Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  Susie introduced Susan Carol, and as Costas was shaking her hand, he spotted Kelleher.

  “Bobby Kelleher covering swimming?” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, with all due respect to Ms. Anderson, we have a much bigger story on our hands here than anything in the pool. I suggest we contact the news department right away.”

  Kelleher pulled Stevie along with him onto the set. “Knowing the names of three swimmers hardly makes you an expert either,” he said, shaking Costas’s offered hand. “Bob, meet Steve Thomas.”

  Costas’s eyes lit up. “Aha! The other half of the dynamic duo of Anderson and Thomas. Now I really feel badly about not being able to stand up.”

  Stevie had always been a Costas fan. He came across smarter and smoother than almost anyone else doing sports on television and was—in Stevie’s mind—the best TV interviewer going. If he hadn’t already felt that way, he probably would have as soon as Costas referred to him and Susan Carol as “the dynamic duo.”

  “Mr. Costas, I can’t tell you what a thrill this is,” Stevie said, taking a couple of steps forward to accept Costas’s offered hand. “I’ve been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember.”

  Oh my God, I sound like Susan Carol meeting Andy Roddick! he thought. He glanced at Susan Carol, who was being miked by a soundman, and was convinced he saw her smirking.

  “Well, since I started in the business before you were born, I guess that makes sense,” Costas said with a smile.

  “Oh yes, Steve has looked up to you for as long as I’ve known him,” Susan Carol said.

  She had been smirking. He was searching for a clever response when Costas said, “Well, Steve, almost no one looks up to me, so I’m flattered.”

  Costas was famous for making jokes about his height—or lack of it. Now—happily—it was Susan Carol who was flustered.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Mr. Costas,” she said. “I was just …”

  Costas waved a hand. “I know you didn’t. And call me Bob—both of you.”

  “We need to clear the set,” someone wearing a headset said, waving his arms to indicate that Stevie and Kelleher should get out of the way. A makeup woman was brushing powder on Susan Carol’s face.

  “Diane, if I’ve ever seen anyone who didn’t need makeup, this would be the girl,” Costas said.

  “You are so right,” Diane said. “I’m just taking a little bit of the shine off, that’s all.”

  Diane had a bigger southern accent than Susan Carol did, even at her breathless Scarlett O’Hara best. What she actually had said was, “Aahm jus takin’ a little bit of the shaan off.”

  She backed off the set, and Stevie heard Costas say—no doubt to some producer out of sight—“Let’s just go for a while here and then we can figure out how long we have later.”

  Costas nodded in confirmation of whatever was said into his earpiece and turned to Susan Carol. “Remember, this isn’t airing until Sunday, okay, Susan Carol? Try not to say ‘today’ or make any specific time reference and, obviously, my questions will be more about what’s coming up than about this weekend.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” Susan Carol said. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Then again, she didn’t get nervous very often.

  The guy wearing the headset was asking for quiet.

  “Hang on one second, sorry,” Stevie heard a voice say behind him.

  It was J.P., the increasingly annoying agent. He charged onto the set and put a baseball cap with a Kellogg’s logo on Susan Carol’s head. J.P. looked at Costas apologetically. “My fault for forgetting,” he said. “It’s in her contract to wear this during all television interviews.”

  Susan Carol looked confused. Costas looked angry.

  “Look, fella …,” he said.

  “It’s J.P., J. P. Scott,” J.P. said, putting his hand out to Costas, who shook it with clear reluctance. “I’m Susan Carol’s agent.”

  “I would never have guessed,” Costas said dryly. “Look, P.J., we don’t like the athletes to wear caps during these sit-downs. For one thing, they look a lot better without them on. Phelps never wears a cap when we talk to him.”

  “It’s in our contract,” J.P. said.

  “It’s not in ours,” Costas answered. “Why don’t you take the cap off her and let us get started.”

  Susan Carol took the cap off and was about to hand it to J.P. when Stevie heard yet another voice behind him.

