorite for the title Trixie Schuba won. Unhappily, she took a tumble in the free skating and only made the bronze. But Janet had a lot going for her. She was pretty and she pleased the crowds. That’s star quality. Ice Follies gave her a one-and-a-half-million-dollar contract. It made her the highest paid woman athlete in the world. Everyone said they had another Peggy Fleming.”
“Okay, so what went wrong?” asked Valenti.
“Janet didn’t draw the audiences like Peggy. She didn’t fit the golden-girl image so well. It’s difficult to pin it down, but for one thing she was deeply religious. It was said she made herself unpopular with the other girls in the ice show by preaching at them between numbers. For another thing, she had a spell of poor health —”
“Save it,” drawled Valenti. “We get the drift. But that’s one out of how many?”
“More than you’d think,” Dryden answered. “A girl puts years of dedication and personal sacrifice into winning a gold medal. This may surprise you, but some of them have difficulty adapting to a different way of life, even when that means a huge financial step-up. A few actually turn the big money down to devote themselves to some fresh cause. Jeannette Altwegg worked with orphans. Tenley Albright took up surgery. Janet Lynn often said she would be happier as a missionary. I think you ought to be aware that there can be problems of adjustment.”
Serafin had remained silent while the dialogue had developed between Dryden and Valenti. Now he broke in with a quick laugh that seemed to originate high in his palate. “Mr. Dryden, excuse my mirth. I do assure you we are not investing half a million dollars on this project in total ignorance. Of course there could be personality problems, but a little intelligent planning can go a long way to overcome them. Goldengirl is most unlikely to make the injudicious gesture you describe, though we are aware of the possibility. It is one of many psychological syndromes that could arise in a project as ambitious as this. Believe me, we are working on them, and with expert advice.”
“We hired a shrink,” Valenti explained.
“Indeed,” Serafin went on, ignoring this, “the contribution of psychology is quite fundamental to our planning. Although my own experience is all in the field of physiology, I do not underrate the influence of the brain on physical performance. Despite all one hears about football players ‘psyching up’ before a match, the psychology of athletics is little understood. A neglected area. You will sometimes find one chapter in a training manual devoted to jargon about motivation and mental attitudes, but the advice is about as relevant to modern track and field as cold baths and regular walks. The truth is that we are in the television age. Track, like every other sport, is so contrived that the competition is intense, the difference between winner and loser minimal. Without the uncertainty, there would be no drama, no audience participation.”
“No televised track, no sponsors, no sport,” chanted Dryden. “So far I’m with you.”
“Therefore everything is arranged to ensure that no competitor secures a large advantage over his rivals,” Serafin continued. “As soon as anyone breaks a record, his technique is filmed and analyzed by coaches the world over, his training methods are published in the technical journals, he tours the world demonstrating his form. Soon, of course, one of his imitators defeats him. The smaller the margin of victory, the better. There are electronic timers, photo-finish cameras, and TV playbacks to allocate the glory.”
“Isn’t this technology, rather than psychology?” queried Dryden.
“The upshot is psychological,” answered Serafin. “You see, it leads to a plateau of achievement. Athletes’ aspirations are actually limited by the process. They lack the vision to innovate, and it is easy to understand why, when there is so much pressure to conform. They are inhibited by what they read, what their coaches tell them and what their fellow athletes do.”
“If it’s based on the best knowledge available, how can that be bad?” asked Dryden.
“I’ll give you an illustration,” said Serafin. “I am sure you remember the impact made by the Kenyan athletes, Keino, Temu and the others, in the sixties. They really fired the public imagination, didn’t they? I wish I had a dollar for every dissertation I have read on the emergence of the African distance runner. Yet actually it started about ten years earlier, with two athletes whose names nobody remembers now, but whose achievement was
in some ways more remarkable than all the gold medals won by Keino and his generation. I think it was in 1954 that Kenya decided to send two Kisii tribesmen to Vancouver to run the distance events in the British Commonwealth Games. Up to that time they had always confined their participation to the so-called explosive events: the sprints and jumps. It was widely believed that black athletes were physiologically unable to compete with whites over long distances. Well, these two changed all that. On the way to Vancouver they broke their flight in London and competed in the British Championships. The British at that time were among the strongest distance-running nations in the world, but that didn’t daunt the Kenyans. The first of them, Chepkwony, running barefoot, set the pace from the start in the six miles, and refused to be overtaken until midway through, when he had to stop for the excusable reason that he had dislocated his knee. That was no discouragement to his countryman Maiyoro in the three miles. He set off in precisely the same style, but faster, so fast that he soon held a fifty-yard lead over some of the world’s finest distance runners. Everyone assumed he would collapse after a few laps, but he didn’t. It took a new world record to beat him.”
“What happened in Vancouver?” Armitage asked.
“They both ran creditably, but allowed others to dictate the tactics. Maiyoro finished fourth in his event, Chepkwony seventh. The point of real significance is that they had arrived on the international scene without any preconceptions about top-class distance running. They simply ran to win, at whatever pace was necessary to keep their chances alive. And they matched the world’s elite, athletes brought to a peak of fitness by years of expert coaching, intensive training and regular competition. When, inevitably, they were pressed for the secret of their training, they confounded everyone by stating that they ran only three days a week, and then just three-to-five miles. Compare that with the hundred miles a week almost obligatory among European and American distance runners!”
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