“Some of you will win gold medals; others will be humbled. Regardless of what you achieve, return home with your belief in self intact. The fact you are in this room tonight means you have everything it takes to live a life of honor and achievement.” – Calvin Benlehr
Chapter 32
CELEBRATION
Beckwith rented the entire club and endeavored to fill it. The USOC held its officials’ banquet that evening; Harry had something more intimate in mind, just for those who stirred his juices over the past nine days.
The Beaurepaire Club nestled into a cove northeast of the city. Its glassed southern exposure overlooked Knoxville. Mary, pressed into service as nutritionist, took a break from supervising the cooks. She walked to the window of the dining room and looked toward the stadium, recalling the drama.
Harry arrived in a chauffeured Lincoln with the first two guests.
“Mary, darling, I want to introduce you to two of the finest coaches in America,” he said.
He turned toward the older gentleman, a stocky, brown-skinned man with shiny black hair. “This is Armando Animas, coach of Tia and Kivato Wapiti, and Cecil Medley – all Olympians.”
“Hello, Coach Animas. My father has told me of your many successful athletes. It is so nice to meet you.”
“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Mary. What is your last name?”
“Sanger. I’m Mary Sanger, I go by my mother’s maiden name.”
“And this is Calvin Benlehr, the coach of the HOGs,” Harry said. “He created a high-altitude training camp in Colorado. Every one of his athletes made the team, too.”
“Coach Benlehr, it’s my pleasure,” Mary said, shaking his hand. “Is it accurately reported your athletes spend much of their time training in soft sand and climbing mountains?”
“They’d claim it was too much time,” laughed Calvin. “We do some extreme strength running every week. What is your connection to the sport?”
“I’m Harry’s daughter! Daddy, I thought you’d have told them. I’m a nutritionist and close friend of Jeremy Stanfield, winner of the steeplechase.”
“What a fantastic race he ran!” Calvin said.
“He’ll be here this evening. I know he’s eager to meet both of you.
“Please, come have a beverage and an appetizer. We’ll serve dinner in twenty minutes.”
Beckwith had invited thirty-eight people. “I want you to bring other people with you,” he urged. By the time they sat down to eat, ninety athletes, friends, parents, and coaches raised their glasses for an opening toast.
“I’d like to toast the athletes,” Beckett said, “who did not make this Olympic team. Their all-out efforts add significance to your accomplishments. I honor those who placed fourth, fifth, and sixth. May they continue to strive for the top.”
Post-Trials relief permeated the gathering. The fierce fire of Olympic Trials competition had smelted the 712 competing athletes into a happy team of ninety.
“Before dinner is served,” Beckwith said, “I want each of you to stand and in a loud, clear voice, introduce yourself.”
“I’m Harry Beckwith, a 5,000-meter man on the 1952 Olympic Team.”
“Tia Wapiti, 400-meter hurdles and 400-meter dash.”
“Meta Adams, I’m Chessy Adams’ wife.”
“Chessy Adams, stadium groundskeeper.”
“Diana Bailey, 5,000 and 10,000 meters.”
“John Corbin, 5,000 meter run.”
“Kivato Wapiti, 5,000.”
“I’m Harold Bond. I’m a farmer from Ohio and I’m here, along with nine of my dear friends, to honor Jeremy Stanfield.”
“Chuck Madras – I’m the loudmouth from Florida who learned how to run this year – 5,000 meters.”
“I’m Jane O’Neal, Kerry’s mom.”
“I’ve learned much over the past ten days,” Calvin said, when he was introduced to speak after dessert. “I’ve coached athletes, and been one, my entire life.”
“To succeed as an athlete, you must cultivate an unshatterable belief in yourself. As you mature, expand that belief to encompass all other aspects of your life. The Olympic Games are just ahead. You are now Olympians, representing your country, your hometown, and your family.
“Most importantly, however, when you compete at the Games, represent yourself. Each of you is unique, literally one in a million. Bring your entire personality to bear on your event, take no thought of responsibility to others. Allow that unshatterable belief carry you as high as possible.
“Some of you will win gold medals; others will be humbled. Regardless of what you achieve, return home with your belief in self intact. The fact you are in this room tonight means you have everything it takes to live a life of honor and achievement.”
Animas followed with a succinct command:
“As distance coach of the U.S. Olympic Team, I order you to return home to your own coach and your familiar routine. Change nothing. Peak for the Games as you have peaked so well for these Trials.
“I have been to every Olympics since 1956. If you need some help, please call me.
“Otherwise, after you let yourself relax tonight, get back to work. The Russians, the Brazilians, the Ethiopians, the British, the French, and the Czechs are going to meet you at the Games and you’ll need to be at your best.”
Animas walked over to Harry Beckwith’s place and urged him to stand.
“This man has generously supported track and field in our country for fifty years. He is an Olympian in every respect. On behalf of everyone in the room, Thank you, Harry Beckwith!”
Applause lasted for many minutes. It was well past everyone’s bedtime when all the runners and guests departed the Beaurepaire Club.