  “With respect, Mr. Costas, it’s our call what she wears.”

  Costas was peering past the lights to identify where the voice was coming from. “Who’s that, another agent?” he said.

  “No,” Don Anderson said, stepping forward. “I’m Susan Carol’s father.”

  Stevie wasn’t quite sure who was more stunned—Costas or Susan Carol. Both stared for a second, saying nothing. Before Costas could answer, Susan Carol, clearly embarrassed, said, “Daddy, really, it’s okay.”

  “No, I don’t think it is,” Don Anderson said. He walked up to Costas, who must have been feeling as if he was on a receiving line at this point.

  “Mr. Costas, I’m sure you must have dealt with athletes who have this sort of obligation before. When NBC interviews golfers, they’re always wearing their caps. We’re not trying to be difficult but, as J.P. said, it’s written in her contract, and I take that seriously. I hope you understand.”

  Stevie realized he was right about the golfers. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a golfer interviewed who wasn’t wearing a cap with a logo on it.

  It was clear now that Costas was pretty much done with Team Susan Carol Anderson. “Reverend Anderson”—apparently he’d done his homework on Susan Carol’s family—“if it is important to you, then we’ll do it that way,” he said. “I think your daughter looks great without the cap on, but if that’s your choice, fine. But we need to get started because my producer is screaming in my ear.” In less than five minutes, Costas had gone from smiling and joking to stone-faced.

  “Thanks very much,” Don Anderson said, nodding to Susan Carol, who put the cap back on her head. “I’ll get out of the way now and let you work.”

  “That would be a real blessing,” Costas said—not without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Reverend Anderson looked at him for a moment, clearly considering a reply, then turned and walked off the set.

  “This is not going well,” Kelleher whispered in Stevie’s ear.

  Once again quiet was asked for on the set and—finally—the interview began with Costas asking a very simple first question: “Susan Carol Anderson, where in the world did you come from?”

  “Goldsboro, North Carolina,” Susan Carol answered, giving Costas The Smile, which appeared to break the ice that had formed. Then she answered the question seriously, talking about Ed Brennan and gaining strength as she got older and her breakthrough race a year ago in this same meet. From there, it all went well.

  By the time they finished, Mike Unger from USA Swimming had joined the group that was watching.

  “Bob, Phelps will be here in about fifteen minutes,” he said as soon as the guy in the headset who Stevie had learned was the floor director called, “Clear.”

  “Good,” Costas said. “I can stretch my legs.”

  Someone rushed to help him get untangled from his earpiece and microphone while someone else was doing the same for Susan Carol. Costas stood at the same time Susan Carol did. Even in flip-flops, she towered over him.

  “Now you see why I do all interviews sitting down.” Costas laughed. “It was very nice to meet you.”

  Stevie wondered if Susan Carol noticed the extra emphasis on the word you. If there was any doubt that he was making a point, it went away when Costas turned and walked off the back of the set without saying goodbye to anyone else.

  “That’s as close to totally pissed off as you’ll ever see Bob,” Kelleher said to Stevie as J.P. and crew surrounded Susan Carol. “That was a bad scene right there.”

  “She did well in the interview, though, rig
ht?” Stevie said.

  “She did great. But at this level, people don’t remember that she was charming. They remember that she was charming, but the people with her were a pain in the butt. Trust me, when he called J.P. by the wrong name, he was making a point.”

  “As in, ‘you’re a nobody, what are you doing on my set?’ ”

  “Bingo,” Kelleher said.

  Susan Carol, having received hugs from her team, came over to them.

  “What’d you think?” she asked.

  “You were fantastic,” Stevie said.

  She narrowed her eyes and looked at him suspiciously. Stevie was convinced she could read his mind. J.P. and Reverend Anderson were talking to Mike Unger. Susan Carol looked at Kelleher.

  “Tell me what you really think,” she said.

  “I really think we should go get something to eat,” Kelleher said. “Without your entourage.”