“Where are you going tonight, Jeremy?” Mary asked.
“All right if I stay with you?” he grinned. “I don’t need to spend any more time thinking about things.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Mary said as tears welled in her eyes. “You may stay with me every night for as long as you want.”
Chapter 33
FOURTH
Sarah Herrington placed fourth. She knew that would be her fate fifteen meters out. Despite Sarah’s final desperate lunge, Kelley Kirkland was out of reach.
The three 1500-meter qualifiers danced around the track at Knoxville, skipping and whooping. Sarah walked into the tunnel beneath the stadium, up the ramp, and out the gates. She kept walking until a different pain stopped her.
“Are you awake?” whispered the nurse.
Sarah was numb from her chin, down. She heard the beeping noises of hospital equipment, rolled her eyes upward to see tubes descending from racks to her torso, but she could neither raise her head nor feel anything below her face.
“Did I pass out?” she asked the ICU nurse, a muscular dark woman with plump red lips.
“Sweetheart, you were struck by a car. Both your legs are broken but they’ve been set. You are sedated so you won’t feel any pain. You won’t be able to move for a few more days.”
“I have to get out and train,” Sarah said, her glazed eyes opened wide. There was earnest passion in her tone. “The Olympic Trials are very soon. I have to go for a run.”
“I’m her husband,” Bill lied to the nurse at the station. “Who’s the physician in charge?”
“She’s asleep now. Her attending is Dr. Zirbel. You can speak to him tomorrow morning.”
“Please let me see her. It’s been two days, for God’s sake. Just let me look in on her. Please.”
“She’s in Room 214 – down this hall, on the left. You really should come back tomorrow.”
The nurse turned and busied herself with charts on the opposite side of the station.
Bill walked stealthily toward Sarah’s room, glancing over his shoulder to be certain he had tacit permission to stay. He pushed the barely-open door and slipped into the clean, white chamber.
Sarah lay there peacefully, her room awash with flowers and balloons. The monitors were blinking out their readings – HR 64, BP 114/73, O2 97%. The electrocardiogram squiggled out a normal sinus rhythm. A bag of oatmeal-colored liquid was being pumped, at the rate of 55 ml per hour, into her stomach. A unit of O-positive blood drained into her right arm. Urine dripped from a catheter into a transparent bag hung at the foot of her bed.
Sarah’s legs were cocooned in casts from her hips to her shins; her body was propped in an open V position. The sedatives made her oblivious to her gaping mouth and the drool that seeped from both corners of it.
Bill pulled a tissue from the bedside stand and gently wiped the saliva off her chin and lips. “I love you, Sarah. Everything’s going to work out all right,” he whispered.
He read a few of the cards and notes from Sarah’s friends and fellow athletes–
” . . . wishing you a speedy recovery.”
” . . . truly an Olympic effort.”
” . . . be able to run again soon.”
” . . . heart of a champion.”
” . . . I’m so, so sorry.”
Athletics Gazette July 27
The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency announced today that Kelley Kirkland, the third place finisher in the Olympic Trials 1500-meters, tested positive for a banned substance. “Ephedrine was found in both the A and B urine samples,” said a spokesman for the group.
The U.S. Olympic Committee, confirming the report, announced that Kirkland has been removed from the Olympic Team and her bronze medal and prize money returned.
Sarah Herrington, fourth in the 1500-meter final would normally assume the vacancy on the U.S. team. Herrington, however, suffered serious injuries minutes after the race in a pedestrian/car accident. Fifth-place finisher Bonita Benson cannot fill the vacancy. Her best time, run at the Trials, is a non-qualifying 4:04.60.
Chapter 34
BEGINNINGS
Sarah limped behind the aluminum walker as she navigated from the kitchen to the living room at their St. Louis apartment. She plopped onto the sofa and lifted the lace-covered wedding album from the end table.
“Will you take this man . . ?” she recalled the hospital chaplain saying as she lay on her bed. Fourteen people crowded into her room for the ceremony. In every photograph, Bill stood grinning down at her. How he loves me, she thought.
The alarm clock buzzed like a chainsaw. With the back of his fist, Bill smacked it silent. The afternoon sun flooded their bedroom. He slipped on a pair of socks and laced up his running shoes.
It was time for the afternoon workout.
“Hello, Sweetheart,” she called from the couch.
“Hi, Sarah! How you feeling?”
“The usual deep ache in my thighs. Marsha is coming by in an hour to take me to physical therapy. Where are you working out?”
“I was thinking about repeats on The Slope,” he said. “I feel like hammering.”
He walked to the back of the couch, bent down, and kissed her on the neck. She turned with difficulty, threw her arm over his head, and planted a juicy kiss on his mouth.
“I love you, Bill,” she said. “Have a good run.”
“You’re my Princess,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight when I get home from the theatre.”
Bill Szymczak broke into a brisk run. It was two short miles to The Slope, a monster hill that might help mold him into an Olympian. One fact was beyond question: He was going to try.