  Even standing a few yards away, Stevie could clearly see that Susan Carol’s plan to eat with him and Bobby wasn’t greeted enthusiastically. When she walked back over to them, she said quietly, “Let’s go before my dad changes his mind. J.P. was not happy.”

  “What a shock,” Stevie said.

  As they made their way across the parking lot, they passed Michael Phelps and company headed the other way. Phelps saw Susan Carol and gave her a friendly wave, which she returned.

  “When did you meet him?” Stevie said, trying not to sound jealous and failing.

  “Oh, Stevie, stop,” she said. “I met him a little while ago in the hallway, and he was very nice.”

  Susan Carol went into the locker room briefly to get her swim bag and then the three of them walked to Kelleher’s car. Susan Carol was happy to wear the cap now, pulling it low on her head so she wouldn’t be recognized, but there were still quite a few people congratulating her on her swim. Once they were in the car, Kelleher asked where they wanted to go.

  “Right here,” said Susan Carol, pointing at the McDonald’s. “Right now.”

  “You want breakfast?” Kelleher said.

  “It’s 10:45,” Susan Carol said. “They start serving Big Macs at 10:30.”

  “And this will be okay with Ed?” Kelleher said.

  “You bet. I don’t swim again for nine hours.”

  So they went through the drive-through, ordering enough food for at least six people. Stevie and Susan Carol both dug into their French fries on the short ride back to the hotel. The lobby was almost deserted, and they decided to go to Stevie and Kelleher’s room because it was less likely that any of Susan Carol’s minders would show up there. Tamara had left a note saying she had gone to meet Lochte and his coach for lunch.

  As soon as they were sitting down, with food spread out around them at a table by the window, Kelleher came right to the point.

  “What’s up with your father?”

  Susan Carol made a face that Stevie couldn’t quite read. Then she sighed, which Stevie could read.

  “I’m honestly not sure,” she said. “I’m just guessing because we haven’t talked about it. But I think he really believes J.P. and his people have my best interests at heart and that we should listen to their advice. Plus, he’s always been a believer that if you hire someone to do a job you should let them do the job, and not tell them how to do it.”

  Kelleher was giving Stevie a look that he knew meant he should shut up, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Didn’t he learn anything after what happened with your uncle Brendan?” he said. “I mean, he was an agent who was part of your family and you couldn’t trust him. How can he be so trusting of these guys?”

  Almost two years earlier, Stevie and Susan Carol had gotten caught up in what turned out to be the fake kidnapping of a glamorous Russian tennis player and had been shocked to find out that Susan Carol’s uncle, who was a tennis agent, was involved in the deception.

  Susan Carol was nodding. “I understand what you’re saying, Stevie. But there is a difference here because my best interests really are their best interests—or at least my financial interests. I don’t think Dad trusts them because he thinks they’re good people. He trusts that they know what they’re doing.”

  Kelleher took a long sip of the coffee he’d gotten with his hamburger. “There’s truth in that, but it isn’t quite that simple,” he said. “They see you as a commodity, and one that needs to be exploited quickly because the Olympics window opens and closes quickly. They have absolutely no interest in you as a person or in your future long-term. Your dad should understand that.”

  Now Susan Carol looked a little miffed. “Bobby, you just hate all agents—”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I know, I know, your pal Tom Ross, the tennis guy. But that’s the list, isn’t it? You don’t know these guys at all.…”

  “You’re right that I don’t like many agents, but I will say a lot of them are very smart. What J.P. did with the cap and what your dad did in backing him up—that wasn’t smart. If you tell Kellogg’s, ‘NBC said no to the cap and Phelps isn’t wearing one either,’ they’ll understand. No harm, no foul. But J.P. and your dad just pissed off Bob Costas—which means they pissed off NBC. Strictly in a business sense, that’s a bad idea. Kellogg’s doesn’t want to piss off NBC.”

  Susan Carol took a deep breath.

  “I guess, deep down, I know you’re right,” she said. “I’m not crazy about J.P. or any of the others. But my dad is a different story. He’s my dad.”

  “I know,” Kelleher said. “I get it. And I get that you’re being hit with a lot here.”

  “I thought I knew what athletes’ lives were like from all of our reporting. But it’s so overwhelming being on the other side of the story.…”

  Stevie slid closer and put his arm around her. It was a little unnerving to see the unflappable Susan Carol struggling with something.

  “Listen,” Bobby said, “this is all new and things may settle down as your family gets used to how things have changed. Ideally your dad would be looking out for you. But it’s your instincts I trust. You may need to have a heart-to-heart with him at some point—just to remind him how this is all affecting you. And that you need to stay in control of how things go.”

  “Me, in control?” She sighed again. “Life just isn’t that simple anymore.”

  7: RACING AROUND

  The alarm startled Susan Carol. After leaving Bobby and Stevie’s room, she had decided to try to take a nap. Usually when she had time to kill between trials and finals, she read a book or trolled the Internet to find out what was going on in the world.

  But the morning had sapped her—not so much her swim, which had felt great, but everything else. She knew Bobby and Stevie were right about J. P. Scott and his people. It was hardly news that agents weren’t to be trusted completely; she knew that. What was confusing was that her dad didn’t seem to know it. At least not yet.

  She had set the alarm for four o’clock. Warm-ups started at five, and her father would drive her back to the pool at 4:30. She hoped that none of the Lightning Fast people—especially J.P.—would be in the car.

  The alarm surprised her. She had only set it as backup, not expecting to sleep for almost three hours. Now, hearing the buzzer, she needed a moment to re-orient herself: Where was she? Charlotte. What time was it? Time to swim.

  She decided she needed a wake-up shower even though she’d already showered twice that day.

  “I’m becoming Kramer,” she said aloud as she stretched and walked toward the bathroom. She and her father watched reruns of Seinfeld together all the time. Swimmers shower a lot—the hot shower at the end of a workout is often the carrot that gets them through the last thirty minutes when everything seems to hurt. So Susan Carol had especially enjoyed the episode when Kramer had decided to simply stay in the shower all the time because that was where he was most happy.

  By the time she had dressed in what Stevie called “the teenage girl’s summer uniform” of T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flo
ps, she felt a lot better. Her dad had said he’d pick her up out front, and he was as good as his word. Walking out the front door of the hotel, she was very glad the meet was being held indoors since the temperature had to be close to ninety. She loved swimming outdoors, especially during practice, but for a big meet she preferred a controlled air and water temperature.

  “You ready to go?” her dad asked as they eased out of the hotel driveway.

  “Hope so,” she said. “I took a nap.”

  “Good. I was afraid Stevie and Bobby might talk your ear off and keep you from resting.”

  She’d been trying to decide whether to bring up the events of the morning and had been leaning against it—especially with an important swim only a couple of hours away. But her father’s comment made her change her mind.

  “Dad, Stevie and Bobby would never do anything to keep me from preparing for an important race,” she said.

  Her father turned away from the road for an instant and looked at her. They were in fairly heavy late-afternoon downtown traffic.

  “What?” he said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “I guess that they aren’t your father or your coach or your agents, so …”

  “So you think J.P. and Bill and Susie care more about me than Stevie and Bobby do? Come on, Dad.”

  He was waving his hand in the air as if to say “wrong.”

  “Hang on, honey. I know how much you like them and I like them too. Same with Tamara. But you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here—”

  “To make the Olympic team, Dad, not to get rich. If I swim my best and do well, we’ll make all the money we need and more whether I wear a stupid Kellogg’s cap during an interview or not.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “That and when you yelled at me for telling J.P. to cool it with all of his ‘do this, do that’ stuff.”

  “I simply reminded you that the tone you were using when talking to a grown-up—any grown-up—wasn’t acceptable. Which it wasn’t.”

  He might have a point about her tone, and he had always been consistent about that. “Okay, maybe you’re right about that one, though you didn’t hear the beginning of the conversation, so you missed the context,” she said. “But getting Mr. Costas upset—”